He was kindly enough treated, but he never knew how long
the kindness would last, and he constantly expected death. Yet he
was quite calm. He kept a journal, and in this he set down accounts
of many strange sights he saw, not knowing if indeed they would
ever be read.
At length Smith was brought to the wigwam of the great Powhatan*,
the chief of chiefs, or Emperor, as these simple English folk
called him. To receive the white prisoner the Powhatan put on his
greatest bravery. Feathered and painted, and wearing a wide robe
of raccoon skins he sat upon a broad couch beside a fire. On either
side of him sat one of his wives and behind in grim array stood his
warriors, row upon row. Behind them again stood the squaws. Their
faces and shoulders were painted bright red, about their necks they
wore chains of white beads, and on their heads the down of white
birds.
It was a weird scene, and the flickering firelight added to its
strangeness. Silent and still as statues the warriors stood. Then
as John Smith was led before the chief they raised a wild shout.
As that died away to silence one of the Powhatan's squaws rose and
brought a basin of water to Smith. In this he washed his hands,
and then another squaw brought him a bunch of feathers instead of
a towel, with which to dry them.
After this the Indians feasted their prisoner with savage splendour.
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