Raising her head she said with a mournful smile, “Pocahontas was exceeding sorrowful when her ‘father’ went away, but no knife pierced her heart as it did just now.” She stroked his cheek with a caressing hand, and outlining his lips with a dainty forefinger continued, “Let these lips say again, ‘John will not leave Pocahontas alone.’ She will fade away as the flowers do when the frost spirit lays his black hand upon them.”
“John could not leave his treasure alone,” he replied, crushing her to his breast and covering her face and hands with passionate kisses. “My heart’s darling, John could not live unless he could see the light in these dear eyes. Thus and thus he loves them,” imprinting a kiss on each. Bending back her head, his lips sought in a long clinging pressure the cupid’s kiss nestling in the hollow of her throat. “Now let my darling say she loves John better than all else in the world.”
Leaning over the boat as far as his jealous arm would let her, she gathered a tightly closed bud, a half-open one and a full-blown lily. Laying them on her lap, she said in a low sweet voice:
“Pocahontas will give John his answer in the language of the lily. Many moons ago—ah, so many moons it seems to the lily—a tightly closed bud slumbered upon its bed of green leaves, not knowing or caring for the world beyond. One morning a sunbeam came from the east and showered its smile upon her. New throbs of life pulsated in her heart as she rocked upon the ripples. Under its sunny smile the green mantle parted and showed the white satin petals beneath. She called the sunbeam ‘father.’ A dark cloud arose and hid the sunbeam, leaving the half-awakened lily to breast the storm of sorrow and loneliness. Rude hands tore her from her resting-place to plant in strange waters. Longing for the father sunbeam beat the lily downward on its red brown stem. Then came another sunbeam and sent its cheering warmth straight to the heart of the lily. Stronger and stronger grew the sunbeam as the day grew older. Light, hope, and joy thrust apart the green mantle and trembling petals, laying bare the quivering golden heart wide open to the sun. Has Pocahontas answered John?”
Bowing his head upon his breast, he murmured, “O God, I am not worthy of the great love of two such woman hearts.”
Love had taught him how to measure the rich gift of his dead wife’s heart.
It was with great reluctance that he left this earthly Eden to row back to Jamestown. He must write to Governor Dale and obtain his consent to his marriage with Pocahontas, now the Christian maid Rebecca.
Much to his surprise, a speedy answer giving consent to the nuptials came from the bluff Governor. An early day was appointed for the wedding and an invitation sent to Powhatan.
That grim old veteran had been filled with rage when he learned of his daughter’s capture by Argall. Messengers sent to barter for her ransom had been chased from his doors. Nevertheless, during her two years of captivity the murder of the colonists ceased. Security and peace had been brought to the settlement by the “Blessed Pocahontas.”
Rallying his fast-failing powers, he now attempted a dignified oration in which he gave his consent to Pocahontas’s marriage, but ere he reached its end, love for the long-absent daughter and the loneliness of old age, shattered his feeble attempt at dignity. His voice trailed away in a plaintive lament.