The Mohicans and Abenakis grunted with excitement and the pappooses yelled. ‘Vive le Roi!’ we shouted, to drown their clatter, and then your captain—may the devil fly away with his surly tongue!—raised his voice and claimed for the King of France and Navarre possession of ‘this country of Louisiana’—with the right to put a tax upon every peltry which we poor trappers take. Gar, it is no wonder, Monsieur le Comte, that we who risk our lives within the woods should feel small reverence for a king so far away, whose harsh enactments have made us outlaws in the land where we were born. Mayhap, monsieur, you have good cause to love the King of France! In that, you differ from Jacques Barbier.”
Doña Julia felt de Sancerre’s hand grow cold in hers and heard him mutter something beneath his breath, the burden of which she did not catch. The truth was that the random shot of the coureur du bois had touched the French count in a sensitive spot. What better reason had he for loyalty to the Tyrant of Versailles than this vagabond of the woods, who, even in the most remote corners of a trackless wilderness, still felt the sinister influence of a selfish despotism exercising a wide-spread cruelty begotten of egotism and bigotry? Had not de Sancerre known the fickleness of royal smiles and frowns, the ingratitude of a monarch who, at the instigation of a priesthood, could sacrifice a brave and loyal subject without granting him a chance to speak a word in his own defense?
“In good sooth,” murmured de Sancerre to himself, “his tongue has cut me deep! What cause have I to love the King of France? I knelt in homage at his column there, but methinks my knee and not my heart paid tribute to le Grand Monarque! Somehow, this mighty wilderness makes rebels of us all! Ma foi, Jacques Barbier,” he cried aloud, “what is it that you see?”
The coureur de bois had sprung to his feet and was sweeping the shore of the main-land with a quick, piercing glance which cut through the darkness which the moon, soon to show itself in the east, had not yet overcome.
“Request the Princess”—the title by which Jacques Barbier designated Doña Julia de Aquilar—“request the Princess, Monsieur le Comte, to retire to her hut for the night! There are men stirring upon the further bank who are neither Quinipissas nor Tangibaos. I fear, monsieur, that you have underrated the persistence of your foes who make the sun their god. Unless I never knew the woods, there are stalwart strangers in the bushes over there. Go you, monsieur, and watch the river, while I keep an eye upon this bank. Gar, ’twill be a pretty fight, Monsieur le Comte! Your hand is steady? Bien! The moon will soon be up. Keep close to earth when you have reached the river!”
“Ma foi, Jacques Barbier, I like the way you talk!” whispered de Sancerre. “But, tell me, we’re short of bullets, are we not?”
“Humph!” grunted the Canadian, gruffly. “We’ve none to waste upon the waters or the trees, Monsieur le Comte! Bear that in mind.”
“Tell me, señor,” exclaimed Doña Julia, to whom Jacques Barbier’s French patois was an unmeaning jumble of more or less unrecognizable words when he spoke rapidly: “Tell me, señor, has he seen the sun-priests on yonder shore?” Her hand was like a piece of ice in his clasp, as de Sancerre led the girl toward the hut.
“I hardly know, ma chère,” answered her lover, frankly. “There are men stirring upon the bank, but I cannot believe that they are from the City of the Sun. But if they are, my sweetheart, there are those among them who will never look upon their mud-baked homes again! ’Tis strange how a fat larder restores the fighting spirit to a man. A month ago my stomach loathed a battle. At that time, all that it wanted was a bird. To-night, if you were far away, señora, I’d take rare pleasure in doing moon-tricks when the moon is full. And so adieu, my sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing his lips to hers ere she bent down to enter her rude cabin. “When you hear my musket speak, you’ll know an enemy of yours has need of prayer.”
It was not long after this that de Sancerre made good his boast, although Jacques Barbier began the battle of the night. The French count had dragged his musket and his crouching body through the long grass toward the eastern shore of the small island, and had taken one sweeping glance at the river, over which at that instant the risen moon had thrown a flood of silvery light, when behind him he heard the roar of the Canadian’s deadly gun. But de Sancerre had no time to think of his faithful ally at that critical moment. Almost upon a line with the island, and coming straight toward it, two heavily manned war-canoes of the sun-worshipers rose and fell upon the moon-kissed flood. The imminence of his peril acted upon de Sancerre like a draught of rich, old wine.