It was the dawn of a cloudless day near the middle of the moon of old corn when de Sancerre, opening his eyes after a night of dreamless, restful sleep, enjoyed, for a moment, that sensation of physical well-being which suggests the possibility that nature harbors no enmity to man. Outside the royal cabin the morning vibrated with the melody of birds and the distant rumors of a forest springing gladly into life. There was movement and bustle inside the hut, and de Sancerre turned lazily upon his gayly-bedecked couch to watch the Great Sun as he paid homage to his risen god. With a spotless white robe flowing from his royal shoulders, the King, still feeble from his recent illness, stood in the centre of the room gravely lighting his calumet from a live ember which one of his wives held out to him. Then striding toward the dawn-beset exit to the cabin, which led straight to the rising sun, the convalescent chief blew three puffs of tobacco-smoke toward the deified orb of day.
“Pardieu,” muttered de Sancerre, “if they would but sacrifice more tobacco and less blood to their shining god, this city would not be so repulsive to a man of tender heart.” The Frenchman had thrown his slim legs over the side of the plaited bed and sat gazing at the Sun-Chief with a quizzical smile upon his clean-cut, thin and colorless face. Suddenly upon the air of morning arose the shouts of a joyful multitude approaching the Great Sun’s cabin. As if born of the dawn, the noisy throng poured into the square, carrying to the palace of their king offerings of fruit, flowers, vegetables, meats and fish. Into the cabin crowded the smiling, chattering sun-worshippers, their white teeth gleaming and their black eyes flashing fire as they piled their gifts around the Great Sun’s hand-painted throne, interfering with de Sancerre’s toilet but treating him with the respect due to a son of the full moon, in whose magic they had reason to rejoice. A noisy, picturesque, light-hearted crowd, delighting in the escape of their king from death, and in the postponement of the general slaughter of men, women, and children which would have followed his demise, they impressed the Frenchman as overgrown, frolicsome, unreliable children, beneath whose gayety lurked the capacity for bloody mischief.
Half-dressed and somewhat weary of the glad uproar, de Sancerre, having withdrawn to a distant corner of the hut, stood watching a ceremony which was destined to replenish the royal larder, when he felt a tug at his arm, and, looking down, met the keen eyes of Noco.
“’Tis from Coyocop,” she muttered, slipping into his hand a piece of mulberry bark. The corner in which he stood was not well-lighted, but de Sancerre was able, at length, to decipher the scrawl made by Julia de Aquilar. Her words were few:
“Eat no fish at to-day’s banquet,” ran the message. De Sancerre glanced down at the old hag questioningly, but there was nothing in her face to suggest that she understood the warning which had been scratched upon the bark. The moment seemed to be ripe for putting into operation a plan upon which de Sancerre’s mind had been at work for several days.
“Tell me, señora,” he said, observing with satisfaction that no prying eyes were fixed upon them at that moment, “would it please you to find your grandson, Cabanacte, and lure him from the forest to his home?”
There was a gleam in her small, black eyes as they met his which assured de Sancerre that he had pressed a finger upon the beldame’s dearest wish.
“It cannot be done,” she croaked, turning her back to him as if about to mingle with the laughing throng. De Sancerre seized her by the arm.
“Listen, Noco,” he urged, bending down to whisper eager Spanish into her old ears. “Coyocop and I, going to the forest side by side, could find Cabanacte and the maiden from the north. Tell this to Coyocop, that I will come to her when the banquet nears its end at dark. I leave the rest to you, for you must lead us from the city to the woods. The moon of old corn will give us light to-night to find your grandson in the forest glades or where the river floweth toward the sea. Will you take my word to her?”
“Si, señor,” muttered Noco, gazing up at de Sancerre with eyes which strove to read his very soul. “But if we fail—if Coyocop is missed—it will be death for you and me.”