There was Manteo’s tall figure tied to a tree like any mean captive. By him stood Barnes and two or three of the roughest white men. A little way off stood Gray and one or two others, who seemed dissatisfied and distressed at what was happening. In front, flushed with anger and indignation, was Virginia. She was speaking, he could hear her, more like an eagle defending her young, than a dove: “Shame on you, Barnes! Shame on you! Shame on you all, to touch the man who has saved our lives, and cared for us all these years! You are worse than the savages you despise. We have been safe, going in and out among them, and you dare to harm their chief. I’m ashamed to be one of you people!”
It would have taken a good deal to shame Barnes. He only muttered, “You are nothing better than a heathen savage yourself.”
She turned fiercely towards him. Iosco could see her eyes flashing as she replied, “You make me ashamed of the white people who are left here. As you say, I am no better than these Indians, who are Christians indeed. They have given us food and shelter all these years, and what do we give them? No better? I wish I were half as brave, half as noble, as some of them are. You are not worthy to touch the old man whom you have bound. One cry would bring ten times your number of Manteo’s men, who would kill you all, should they see their chief in danger.” And she added, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “I will give the cry, if Manteo will not. And if one man is found here he will be killed, as he deserves.”
Barnes drew a knife from his belt as he came towards her, saying, “If you dare open your mouth, I will soon silence you. Try me!”
A slight rustle, a swift movement, and Iosco stood before Barnes, who shrank before the tall figure, and every white man fled. Virginia sprang to Manteo. With Iosco’s knife she cut the cords that bound him to the tree. She kissed his hand where the cord had torn the flesh. The old chief was moved by her gentle, caressing care, and showed more feeling than when he was threatened with death. She knelt there by the old man, trying to show her love. Iosco stood at a distance, with folded arms, looking far away. He was thinking, surely this would make Owaissa forget the canoes with wings, when a sudden cry made him turn. It was Virginia; she sprang up as if to shield Manteo, who tottered a moment, then fell heavily to the ground.
“An arrow, Iosco, an arrow!” she cried, as she knelt by the prostrate form. Iosco bent down, his expression unchanged, save for a strange look in his dark eyes. He heard his father heave a deep sigh, then all was still.
Manteo was dead. The arrow had pierced his heart; but where had it come from? Iosco sprang up, the savage thirst for vengeance throbbing through his veins. With his hand on his tomahawk, one moment he stood looking down on his dead father, by whom Virginia knelt, her face rigid with horror. Looking up, she saw Iosco so changed she hardly knew him. He was staring at her, though he did not see her. She thought his anger and vengeance were turned on her. The scene of horror had changed her from a merry girl to a woman. The voice in which she spoke was deep and clear.
“Iosco,” she said, “kill me if you will. I would die a hundred times over if I could bring back the life of the great and good Werowance who saved us. God will reward him. I know he will; and he will punish us. Nothing you can do to me will be hard or cruel. I will die any death you choose.”
Iosco turned quickly away. He had forgotten Virginia until she spoke; he was absorbed in the dreadful thought of his father’s death, and the idea that he had been killed by men whom he had not only saved, but had treated with every kindness. His only comfort lay in the thought of vengeance. But Virginia’s words brought back his better self. He could not look at her, and turned away to hide his grief. There came before him the memory of Mrs. Dare sitting under the willow-tree, while he, Virginia, and the other children listened to her telling a story. He thought he could hear her saying, “Those very men whom he came to save, whom he loved and lived for, nailed him to the tree, pierced his dear hands and feet, and while they were doing it, they mocked and spit at him, and called him vile names. He was greater than any chief you ever saw or heard of. But he did not get angry. He was only so sad. Even in the moment of greatest pain, he looked up to his Father, the Great Spirit, and said, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”
Iosco felt he could have forgiven anything done to himself. But was it right to think of forgiving his father’s murderers?