“Did you notice at the further end of yonder hut a hole through which a good-sized dog might crawl?” asked de Sancerre, impressively, arising and pointing toward the camp.
“Sieur de la Salle has eyes for everything, Monsieur le Comte,” remarked de Tonti, tauntingly.
Paying no attention to his rival, de Sancerre went on:
“Through that hole last night there crept into the hut an aged hag, who, coming to my side, gave us a welcome from the children of the sun. They call us—as you know—the children of the moon.”
De la Salle, calm, phlegmatic, but ever on the alert, gazed searchingly at the speaker.
“Your tale is somewhat late, monsieur,” he remarked, meaningly.
“I feared the gossip of an idle camp,” said de Sancerre, lightly, carelessly tossing a pebble into the rippling waters at his feet. “The matter’s not of moment but for this: the old crone spoke a Spanish patois, hard to understand, but not impossible. Her tongue, I think, might serve our friar well.”
“A Spanish patois?” repeated de la Salle, musingly. “’Tis well you spoke of this, Monsieur le Comte. I told the keen-eyed Colbert that there was no time to lose. Below, around us lie the lands of gold, and stretched across them rests the arm of Spain. The time has come when we must lop it off.”
De la Salle had arisen and, with his hand upon the hilt of his sword, gazed toward the waters which flowed toward a Spanish sea. He looked, for the moment, the very incarnation of the martial spirit of an adventurous age, bidding defiance to a mighty foe. Suddenly he turned and eyed his followers sternly. In a voice which admitted of no reply, he said:
“De Tonti, de Sancerre, and Membré, prepare to set out at once to these people of the sun. I’ll give you presents for their chiefs and wives. Send Chatémuc to me. He shall go with you, and his sister—Katonah, is it not? She’ll find the woman with the Spanish tongue where you, as men, might fail.”