“As we tramp down to the settlement we will sing some of the old English songs. Perhaps they will reach their hearts.”
Weary and footsore they continued their search, raising their voices at intervals in some sweet old English song they had sung in childhood.
At length they arrived at the “City of Raleigh.” Nature, abhorring disfigurement, had brought down sand from the mainland and covered the charred remains of the colonists, and had painted the ground in great purple violets and crimson poppies, whose roots sucked sustenance from the noble and brave ones sleeping below.
Hunting for some clew, the despairing father came upon the name which his daughter had carved upon the oak. Standing in the violets above her, he deciphered the word “Croatoan” low down upon its trunk.
“God be praised, they are alive!” he said joyfully. “Doubtless they have gone with Manteo to his home in Croatan. On the morrow we will seek them there. My heart gives thanks, for no cross is carved above the name. Now we must hasten to embark, for the clouds are banking up and foul weather will soon be upon us.”
All night the storm raged, tearing the anchors from their hold and beating the ships out to sea. Having been unable to bring casks of fresh water aboard on account of the gale, and food supplies running low, the voyagers determined to make for the island of St. John, and when properly provisioned, come again to Croatan.
After a perilous voyage they arrived at the island of St. George, where the disheartened sailors, wearied out by the loss of some of their men, and lacking food, refused to brave the perilous reefs around Croatan again, and insisted on sailing for England. White’s pleadings were stubbornly resisted. He was forced to give in and they sailed for England.
Meanwhile, what had become of little Virginia whom Winginia had taken captive?
Carried to conquered Croatan, she was placed in the keeping of the women. What a strange little one had been brought to them to mother! Baby ringlets of sunny brown, skin like the petals of a lily formed a frame out of which looked eyes like pools of water on a cloudy day when the shadows drift over them. Her appealing eyes and tender baby ways wound themselves around the heartstrings of the squaws, and they vied with each other in making dainty moccasins for her little pink feet. Daily she was bathed in the cold waters of the sound and her body smeared in paints and ointment. Outwardly she became an Indian girl, the Water Lily of the Catawbas.