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Three years later Pocahontas, for so we still find it in our hearts to call her, visited England with her husband and little son Thomas, to see with her own eyes that land across the sea where her husband had been brought up, and of which she had heard such wonderful tales. One can well imagine the wonder of the girl of the forest when she found herself out of sight of land, on the uncharted ocean of which she had only skirted the shores before, and many a night she stole from her cabin during that long voyage to watch the mysterious sea in its majestic swell, and the star-sown heavens, as the ship moved slowly on to its destination.

London, too, was a revelation to her with its big buildings, its surging crowds of white men, its marks of civilization everywhere, and, girl of the outdoors that she had ever been, her presentation at Court, with all that went before and after of the frivolities and conventionalities of city life, must have been a still greater marvel to her. But the greatest surprise of all awaited her. One day at a public reception a new-comer was announced, and without warning she found herself face to face with that Captain of her heart’s youthful devotion! There was a moment’s silence, a strained expression in the young wife’s dark eyes, then Captain John Smith bent over the hand of John Rolfe’s wife with the courtly deference he had given in Virginian days to the little Indian girl who was his loyal friend.

“They told me you were dead!”

It was Pocahontas who with quivering lips broke the silence, then without waiting for a reply she left the room and was not seen for hours. When she again met and talked with the brave Captain, she was as composed as usual, and no one could say how deeply her heart was touched to see again the friend of her girlhood days. Perhaps the unexpected sight of him brought with it a wave of home-sickness for the land of her birth and days of care-free happiness, perhaps she felt a stab of pain that the man to whom she had given so much had not sent her a message on leaving the country, but had let her believe the rumor of his death–perhaps the heart of Pocahontas was still loyal to her first love, devoted wife and mother though she was. Whatever may have been the truth, Lady Rebecca was proud and calm in the presence of the Captain after that first moment, and had many conversations with him which increased his admiration for the gracious forest Princess, now a lady of distinction in his own land.

The climate of England did not agree with Pocahontas, her health failed rapidly, and in the hope that a return to Virginia would save her life, her husband took passage for home. But it was too late; after a sickness of only a few hours, she died, and John Rolfe was left without the vivid presence which had been his blessing and his joy.

Pocahontas was buried at Gravesend on the 21st of March, 1617, and as night fell, and John Rolfe tossed on a bed of anguished memories, it is said that a man muffled in a great cloak stole through the darkness and knelt beside the new-made grave with bowed head and clasped hands.

It was Captain Smith who came to offer reverent tribute to the girl who had given him so much, asking nothing in return, a girl of savage lineage, yet of noble character and great charm, whose blossoming into the flower of civilization had no parallel. Alone there, in the somber night, the silent figure knelt–the brave Captain of her loyal devotion paying tardy homage to Pocahontas, the girl of the Virginia forest, the white man’s steadfast friend.