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228, King Philip, sachem of the Wampanoags.

Pushing aside one of David’s captors, who had interposed between the boy and the Indian with the spear, King Philip looked for  a moment at the prisoner with straight and  piercing gaze. Then, in a pleasant voice and with friendly mien, he asked: “You English?”

“Aye.”

“What is your name?”

“David Lindall.”

“Where you dwell, David?”

“Near the long rapids of the Charles River, westward of Nonantum.”

“You know Great Teacher Eliot, maybe, by place called Natick?”

“Aye, his village of the Praying Indians is but two leagues from my father’s house.”

“He is fine man,” said Pometacom gravely. “Come to my lodge, David, and make talk.”

The wigwam of the sachem was a small and poorly built affair of bark over poles. There were a few pieces of rush matting on the floor and a few cooking-utensils beside  the still warm ashes of the fire. David saw that there were neither women nor children