“I’ll serve you as I can,” she said, gently, her eyes avoiding his. “But,” and she lowered her tones until her words became a warning made in whispers—“but I say to you, monsieur, beware of Chatémuc! Stay not by my side. I’ll serve you as I can, but leave me when we reach the town. Believe me when I say ’tis safer so.”
“Ma foi, ma petite,” exclaimed de Sancerre, petulantly, turning his head to cast a glance behind him at Chatémuc, “your warning, though well meant, was hardly fair to him! Your brother is too good a friend of Mother Church to harbor hatred of a Catholic like me, who only yesternight vowed three long candles to the Virgin-mother—after that ugly crone had left my side at last.”
“You smile, and speak light words,” murmured Katonah, deprecatingly. “But I say to you, beware of Chatémuc. He loves the faith, but hateth you, monsieur. I know not why. ’Tis strange!”
She gazed at the Frenchman’s face with a frank admiration which brought a self-conscious smile to the courtier’s lips. Flicking a multicolored insect from the tattered velvet of his sleeve, de Sancerre exclaimed:
“Ah, my Katonah! ’Tis those who know me best who love me best. Your brother is a stranger, who cannot read my heart. But, hark! what have we here?”
The noise of kettle-drums and the howling of a great throng arose in front of them. Their stately guides withdrew from de Tonti’s side and stalked sedately to the rear of the little group of strangers, leaving the Italian captain to lead his followers to the imminent outskirts of the town.
“Listen to the drums, petite!” exclaimed de Sancerre, gayly. “We’ll dance a menuet in yonder city, or I am not a moonbeam’s favorite son!”
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH THE BROTHER OF THE SUN WELCOMES
THE CHILDREN OF THE MOON
The Brother of the Sun, overjoyed at the opportunity now before him to offer hospitality to guests upon whose white faces he gazed with mingled admiration and astonishment, had come in state to the confines of the forest to testify to the cordiality of a greeting that illuminated his well-cut, strong, and mobile countenance. The Great Sun, as he was called—his exact relationship to the orb of day being, to a large extent, a matter of conjecture—was an elderly man, fully six feet six inches in height, with a light-mahogany complexion, hair still jet-black, and brilliant, dark eyes gazing proudly forth upon a world which, from the hour of his birth, had paid abject homage to his exalted rank.
He was enthroned in a litter resembling a huge sedan-chair, which was carried upon the shoulders of eight stalwart men in white attire but bare-footed. The four long arms of the litter were painted red, and its body was decorated with embroidered deer-skins, leaves of the magnolia-tree, and garlands of red and white flowers. His head was ornamented by a diadem of white feathers. Inserted in the lobes of his shapely ears were rings of decorated bone. He wore a necklace made of the teeth of alligators, and against the background of his raven-black hair gayly colored beads shone in the sunlight.