It was the name of the woman for love of whom he had killed a Spaniard and lost his native land. Instantly his mind harked back to the confession that, but an hour or so before, he had poured into the ears of Sieur de la Salle. Had an eavesdropper overheard his words, and, in a spirit of mischief, sought to tease him by a trick? He rejected the supposition at once, for the conviction came upon him, increasing a thousandfold the consternation which he felt, that he had deliberately refrained from mentioning the name of his inamorata to La Salle.
De Sancerre drew himself erect and stood motionless for a moment, the most amazed and startled being in all the strange new world.
CHAPTER III
IN WHICH A MAIDEN SHOWS HER HEART
Sieur de la Salle’s temporary stockade had been erected upon the western bank of the great river, and his followers had received with delight the report that their leader had decided to indulge in a few days of recuperation before continuing his journey to the gulf. After weeks of labor at the paddles, the canoemen were in sore need of rest. The party consisted of twenty-three Frenchmen, eighteen Indians—Abenakis and Mohicans—ten squaws, and three pappooses. Discontent and even open grumbling had already developed in this incongruous assemblage, and it was only the stern, imperious personality of de la Salle that had saved the expedition from falling asunder through the inherent antagonisms of the elements of which it was composed.
But upon the morning following the Count de Sancerre’s receipt of an inexplicable gift from the children of the sun there reigned an air of gayety in the camp. Provisions were plentiful, the terminus of the exploration, it was rumored, was near at hand, and, for the next few days, at least, no exhausting task, no menacing danger seemed likely to annoy the adventurers. The glories of early spring upon the lower Mississippi met their wondering and grateful eyes. In his delight the Frenchman carolled forth a chanson to greet the rising sun, while his phlegmatic comrade, the native American, grunted with satisfaction as he reclined upon the long grass and appeared to muse indolently upon the strange vivacity of the men from over-sea.
Shortly after dawn de Sancerre, pale, heavy-eyed, restless, weary of his vain efforts to gain a dreamless sleep, had wandered away from the camp and thrown himself listlessly down upon the gently sloping shore of the river, across whose ripples flashed the gleaming arrows of the April sun. As he lay there, reclining against a slender tree-trunk, the last few hours seemed to him to have been a long nightmare, through which the mocking black eyes of a woman of wondrous beauty had taunted him for his helplessness.
As de Sancerre, refreshed by the cool breeze that chased the sunbeams across the flood, recalled every detail of his recent adventure, he found himself confronted not only by a mystery, but by a choice between two courses of action which must be made at once. Should he tell his comrades of the strange episode that had disturbed his rest, or should he keep the secret to himself, trusting to Chatémuc’s pride and reticence to repress the story of the night? In a certain sense he was under obligations to de la Salle to keep him informed of every happening which, even remotely, might affect the welfare of the expedition. On the other hand, there was that in his leader’s personality which caused de Sancerre to hesitate before telling him a tale which, he reflected, would sound like the ravings of a lunatic. He could picture the cold, disdainful glance in de la Salle’s searching eye ere he turned upon his heel with the curt remark that the Count de Sancerre’s dreams should test the friar’s skill.
To the Count, thus vexed by a most disturbing problem, came Katonah, sister of Chatémuc, the only Indian maiden in Sieur de la Salle’s strangely-assorted suite. With the most punctilious courtesy de Sancerre sprang erect, removed from his head his travel-worn but still picturesque bonnet, and, making a sweeping bow, pointed to the grass-grown seat that he had just vacated.
“Mademoiselle Katonah, I bid you welcome! I was dreaming, petite, of the land across the sea. Your eyes and smile shall change my mood again.”
The Indian girl gazed at the Frenchman with dark, fearless eyes, in which there gleamed a light that told the courtier a tale he had no wish to learn. Not that the Count was better than his age, more scrupulous than the pleasure-loving court in which his youth had been passed, but in the freer, nobler atmosphere of this brave New World, and in the companionship of men striving in the midst of peril to do great deeds, all that was most admirable in de Sancerre’s character had been born anew, and, to his own amazement, he had learned that his views of life had undergone a change, that there had grown up something in his soul which gave the lie to his scoffing tongue, still from habit the tongue of a mondain fashioned in an evil school.