“And then?”
“And then I vowed a candle to St. Christopher and sailed across the sea. Breathe it not, monsieur—I bore a letter from de Montespan to Frontenac.”
“Then cut your tongue out ere you tell the tale,” exclaimed La Salle, gruffly. After a moment’s silence he went on, more gently: “But, Monsieur le Comte, I cannot understand the ease of your escape. You’ve roused the anger of the King, de Maintenon, the Jesuits, and Spain. Such foes could crush an empire in a day.”
“But you yourself, monsieur, have stood against them all.”
“I?” exclaimed La Salle, musingly. “You may be right, my friend. I sometimes wonder if my life is charmed. Whom can I trust, monsieur? Allies false when the hour of danger came, assassins at my bedside, and poison in my food—all these I’ve known, monsieur. And still I live.”
The two adventurers had arisen and were facing each other in the moonlight. La Salle, tall, commanding—a king by the divine right of a dauntless soul—stood, with head uncovered, looking down at the slender, graceful patrician confronting him.
“You strive for France, Sieur de la Salle,” exclaimed de Sancerre, the mocking note gone from his voice—“for the glory of dear France—and France will not destroy you.”
“For France!” repeated La Salle, solemnly. “For France and for the Church! Vive le Roi!”
Silently they turned and, mounting the hillock, made their way toward the sleeping camp, while the Mississippi rolled on beneath the moon to tell a strange tale to the listening waters of the gulf.