Henri de Tonti, Zenobe Membré, and Sieur de la Salle had joined the Count de Sancerre, after the departure of Chatémuc and Katonah, and the quartet had formed itself for the time being into a council, to answer at once an insistent and momentous question. Two white-robed envoys, carrying a disk of burnished copper to represent the sun, had entered La Salle’s hut an hour before this, bringing to him an invitation to visit, with his followers, the city of their chief. Henri de Tonti, enthusiastic lay proselyter though he was, had taken the ground that an expedition to the haunts of the sun-worshippers would result in nothing more valuable than a waste of time and energy, while it might involve the party in unforeseen dangers. To check the enthusiasm of the Franciscan friar, who longed to convert these friendly idolaters to the true faith, de Tonti had just been calling the attention of the council to the difficulties besetting a missionary who attempted to explain the teachings of Mother Church in a tongue with which he was not thoroughly conversant.
The slender, white-faced friar, whose great physical endurance was suggested by nothing in his outward seeming but the clear, steady gleam in his large gray eyes, turned, rather impatiently, from the Italian adventurer and put forth an appealing palm towards Sieur de la Salle, who lay at full length upon the bank, his head resting upon his upturned hand, as he listened attentively to the debate between the soldier and the priest.
“There is much efficacy in signs, monsieur,” exclaimed Membré, with fervor. “Could I have led a thousand redmen to a knowledge of the truth had I always waited for an alien tongue? When all seemed lost, when their ears were deaf, when my prayers and hymns were but the feeble strivings of a voice they would not heed, has come a miracle, vouchsafed by Jesus Christ, and howling savages have fallen prone in penitence before the cross. I ask not much of you, monsieur, but in the name of Mother Church I crave an escort to these children of the sun. To pass them by, to leave them hopeless in their blind idolatry, to say no word to bring them to the faith—Mother of God, but this would be a sin!”
The delicate face of the Franciscan glowed with the fervor of his soul. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and his rich, penetrating voice echoed weirdly across the gleaming waters of the flood.
De la Salle put up his hand with a gesture seemingly intended to calm the exuberance of the devoted priest. Turning to de Sancerre, who was seated on his right, he said:
“What think you, Monsieur le Comte? Shall we risk a visit to these children of the sun?”
“Mais oui, monsieur. There is no other course. If they should take offence at our neglect—ma foi, it might go hard with us.”
A scornful smile played across de Tonti’s scarred and rugged face. He was annoyed at his failure to prevent the delay which this apparently useless visit to a pagan tribe would engender. De Sancerre observed the satirical expression upon the Italian’s countenance, but wisely refrained from giving voice to the anger which he felt at the sight. Between de Tonti and de Sancerre a national antagonism had been intensified by the jealousy existing between them regarding the attitude of their leader. The evident fondness shown by de la Salle for the companionship of the itinerant French nobleman had displeased the Italian veteran, whose long years of devotion to the explorer’s service had begotten a claim to special consideration. In more highly civilized surroundings the friction between de Tonti and de Sancerre would long ago have found relief in bloodshed. One striking difference between Versailles and the wilderness lay in the fact that in the latter greater provocation was needed to impel men to run each other through with steel than in the parks in which gay courtiers insulted one another with soft words.
“Furthermore, monsieur,” went on de Sancerre, observing that his words had not impelled de la Salle to come to an immediate decision regarding the question at issue—“furthermore, there may be a way to find an interpreter through whom these lost idolaters shall learn the teachings of our faith.” If there sounded a note of insincerity in the Frenchman’s voice, none marked it save de Tonti, whose smile was always satirical when de Sancerre touched upon the Church.
“Your words, Monsieur le Comte, mean much or nothing. Explain yourself,” said de la Salle, coldly.