But Opechanchanough, on his way to Werowocomoco to tell The Powhatan of
the victory he had won over his enemies, did not feel quite sure that he
had slain all the war party against which he and his Pamunkey braves had
gone forth. The unexpected snow, coming late in the winter, had been
blown into their eyes by the wind so that they could not tell whether
some of the Monachans had not succeeded in escaping their vengeance.
Perhaps, even yet, so near to the wigwams of his brother's town, the
enemy might have laid an ambush. Therefore, it behooved them to be on
their guard, to look behind each tree for crouching figures and to
harken with all their ears that not even a famished squirrel might crack
a nut unless they could point out the bough on which it perched.

Opechanchanough led the long thin line that threaded its way through the
broad cutting between huge oaks, still bronze with last year's leaves.
He held his head high and to himself he framed the words of the song of
triumph he meant to sing to The Powhatan, as the chief of the Powhatans
was called. Then, suddenly before his face shot an arrow.

At a shout from their leader, the long line swung itself to the right,
and fifty arrows flew to the northward, the direction from which danger
might be expected. Still there was silence, no outcry from an ambushed
enemy, no sign of other human creatures.

Opechanchanough consulted with his braves whence had the arrow come; and
even while they talked, another arrow from the right whizzed before his
face.

"A bad archer," he grunted, "who cannot hit me with two shots." Then
pointing to a huge oak that forked half way up, he commanded: