Behind him, borne upon a litter by two other Indians, came one the like of whom I had never seen, an old Indian of surely a hundred years of age; his eyes gone and, in their place, nought but the white balls to be observed. His head, with still some few sparse hairs left on it, bent on his breast, his hands were shrivelled like unto those of the mummies of which I have read, and his body, even on so hot a day as this, was enveloped in a great bearskin adorned with the gay plumage of many bright-coloured birds.
As Anuza strode into the tent, or Wigwam, leaving the old man outside in the sun, he made a grave salutation to us all; but it seemed directed to me more especially, and then he said:
"Peace be with you all. And, white maiden," he went on, addressing me, while to my surprise he bent his knee before me, "though death awaits you and yours to-day, yet it shall not claim you while the Bear is by. Nor, had I known that which he, my father, has told me, should the hand of Anuza have been raised against you or your house, or aught within it." While, as he spoke, I gazed wonderingly at him, not knowing what his words might mean.
Yet the explanation or meaning, when it came, was simple indeed. Many years before, nay, more than fifty, when my grandfather, Mark Bampfyld, owned and ruled at Pomfret Manor, his wife strolling in the woods had met and succoured a wounded Indian who had been shot at by some other colonist and had dragged himself to where she found him. Now, at that time the Indian was hated in all Virginia more, perhaps, than he had ever been before or since, for the memory of how he and his had been our firm allies was still fresh in all men's memories, so that their new enmity to us was even more bitterly felt than at any other period. To succour an Indian, therefore, at this period, was to do a thing almost incredible, a thing not to be believed of one colonist by another, and, by the Indian himself, to be regarded as something that could never by any chance occur. Yet this thing my grandmother, Rebecca, had done; she had tended and nursed that savage, who was none other than the father of Anuza now without our tent--himself, also Anuza the Bear--she had sent him forth a well man to return to his own people, and, ere going, he had vowed to her, placing his fingers on the scars of his wounds to give his vows emphasis, that none of his blood or race should ever again injure those of hers.