After wandering through the woods to gather honeysuckle to make a
wreath, she returned to the village. There was no longer a crowd in the
open space; the captives were all dead and the spectators had gone to
their various lodges. Only a number of boys were playing run the
gauntlet, some with willow twigs beating those chosen by lot to run
between them. A girl, imitating old Wansutis, rushed forward and claimed
one of the runners for a son.

A few days later when the young Massawomeke lad had recovered there were
ceremonies to celebrate his adoption as a member of the Powhatan tribe,
of the great nation of the Algonquins. The other boys of his age looked
up to him with envy. Had he not proved his valor on the warpath and
under torture while they were only gaming with plumpits? They followed
him about, eager to do his bidding, each trying to outdo his comrades in
sports when his eye was on them. And all the elders had good words to
say about Claw-of-the-Eagle, and Wansutis was so proud that she now
often forgot to speak evil medicine.

Pocahontas wondered how Claw-of-the-Eagle liked his new life, and one
day when she was running through the forest she came upon him. He had
knelt to look through a thicket at a flock of turkeys he meant to shoot
into, but his bow lay idle beside his feet, and she saw that his eyes
seemed to be looking at something in the distance.

"What dost thou behold, son of Wansutis?" she asked.

He started but did not reply.

"Speak, Claw-of-the-Eagle," she said impatiently. "Powhatan's daughter
is not wont to wait for a reply."