But Smith with his two men, Robinson and Emry, are now alone in the wilderness, up among narrow waters, brown marshes, fallen and obstructing tree trunks.
Now come the men-hunting Indians--the King of Pamaunck, says Smith, with two hundred bowmen.

Robinson and Emry are shot full of arrows.

Smith is wounded, but with his musket deters the foe, killing several of the savages.

His eyes upon them, he steps backward, hoping he may beat them off till he shall recover the shallop, but meets with the ill chance of a boggy and icy stream into which he stumbles, and here is taken.
See him now before "Opechancanough, King of Pamaunck!" Savages and procedures of the more civilized with savages have, the world over, a family resemblance.

Like many a man before him and after, Smith casts about for a propitiatory wonder.