“Thou too shall follow thy kindred,” said Winginia, and again the tomahawk was raised aloft.
A smile broke through the April tears upon the baby’s cheek as she held out her wasted arms to him. Slowly the tomahawk sank to the ground. The angel of God stayed the hand of the destroyer. Bending, he lifted the baby from the ground.
Soon the scooped paddles sent the canoes swiftly down to Croatan. Only the waves were left to chant a requiem over the “City of the Dead.”
Three years had passed when Governor White came again to Roanoke to seek his daughter and her child. As the boat neared the shore he saw a column of smoke rising above the trees on the north end of the island, some distance away from the settlement of the colonists. His heart beat joyfully as he pictured the meeting with his loved ones.
Quickly landing, he made for the place where he had seen the smoke, but no one was there. A few smoldering embers (left by some Indians who had fled on hearing the booming of the cannon on the Admiral) sputtered and fumed.
“Sound a signal blast upon the trumpet,” said White to his men.
Over the stillness rang out the clarion notes, but no answering shout came back.
“Eleanor!” called her father in pleading accents. “El-e-a-nor!” answered the hills in melancholy reiteration.