Facing first Powhatan's granite countenance, and now the stones, Smith knew that he had struck real barriers. He was numb with despair as tomahawks were raised to brain him. His usual imagination could not make him hopeful.
Pocahontas, as fleet of foot as of heart, darted in the way of the tomahawks. Smith, barely conscious and having committed his soul to Divine Mercy alone, broke into a cold sweat, as her soft dark cheek was pressed against his blanched one. "Save him Father to make toys for me and hatchets for you if you like."
Powhatan did not like it, but he paused to ponder, as the tomahawks hung heavily over John Smith's head.
The surly crowd, thirsting for blood, snarled "Pocahontas!" as this child meddled with grim manly business, Opechancanough's temper leading the fury. Was that fool brother of his going to let a child keep him from annihilating this captive? He ought to be on the throne instead of this weak indulger of children's whims, for no pampered daughter should challenge his will.
Powhatan had looked obdurate, but with the wilful whimsy of kings, he suddenly changed his mind, motioning to the warriors to stay their tomahawks.
"Certainly my daughter can have her wish, if the life of this queer captive appeals to her. I am the Chief, and she is my playful one, my Pocahontas."
John Smith scrambled to his feet. "At your service, sire. Hatchets for you too, as she says."
"I will indeed find need of such stern weapons instead of toys. I should like some of your swords and fire-tubes too."
"You flatter me. As if I could produce those at will!"
"I think so. You can do anything you say. I hear there is no lack of them in your men's hands. Give me a few days to ponder our future relations. Meanwhile, amuse the child. You owe her that at least."