The Chevalier looked at me sharply.
“Pouf! Have you no instincts—no perceptions? You grow weary at a most purposeful time!”
But I did not reply. Of a truth, I was weary. So many times had I sailed these flights of fancy to have my poor sails torn to shreds and my poor hulk racked bone from bone, that I was for choosing at the last some harbor of refuge where I could find a rest after it all. I had come with my harebrained followers over a thousand leagues of sea,—and for what? For murder?—for destruction?—for a vengeance by fire and sword, as the others had? No. It was not that which had drawn me to these God-forsaken shores—drawn me more surely than ever plummet sought an anchorage. It was the memory of a pair of honest eyes with tear-drops trembling on the lashes, as my lady bade me go and fight her battle for her—a battle which by God’s grace had been deferred until now. True, I wanted the life of De Baçan—that was my own private affair. But what cared I for their wars about religion? There was sin enough in any worship which was not done in the way of peace and good-will and I knew that we as well as the Spaniards would all be most justly condemned for using God’s altar to wipe our sword-blades on. With the discovery that Mademoiselle was not in the village of Satouriona my mind seemed to be weakening, and I had not control over my thoughts. The Chevalier de Brésac with his fine philosophy had solved the matter to his satisfaction, seeing in the actions of Olotoraca at mention of my name a sure sign that for reasons of his own, he held Mademoiselle de la Notte a prisoner. I could not—nay, would not,—bring myself to believe she was at the village of Tacatacourou. A truce to imagining! I had gone too far, and suffered too much, to be inventing new theories to drive me mad. We had voyaged from one end of the earth to the other and had come at last to the place where I had sworn we should find her. And she was not there! That was all. I had had enough. God forgive me! As I lay there in my unreason, I lost all control and cursed all things that came to my tongue, forgetting that it was only through God’s providence that I had been let to live and come to this day.
Not caring what came of me I lay there oblivious, until I presently heard a sound without. I raised my head, a figure darkened the door of the lodge. For a moment, I thought it was Pierre returning. But a moccasined foot was thrust forward, and with a deft and graceful movement the figure dropped the skin at the entrance way and stepped within the lodge. Then I saw that it was an Indian, a girl—the most beautiful of that race I had ever seen.
As I lifted on my elbow I brushed my hand across my eyes, for so quiet was she I thought truly that this dusky vision was some creature of the fancy. With a commanding gesture she approached. I would have spoken; but she placed her finger upon her lips, looking around toward the entrance in token of secrecy. I kept my peace. At last she uttered the one word, Maheera and, touching her breast with a long slender finger, I understood that she was telling me her name. The words, uttered in a quiet tone, seemed to come from her throat rather than from her lips and her voice was very low and sweet. When she had said that, she touched me upon my arm calling me Keel-ee-gru as though my name were some word in the soft language of her own. I marveled that she should know me and could not understand what she wished. But in a moment her object was clearer, for she began to speak in the sign language which these strange people have for conversing with one another when their tongues are unfamiliar. Of this I understood a little. She had several French words, and she moved her lithe young arms and body with wonderful grace, telling me by pointing to her dusty moccasins and simulating weariness that she had come a journey from a great distance to seek me. I nodded my head in comprehension.
Then her face grew sad and her body seemed to melt to nothingness. She clasped her right hand upon her left and laid them both upon her heart, saying the name of Olotoraca. So gentle, soft and lingering was the word upon her tongue and so melancholy her attitude, no language could have told plainer that her heart was hers no more and that a sadness had come upon her. She sighed deeply, looking upon her hands and fingering her silver bracelets. I put my fingers upon the head in pity, for I too knew what heart wounds were.
But at my touch she shrunk away and her mood changed like an April day. The look she flashed up at me was one of pride and majesty, and there was a spark of vengefulness, of wild unreason in it that taught me how concealed and subtle were the channels of her thought. She wanted no pity—none from me at any rate. In a moment she was gentle again, telling me that she had come from the village of Tacatacourou and, with a gesture which I might not mistake, that she was a princess of the blood.
It was not till then, not until she had mentioned the name of her tribe and village, that I even so much as thought upon the object of her visit to me. Then the suspicions of the Chevalier, the association of the names of Olotoraca and Tacatacourou linked her story together in my mind in some fashion. She had come from Tacatacourou! I started up drawing in my breath quickly and looking her in the eyes. What if—if——?
She saw the note of anxious and expectant inquiry in my look and met it with a smile and sparkling eyes.
“Oui, oui,” she cried in joy. “The Moon-Princess! The Moon-Princess!”