To her astonishment, Pocahontas found herself wishing the boy might not
fall, might escape in some miraculous manner. What a wrong thought! she
said to herself: was he not an enemy of her tribe? Yet she could not
help closing her eyes when she saw Black Arrow aiming a terrible blow at
his head. She did not know what to make of herself. She suddenly began
to think of the hurt wild-cat she and Nautauquas had pitied during the
night. But no one ought ever to pity an enemy. What was she made of?

As she opened her eyes again she heard a woman's outcry and beheld a
squaw rushing towards the end of the line where Black Arrow's blow had
felled the boy. It was old Wansutis.

"I claim the boy," she panted; "I claim him by our ancient right. Cease,
braves, and let me have him."

The astounded braves let their arms drop at their sides, and the
panting, bleeding captives who had not already fallen, breathed for a
moment long breaths.

"I claim the boy," the old woman cried again in a loud voice, turning
towards Powhatan, "to adopt as a son. Many popanows (winters) and seed
times have passed since my sons were slain. Now is Wansutis old and
feeble and hath need of a young son to hunt for her. By our ancient
custom this captive is mine."

There was an outcry of opposition from the younger braves at being
robbed of one of their victims, but the older chiefs on the hill debated
for a few moments, and then gave their decision: there was no doubt of
the old woman's right to claim the boy. So Powhatan sent two of his