Twas fierce Nemattanow. More deadly grew the conflict then; It was no feeble strife, When two such warriors, hand to hand, Were struggling, life for life. The hatchet of Nemattanow Bore a well-sharpen’d blade, And now to draw it from his belt His hand was on it laid; But quick the strong arm of Sir John Clasp’d the stout Indian round, And with a mighty effort brought His foeman to the ground. And as they fell, Nemattanow Clutch’d fast his flowing hair, And twisted it about his hand, As if he would prepare To cut away his living scalp Before he took his life; And now with vigorous gripe he seized His deadly scalping-knife. Again Sir John with iron nerve Summon’d his utmost strength; Their grapple, from the river side, Was scarcely twice his length; The grassy bank was smooth and steep, And dark and deep the flood-- A moment more, that scalping-knife Would surely drink his blood-- With wiry spring and giant power A sudden whirl he gave, And over and over, down they roll’d, And plunged beneath the wave.{17} II. Now stealing through the forest trees The ruddy morning broke, And, pouring in its dewy light, The slumbering monarch woke. He rose, and in his morning walk, To the sloping hill he hied, And there again by his old loved tree Nemattanow he spied. Weary and worn the warrior seem’d, His temple show’d a wound, And dripping water from his hair Was moistening the ground. No quiver now was at his back, Nor war-club by his side; Nor battle-axe nor scalping-knife His enemies defied. But though all weaponless he stood, His look was bold and free, And proud his bearing was, like one High flush’d with victory. III. ‘And hast thou met,’ said Powhatan, ‘The foeman of our race? ‘Methinks the joy of triumph now ‘Is beaming from thy face. ‘But wherefore art thou weaponless, ‘And wounded, worn, and weak? ‘And where’s the scalp of the mighty chief, ‘Thou wentest forth to seek?’ IV. ‘I met that chief, and proved him well,’ Nemattanow replied, ‘And I left him down three fathoms deep ‘Beneath the sluggish tide. ‘Our people now through all our groves ‘Their accustom’d walks may take, ‘Nor start and cry, “There comes Sir John!” ‘If a twig but chance to break. ‘Our fight was bloody, long, and fierce; ‘The moon alone look’d on, ‘And none but the river-god can tell ‘Where sleeps the brave Sir John.’ V.