It is but fair to the memory of a noble, if somewhat too impetuous proselyter, to say that if Zenobe Membré—whose achievements and sufferings entitle him to all praise—had realized that martyrdom, the rewards for which he had painted in such glowing colors, really menaced the aroused Mohican, he would have weighed his words with greater care. But the gray friar had long been in the habit of using heroic language to stir the soul of Chatémuc to religious enthusiasm, and he had not, as yet, found cause to regret the use which he had made for years of his pliable convert. Furthermore, the Franciscan placed absolute confidence in the Mohican’s ability to take good care of his red skin. He had seen the craft of Chatémuc overcome appalling odds too many times to long indulge the fear that the Indian’s sudden disappearance at this juncture presaged disaster. Nevertheless, he regretted that his convert had set out upon a mission of some peril with such unwonted precipitancy. The friar would have felt better satisfied with himself if he had been permitted to breathe a word of caution into Chatémuc’s ear before the latter had gone forth upon his lonely crusade against the fires of hell.
“At the worst,” muttered the Franciscan to himself, as he made his way toward the royal litter between lines of black-eyed, smiling sun-worshippers—“at the worst, it would be one life for Paradise and a nation for the Church! May the saints be with my Chatémuc! If he won a martyr’s crown, his blood would quench a fire which Satan keeps alive. But Mother Mary aid him! I love him well! I’d lose my right hand to save my Chatémuc from death! May Christ assail me if so my words were rash!”
Thus communing with himself, the Franciscan approached the excited group surrounding royalty.
“Ma foi, good father, you come to us most opportunely!” cried de Sancerre, springing to his feet, a smile upon his lips but a gleam of repressed anger in his eyes. “Monsieur de Tonti is bent upon repaying his Majesty’s hospitality with marked ingratitude. He orders us—courageous captain that he is—to return at once to Sieur de la Salle. As for me, I have promised the Brother of the Sun to pass the night in yonder city—to the greater glory of our sire, the moon!”
Henri de Tonti, a black frown upon his brow, had overheard the Frenchman’s sarcastic words. Seizing the friar by the arm, he flashed a glance of rage and menace at the exasperating de Sancerre, and drew the Franciscan aside, to lay before him weighty arguments in favor of an immediate retreat to the river.
Meanwhile the younger men among the sun-worshipping nobility, moved by the same cinnamon-flavored inspiration which had driven Chatémuc toward a Satan-lighted fire, had abandoned the scene of the recent feast to indulge in athletic rivalries on the greensward which undulated gently between the outskirts of the forest and the City of the Sun.
“Will you say to his Majesty, señora,” cried de Sancerre, gayly, drawing near to the Great Sun and addressing Noco, “that he has reason to be proud of the prowess of his young men? I have never watched a more exciting wrestling-bout than yonder struggle between those writhing giants. It is inspiring! It is classic! Could Girardon carve a fountain from that Grecian contest over there, ’twould add another marvel to Versailles.”
The Brother of the Sun smiled down upon de Sancerre with warm cordiality as the aged interpreter, having caught the general drift of the Frenchman’s words, turned his praise into her native tongue. The monarch’s momentary annoyance at Henri de Tonti’s lack of tact had passed away, and, standing erect, a right royal figure on his flower-bedecked dais, he watched, with unconcealed pride, the skilful feats with bow-and-arrow performed by the sun-worshipping aristocrats and the prodigies of strength which the wrestlers and stone-hurlers accomplished.
“Tell me, Doña Noco,” exclaimed de Sancerre presently, at the conclusion of a closely-contested foot-race, which even the distraught and restless Katonah, searching vainly with her eyes for Chatémuc, had watched for a moment with bated breath—“tell me the name of yonder greyhound, carved in bronze, who smiles so disdainfully upon the victor. I have never before seen a youth whose legs and shoulders seemed to be so well fashioned by nature to outstrip the wind itself. Why does he not compete?”
The shrivelled crone grinned with delight.