Through the rest of the winter Inclination and Pride wrestled for the mastery, using the mind and body of Rolfe as a battleground. When spring came Pride gathered its forces and took a determined stand for its last great effort. Both in front and on the flank it brought up overwhelming arguments and charged down upon Rolfe as he sat under a copper beech, alone with his thoughts.
“Listen to the contemptuous comments of the council and the grieved reproaches of your relations at home,” exhorted Pride. “Hear them saying, ‘Who would have thought that the stately and dignified Rolfe could have stooped to mingle his proud blood with that of a savage, when he could have wedded with some gifted lady of England?’ Think of the example set the men of the colony. They will think that with such an illustrious precedent any Indian woman will be a fit mate. No need to wait for the coming of damsels from the mother country. Families of Indian squaws and half-breeds will be the fashion in Virginia.”
But Inclination brought the thousand calls of birds, and flowers with love-tipped darts to withstand the shock of the armies of Pride. Far away in the distance sounded the sweet call of the partridge to its mate; flocks of pigeons sailing overhead settled down on the eaves of the cabins to prune their silver breasts and lean their heads confidingly together; up in the tree above, a mocking-bird sang a love song of surpassing beauty to the coy mate brooding on a branch below, and its liquid notes, filled with passionate sweetness drawn from the deep wells of the heart, swept the routed ranks of Pride from the hard-fought field, leaving Inclination victor.
Throwing back his head, Rolfe cried aloud to the silence surrounding him:
“Let the world say what it will, I do not care! I have my own life to lead, and will not bow to the dictates of any human being.” Over his countenance flashed a look of exultation. “I love her! Love her! Love her! She shall be mine that I may drink of her sweetness.”
The slowly dying sun, resting on a bank of lurid clouds, blazed up once more to welcome the new disciple of the god of love.
“Come, Lily,” said Rolfe on the ensuing morning, “let us take the canoe and go over to the pond where the lilies are in bloom.”
As long as they were in sight of the palisades surrounding the settlement he rowed with strong vigorous strokes, but when the winding of the shore hid them from view he ceased and let the boat drift idly that he might feast his eyes on the glowing beauty of Pocahontas, who with half averted face was trailing a slender hand through the amber water. How exquisite was the line of beauty sweeping from the nape of her neck along the graceful curve of the spine! What could rival the pomegranate flower upon her cheek?
“Fool, fool,” muttered Rolfe inwardly to himself, “to weigh for one single moment love for that flower with cold critical Pride.”
Picking up the paddles again, he sent the canoe into a shadowed pond filled with water-lilies, and canopied in green foliage picked out in golden sunbeams. Close by the bank the water-lilies grew thickest. There he rested again, while Pocahontas filled her lap with the blossoms. Gathering two or three, she held them off at arm’s length to admire their beauty, bestowing on them a loving glance that gave a jealous pang to Rolfe. A green and gold hummingbird darted down on gauzy wings to sip the honey glittering like dewdrops within their powdered stamens. Pocahontas held herself motionless, hardly breathing lest the tiny sprite should dart away. A faint tremor of her arm, and lo, it was gone.