“What seemeth best to do, señor?” asked the girl, turning her gaze from the cruel sea to look into the face of a man upon whose courage and resourcefulness she had good reason to rely.
“Ma foi, I hardly know,” muttered the Frenchman, looking about him upon the scattered remnants of de la Salle’s encampment. “My captain may return—but ’twill be a weary while ere he comes back. A year, at least, must pass before he reaches here again. We stand in no great danger from starvation, but ’tis a lonely shore. I thought to lead you from captivity, and, lo! I’ve merely changed your cabin-prison to a sandy jail! I fear St. Maturin has turned his face from me!”
“Be not cast down, señor,” whispered Doña Julia, in her native tongue. “It cannot be that Mother Mary, who has been most kind to us, will leave us here to die.”
“’Twould be unreasonable,” exclaimed de Sancerre, almost petulantly. Then he went on, making an effort at cheerfulness. “But, for the present, we have no cause to lose all hope. This desert shore seems safe from savage men. My musket there will gain us meat enough, and in the forest there are fruits and berries fit for royal boards. In sooth, ‘le Roy de France et de Navarre’ has won a kingdom rich in all good things.”
“We’re safe from savage men, you say, señor,” remarked Doña Julia, musingly, casting a meaning glance behind her at the silent woods. “I fear you do not understand the nation which we have defied.” She smiled sadly as she went on: “You have abducted Coyocop, a goddess sent from heaven to make their people great. Although your musket filled them with dismay, they’ll follow us.”
The lines of care upon de Sancerre’s drawn face grew deeper as he listened thoughtfully to the girl’s words.
“We’ve left no trail,” he mused, gazing longingly at the horizon where the sea-line met the sky. “They’re keen as woodsmen, but the river tells no tales. But, mayhap, you are right! You’ve known them long and heard the sun-priests talk. And if the worst should come, ma chère, I’d die for you with sword and gun in hand beneath the blazoned arms of France. ’Twould be a fitting ending for a count of Languedoc.”
“Speak not so sadly, señor,” exclaimed Doña Julia, placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder and looking into his face with courageous, hopeful eyes. “I sought not to dishearten you, but ’tis well for you to know the truth. To linger where we are is far from safe.”
“That may be so,” admitted de Sancerre, reflectively, as he examined the lock of his musket and then stood erect to cast a searching glance across sea and land. The restless billows of the gulf, the marshy coast, the islands at the river’s mouth, and the grim forest overlooking the waters, formed a picture which human gaze had seldom swept. At this moment the outlook held no menace to the eyes or ears of de Sancerre. “To linger where we are, señora, may not be safe,” he remarked, as he reseated himself and took her hand in his, “but where ’tis best to go I hardly know. Our raft will not float up-stream, and we cannot put to sea. We have not much to choose! Between this hillock and the next there can be no great difference in the perils which surround us. And, somehow, señora, I feel nearer to my captain with the arms of France above my head.”
Doña Julia pressed de Sancerre’s hand and her quick sympathy shone in her dark eyes.