Pocahontas, having heard of the arrival of the white squaws at
Jamestown, soon came to see them for herself. Seeking out Smith as
usual, she plied him with questions concerning them.
“Pocahontas wants to see the white squaws.”
“So you shall, my child,” replied her “father.” Taking her by the
hand he led her to the cabin of Mrs. Forrest. “This is my little
Indian maid, madam, of whom you have heard me speak.”
Motherly Mrs. Forrest tried by signs to make her understand that she
was glad to see her. Helped out by Pocahontas’s imperfect English and
Smith’s interpretations, the conversation proceeded to the mutual
satisfaction of both.
“Here is a maiden of the pale faces, my child,” said Captain Smith
as Anne came tripping up with ruffs in her hands, fresh from the
clear starching. “Well, Mistress Anne, how is your health this bright
morning?” said Smith, at the same time tilting the winsome little
face upward with his finger.
Instantly the fires of jealousy blazed in the eyes of Pocahontas, and
she stamped her foot upon the ground.
“Why, my child, what means this unseemly behavior?” exclaimed Smith.
“Come, show your kindly smile to the white maiden.”
“Pocahontas likes not—she hates—she will kill!” exclaimed the Indian
maid, her voice rising in frenzy at every breath.
“Mind her not, Anne, it is but the jealousy of a child.
“My little one, your father is yours, he belongs to you,” he
soothingly said, drawing the trembling Pocahontas into his encircling
arms and feeling her beating heart fluttering like a caged bird.
With much coaxing she consented to smile upon Mrs. Forrest, but any
advance upon the part of Anne was met by a fierce scowl. Poor Indian
maid! Her loving heart could not bear the pain of seeing her hero
give even a fleeting caress to another.