“Tell her, Master Rolfe. She must know her condition,” said the rector of Saint George’s, who was standing at the foot of the bed.
“I cannot,” said Rolfe, his voice breaking into hoarse sobs as he flung himself down beside the bed.
Bending over her, the priest gently told her of her approaching end.
“John, John, must Pocahontas leave you and the boy? It is so hard to part, John.”
“O my darling, I cannot give you up!” cried Rolfe, kissing her brow, damp with the dews of death.
But womanlike, she put aside her pain to comfort her stricken husband.
“It is the will of the Royal Christ, John. Pocahontas is not afraid. He will comfort you and care for my babe. Does He not carry the little lambs in His bosom? Now let the kind priest give us the Body and Blood of the Lord.”
She lay silent for a while, exhausted by the effort to follow the priest through the Communion Service. Then she said, “Sing about the birthnight of the Son of God, John. Pocahontas can hear the angels’ wings.”
Rolfe attempted to sing the ancient hymn, but could not go on.
“Then Pocahontas will sing for John.”