"What is that?" he whispered to the Sieur de Bienville on the homeward way as some heavy creature like a huge water-rat stirred among the roots of a tree hidden under the bank.
"Paddle nearer, Tony. Faster! It may be a wounded man."
It was a coureur de bois, not hurt in body, but so frightened that his state was pitiful.
"The Natchez murdered my two companions days and days ago," he screamed, in hysterical relief, when he found that he was rescued from his slimy cave by men of his own nation. "What will the post do about such an outrage?" he demanded, wildly. "Are traders to be sacrificed without revenge?" He pounded distracted hands upon his chest.
As he fed the poor thing, who had been living upon raw fish and roots for a long time, the officer asked, "What did your companions do first to the Natchez?"
"We walked around in their funny church a little; that's all," faltered the coureur de bois. "The White-Apple's daughter saw us and threw a tomahawk at us. She hit first one and then another." He turned very pale as he recalled the sight. "I escaped by falling in the river."
"Not the pretty Apple-Blossom?" gasped Anthony, "Not our gentle pupil in French and music who came to the wedding?"
The Sieur de Bienville inclined his head. "She has charge of the maids who help tend the temple's sacred fire which came from the sun and which never goes out. These men profaned a sanctuary."
"She should have tomahawked you, too!" cried Anthony to the coureur de bois. "You foolish fellows came near being the death of us all. We have spent a week soothing the Natchez. We could not find out why they were angry."
"They will never forgive nor forget. It is only one of the many indignities done them by your careless acts. If you promise never to mention the murder or to stir up trouble about it I'll carry you with us," said the stern young officer. "Otherwise back you go into the river."