Proudly the monarch raised his head, And proudly turn’d his eye Upon the spoils of many wars, And scalps that hung on high; And then his trusty bow and club He haughtily survey’d, And thus with stately air and tone His brief reply he made. ‘If such rare presents have been sent ‘From your great king to me, ‘Remember too, _I am a king_, ‘And all this land you see, ‘And all these woods and groves are mine, ‘And the mighty rivers too, ‘That pour down from the mountain sides ‘And glide these valleys through. ‘And thirty tribes with all their chiefs ‘Their homage pay to me, ‘And fight my battles when I call-- ‘Your captain of the sea ‘Should better know the place he fills: ‘His presents to bestow, ‘He may, when suits him, come to me; ‘_To him I shall not go._’ X. Sir John knew well the monarch’s pride And firm unbending will, And well he knew ’twere vain to seek His purpose to fulfil; He therefore urged his suit no more, But at the chief’s request, Consented to abide till morn, And in his lodge to rest. And soundly slept Sir John that night Upon his deer-skin bed, With hand upon his broadsword hilt And pistol by his head. And the first red morning ray that came, Bright gleaming o’er the plain, Beheld him on the forest route To Jamestown’s homes again. XI. A week of winter storms had pass’d, And brighter days now shone, And Powhatan no longer sat In his winter lodge alone, But in his council-hall appear’d Among his warriors bold; And all his chiefs were gather’d there, A council-talk to hold. And long about those royal gifts They talk’d with solemn air; Gifts from a land beyond the sea, Which only kings might wear; And many questions had been raised, And many doubts remain’d, What secret charm for good or ill Those wondrous gifts contain’d. But ere those doubts were half resolved, While yet the talk went on, One of the outer guard rush’d in, Exclaiming that Sir John And fifty of his pale-face tribe, All marching in a file Across the woods, with shining arms, Were now within a mile Of the council-hall. An instant fire Flash’d from each warrior’s eye, But there was no tumultuous rush, No shout or battle-cry; With knitted brow and silent step Each seized his club and bow, And girded on his scalping-knife; And now in one grim row, A hundred warriors arm’d for death, And led by their great king, Before the council-hall appear, And wait what fate may bring. XII.