A howl from the overwrought throng shook the leaves upon the trees. The runners had sprung from the line at a cry and, elbow to elbow, were speeding toward the distant tree. Falling back to Cabanacte’s flank, de Sancerre, seeming to grow taller as he ran, and using his feet with a nimbleness and grace which emphasized the clumsiness of his fleet rival’s tread, hung with ease upon the giant’s pace, moving with a rhythmical smoothness which indicated reserved power. Through the twilight toward the city rushed the courtier and the savage, made equals at that moment by the levelling spirit of a manly sport, while the onlookers stood, eager-eyed and silent, watching with amazement the pertinacity of the lithe Frenchman who so stubbornly kept the pace behind their yet unconquered champion.

As the racers turned the tree marking the half of their swift career, the dusky patriots saw, with growing consternation, that the child of moonbeams still sped gayly along behind the stalwart, wavering figure of a son of suns. The pace set by Cabanacte had been heartrending from the start, for he had cherished the conviction that he would be able to shake off his puny rival long before the turn for home was made. But ever as he strove to increase his lead the bronze-tinted athlete heard, just behind his shoulder, the dainty footfalls of a light-waisted, wiry, bold-hearted antagonist, who panted not in weariness behind the champion after the manner of his rivals of other days. Out of the glowing West came the racers side by side, every step a contest as they struggled toward the goal.

“Cabanacte! Cabanacte!” cried the sun-worshippers, mad with the fear that the dwarf might outrun the giant at the last. For the Frenchman had crept up from behind and was now speeding homeward on even terms with his delirious, reeling, wind-blown, but still unconquered rival. For a hundred yards the racers fought their fight by inches, each marvelling in his aching mind at the stern persistence of his antagonist. Then, when the strain grew greater than human muscles could endure, the bursting heart of de Sancerre seemed to ease its awful pressure upon his chest, his faltering steps regained their light and graceful motion, and, passing Cabanacte as the latter glanced up with eyes bloodshot with longing, the Frenchman, with a gay smile upon his pallid face, rushed past the line, a winner of the race by two full yards.

“THE FRENCHMAN, WITH A GAY SMILE UPON HIS PALLID FACE, RUSHED
PAST THE LINE, A WINNER OF THE RACE BY TWO FULL YARDS”

The hot, generous blood of the sun-worshippers bounded in their veins as they seized the tottering victor and, with shouts of wonder and acclaim, raised him to their shoulders and bore him, a wonder-worker in their eyes, to the smiling presence of their astonished king. But before de Sancerre could receive the congratulations of the Brother of the Sun, the voice of Katonah had reached him over the heads of the excited patricians.

“Monsieur,” cried the Mohican maiden, in French, her voice vibrating with excitement, “Père Membré and Monsieur de Tonti have set out for the camp, and Chatémuc has not returned!”

“Peste, ma petite!” exclaimed de Sancerre, blowing her a kiss over the turmoil of black heads beneath him. “Why trouble me with trifles such as these? See you not that a splinter from a moonbeam has put the sun to shame—to the greater glory of our Mother Church. Laude, Katonah! Laude et jubilate!”

CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH THE RESULTS OF CHATÉMUC’S ENTHUSIASM
ARE SEEN

“Courage, ma petite! We’ll find your Chatémuc; then learn the mysteries of yonder sun-kissed town. That the stubborn captain has deserted us is hardly strange. Always in fear of de la Salle’s displeasure, Monsieur de Tonti has grown erratic, unreliable, jealous. As for the friar, his retreat surprises me. He lacks not courage nor persistence. He would not leave our brother of the sun without, at the least, one more attempt to show him the path which leads to Mother Church.”