girdle before the chiefs had pronounced him old enough to be a brave;
her own cousin, White Owl, the most wonderfully tattooed of them all;
and the Nansamond young chieftain who wore a live snake as an earring in
the slit of his ear.

Then Powhatan gave the signal and the captives were led forward. They
knew what awaited them; probably each of them, except the young boy, had
himself meted out the same fate to others that was now to befall them.
They did not repine; it was the fortune of war. Singing songs of
triumph, of derision of all their enemies, they started to run down the
awful lane of death. Blows rained upon them, on neck, on head, on arms,
even on their legs from stooping adversaries. So swift came the blows
from both sides that sometimes two fell upon the same spot almost at
once.

Pocahontas marked with interest that the boy was last of the line, and
that he bore himself as bravely as the others.

When they reached the end of the row there was no escape--no escape
anywhere more for them. Back they darted, so swiftly that it seemed as
if each escaped the blow aimed at himself, only to receive the one meant
for his comrade ahead.

Pocahontas had a queer feeling as she looked down on them and saw the
blood spurting from a hundred wounds. She thought perhaps it was the hot
sun that made her feel a little sick. Her eyes followed the boy and as
he came nearer she noticed that he was almost at the end of his
strength. A few more blows would finish him. Already some of his elders
had fallen to the ground, and if, when beaten unmercifully, they were
still unable to rise, the tomahawk dashed out their brains.