CHAPTER XVI.
“Life has two ecstatic moments, one when the spirit catches sight of truth, the other when it recognizes a kindred spirit. Perhaps it is only in the land of truth that spirits can discern each other; as it is when they are helping each other on that they may best hope to arrive there.”—Edna Lyall.
It was the first of the Indian seasons, “the fall of the leaf.” Croatoan was glorious with its colored leaves and late flowers. Weeks had slipped by since the escape from Werowocomoca. Iosco had been welcomed by his people; so had Owaissa. The other whites, the best of the colonists who had gone to Powhatan, and thoroughly frightened by all that had happened there, were looked upon with suspicion for a long time. But the new-comer, the pale Englishman, made friends with all. He was only waiting for an opportunity to return to Jamestown. He was a priest of the church, who had worn himself out with work among the miners in England. He was broken in health, and the doctor in London had ordered a sea-voyage. Just as the colony were starting from Blackwall, Captain Newport persuaded him to go with them, promising to bring him back to his work as soon as he was strong again. So he had gone; but the name of Martin Atherton was not added to the list, though he went across to the New World. Perhaps he was sent in answer to the prayers of a maiden.
Through the long months that passed, as the summer slipped away and the autumn took its place, the prayers of Mrs. Dare, Virginia, and those few faithful souls, were answered. The poor Indians, who had had glimmerings of a higher life, through Manteo, their dearly loved chief, now listened eagerly to the message of the church, as Martin Atherton told it in a simple, direct way, while they sat in a circle on the ground about him, sometimes with great reverence kissing the sacred Book from which the holy teachings came.
Twice a day the sound of prayer and praise went up from the little congregation. Virginia had taught him the language of the people. He told her that the father she so much yearned for had not come, and he taught her about the dear Lord and his church.
Poor Iosco was in trouble again. He had never spoken of his love to Virginia, and she did all in her power to conceal her love from him. Of course he did not dream of such a possibility as her caring for him. But he watched day by day, and counted every moment she spent with Martin Atherton. Soon he would go to the white people, and then he supposed Owaissa would go too.
All Saints’ Day dawned clear and bright. It was to be a great day at Croatoan, but how eventful none of them knew. It was time for the great service to begin. Virginia’s face was radiant with happiness, her fair hair falling loosely over her mantle of turkey feathers.
“She might be the Queen of Sheba,” thought Martin Atherton, as he came a little way behind her. “Her dignity and simplicity are perfect. Surely no one could doubt the grace of baptism who knows a soul like that, with its desire for knowledge growing stronger among heathen surroundings; a life of praise and worship, though she does not know it. It was she that converted these heathen, not I.”
He watched her as she knelt, then kneeling himself, his heart rose in earnest thanksgiving for what he had been permitted to do, and a prayer that his little Indian congregation might ever be guided aright.
The two figures were kneeling when Iosco joined them, followed by a number of his warriors, among them Ranteo, his honest face fairly glowing with happiness. He thought of the day when Manteo had been baptized in the little chapel at Roanoke. Only then he had held an ignorant reverence for the holy mystery that he was now to receive himself, with a clear knowledge of its grace and power.