“That is my grandson, Cabanacte,” she answered, proudly. “He’s now a nobleman, for, at the risk of life, he bore the spirit of the sun to us. The whirlwind cannot catch him. The falling-star seems slow behind his feet. He stands, in pride, alone; for none dare challenge him.”
A flush crept into the pale face of the Frenchman as his sparkling eyes garnered with delight all the inspiring features of the scene before him, features which formed at that moment a picture reminding him of the glory of ancient Athens, the splendors of a pagan cult which found in strength and beauty idols worthy of adoring tribute. The passing day breathed a golden blessing upon the City of the Sun, which gleamed in the distance like a dream of Greece in the old, heroic days. De Sancerre, well-read and impressionable, mused for a moment upon the strange likeness of the scene before him to a painting that he had gazed upon, in a land far over-sea, representing Attic athletes engaged in classic games beneath a stately temple behind which the sun had hid its weary face. Awakening from his day-dreams, he turned toward Noco and addressed her in a voice which made his Spanish most impressive.
“Go to Cabanacte, señora, and say to him that Count Louis de Sancerre of Languedoc—the fairest province in the silver moon—dares him to a test of speed, the course to run from here to yonder lonely tree, near to the city’s gate, and back again.”
A grin of mingled admiration and amazement lighted the old hag’s face as she turned toward the King and repeated to him his guest’s daring defiance of a runner whose superiority no sun-worshipper had cared to test for many waning moons. A courteous smile played across the firm, well-cut mouth of the Great Sun as he listened to Noco’s words, but the scornful gleam in his black eyes as they rested upon the Frenchman’s slender, undersized figure was not lost upon the observant challenger. De Sancerre realized fully that he had placed in jeopardy his influence with the Brother of the Sun by risking a trial of speed with a youth whose fleetness he had had, as yet, no means of gauging. If he should be outstripped by Cabanacte the good-will of the Great Sun would be changed to contempt, and the relationship of host to guests, already disturbed by de Tonti’s lack of tact, might be transformed into that of a victor to his captives. What, then, would become of de Sancerre’s efforts to solve the mystery to which old Noco held the key?
But de Sancerre, always self-confident, placed absolute faith in the elasticity of his light, nervous frame, whose muscles had been hardened by his campaigns over-sea and by his wanderings with de la Salle. No fleeter foot than his had been found in the sport-loving army of Turenne, and he had been as much admired in camps for his agility as at courts for his grace. If, perchance, he should outrun the stalwart Cabanacte, de Sancerre felt sure that his easily-won popularity with these impressionable sun-worshippers would be placed upon a much more stable foundation than its present underpinning of smiles and courtly bows.
“My grandson, Cabanacte, sends greeting to the envoy of the moon,” panted Noco, returning speedily to de Sancerre’s side, “and will gladly chase the wind with him in friendly rivalry. He bids me say that night falls quickly when the sun has set and that he craves your presence at this moment on the course.”
Making a courteous obeisance to the Brother of the Sun, de Sancerre was about to hasten to the side of his gigantic adversary, who, stripped almost to nakedness, stood awaiting his challenger, when he felt a detaining hand upon his arm, and, turning petulantly, looked into Katonah’s agitated face.
“Chatémuc! My brother! I cannot see him anywhere!”
“Fear not, ma petite,” exclaimed de Sancerre, cheerily. “Wait here until I’ve made this sun-baked Mercury imagine he’s a snail, and we’ll find your kinsman of the joyous face. ’Twould break my heart to lose the gay and smiling Chatémuc! Adieu! I go to victory, or, perhaps, to death! Pray to Saint Maturin for me, Katonah! He watches over fools!”
A great shout arose from the sun-worshippers as de Sancerre and Cabanacte, saluting each other with ceremonious respect, stood side by side awaiting the signal for their flight toward the distant tree which marked the turning-point in the course which they were about to run. The Frenchman, attired in tattered velvets and wearing shoes never designed for the use of an athlete, seemed to be at that moment handicapped by both nature and art for the race awaiting him. Almost a pygmy beside the bronze giant, whose limbs would have driven sleep from a sculptor’s couch, de Sancerre had apparently chosen well in asking Katonah for an invocation to the saint who protects fools from the outcome of their folly. The black-eyed sun-worshippers glanced at each other in smiling derision. Surely, these children of the moon must eat at night of some plant or fruit which stirred their blood to madness when they wandered far afield! No dwarf would dare to measure strides with a colossus unless, indeed, he’d lost his wits through midnight revelry in moonlit glades! This white-faced, queerly-dressed, and most presumptuous rival of the mighty Cabanacte might smile and bow and gain the ear of kings, but look upon him now, with head bent forward, waiting for the word! Fragile, petite, thin in the shanks, and with a chest a boy might scorn, he dares to measure strides with a sturdy demigod who towers above him, a giant shadow in the gloaming there!