It was with a great deal of reluctance that the Franciscan friar, followed by Chatémuc, had accepted the invitation extended to him from the Great Sun through Noco’s overworked tongue. She had delivered her message to the friar in her mongrel Spanish, and the Franciscan’s knowledge of Latin had enabled him to grasp the general tenor of her words. He had been endeavoring to throw upon the embers of the Mohican’s religious enthusiasm sufficient fuel to beget a flame that should result in immediate action of an heroic nature. But while the Franciscan dwelt upon the glories of martyrdom and the splendor of the rewards awaiting a servant of the Church who gave his life for the faith, fatigue and hunger, having possessed themselves of Chatémuc’s earthly tabernacle, formed a powerful alliance against that self-abnegation which the priest labored earnestly to arouse in the Mohican’s soul.
“To eat meat with these children of Satan, who worship the very fires of hell, is, I fear, to commit a grave sin,” remarked the friar, gazing upward at Chatémuc dubiously, as they followed Noco toward the lower benches. Being a hungry barbarian, not a devout and learned controversialist, the Mohican could vouchsafe in answer to this nothing more satisfactory than a grunt, a guttural comment upon the delicate point raised by the agitated friar which might mean much or nothing.
Seated at the very outskirts of the picturesque throng, Zenobe Membré bent his tonsured head and told his beads for a time, watching Chatémuc furtively as the Mohican indulged freely in roasted meats, half-cooked fish, and various preparations made from last year’s corn.
“How proudly yonder temple rises toward the sky, my Chatémuc,” muttered the friar, glancing toward the City of the Sun. “Great will be the glory of the hand chosen by the saints to pull it to the ground.”
Chatémuc chewed a morsel of tough venison and said nothing, but his eyes rested with a hostile gleam upon the Great Sun a hundred yards beyond him, beside whom sat Katonah, seemingly removed from her brother by the breadth of a mighty nation. Suddenly by the Mohican’s side appeared a serving-woman, who placed upon the bench at his right hand a gourd containing a fermented liquor made of the leaves of the cassia-tree. The increasing loquacity of the banqueters beyond the friar and his companion proved that the beverage, which had now reached them, possessed exhilarating properties. If the Franciscan had needed further evidence of the enlivening influence of the seductive liquor, which had come late to the feast as an ally to good-fellowship, the change in Chatémuc’s face would have offered it. After emptying his gourd twice—for the Mohican liked the cinnamon flavor of the drink—Chatémuc, flashing a glance of hatred at the Great Sun, looked down at the attentive friar at his side.
“The fire of hell shall burn no more beyond,” he said, jerking his hand toward the distant city, behind which the weary sun had begun to creep. “The oath I swore to you shall be no idle boast.”
Having observed that the Mohican liked the wine she offered him, the woman delegated to serve the friar and his comrade refilled the latter’s gourd for the third time. Chatémuc swallowed the fiery liquor eagerly, and turned to speak a final word to the priest.
At that instant Zenobe Membré’s eyes were fixed upon the royal group beyond him. The Great Sun had arisen and stood waving his feathered sceptre energetically, while he gazed down at Noco, to whom he seemed to be talking with some excitement. Gazing up at the King, with a satirical smile upon his delicate face, sat de Sancerre, while de Tonti had sprung to his feet with an expression of anger upon his countenance.
When the friar turned to address Chatémuc, he discovered that the Mohican had left his side and had been lost to sight in the long shadows of the stealthy twilight.