“What reckless fools these be!” he exclaimed, taking careful aim at the nearest canoe, now within a hundred yards of his grass-grown shooting-box. “Be faithful, ma petite! The time has come again!”
The thunder of de Sancerre’s gun chased the echoes from the musket of the coureur de bois across the glimmering flood.
“Ma foi!” muttered de Sancerre. “Saint Maturin is wide awake to-night! That bullet did its work.”
Reloading his musket with all possible speed, the Frenchman, with a grim smile upon his face, drew a bead upon the second canoe, which had now forged ahead of the boat-load upon which de Sancerre’s fatal shot had exercised a demoralizing effect. Meanwhile, Jacques Barbier’s gun had spoken twice, for he had learned to reload his weapon with a celerity only acquired after years of practice.
“Steady, now, ma petite,” muttered de Sancerre. “You have a record to maintain. Adieu, monsieur!”
A paddle and its dusky wielder fell into the black-and-white flood, and a moment later the two canoes had retreated to mid-stream.
“Gar, you shoot well, Monsieur le Comte!” exclaimed Jacques Barbier, creeping to de Sancerre’s side. “If our bullets could have children, we could hold this island for a year! There is no danger from the forest for a time; and, I think, those boats will not come near us for an hour at least. These be the demons from your City of the Sun?”
“There is no doubt about it!” exclaimed de Sancerre. “It must amaze them to meet so much moon-magic, although the moon is full. What think you, Jacques, will be their next attempt?”
“They’ll hold aloof, Monsieur le Comte, until their courage rises or a cloud obstructs the moon. ’Tis best, I think, that we patrol our fort. You pace the island to the right. I’ll meet you half-way round, and then return. Unless our bullets fly away too fast there is no danger—for this night at least.”
“Think you, Jacques Barbier, they saw the maiden—Coyocop?”