For myself, with liberty came a reaction from those horrible days and nights upon the ship, on the sand-spit and in the prison, when in my deeper moods of despair I could see no hope to bring Mademoiselle out of this country alive. In spite of the continuous dread at my heart, there had come again in all its first eagerness the desire only to find her and take her in my arms away from that dreadful Menendez, the very nearness of whom befouled and polluted. I was certain of but one thing—that she was not at San Augustin. Had she been there, in those last days De Baçan would have lost no opportunity to bring us together for his own pleasure, that he might gloat upon us the better and keep his promise of torture to me. But where could she be? What had happened that she was not a prisoner of De Baçan? For it seemed certain that she had been saved from Fort Caroline. I was in a great quandary, and for all my uncertainty I had not the will even to question the Indians upon the subject, for in spite of my hopes I feared—feared the truth they might tell me.
We sat about the lodge of this good Emola, looking out at the bright forest, gaining back our strength and will. Well do I remember that wonderful day with its great stillness and sadness. The Paracousi sat by the open doorway, dark against the golden sunshine, smoking from a great tobacco bowl which he offered to us one after the other. We each took a swallow of it, this being the habit of these people when in good will, and Goddard, bringing forth his own bowl and reed, helped himself from the pouch of Emola and was soon puffing away valiantly to the great satisfaction of the Chief. It was most curious to see these two sucking upon the reeds like babes upon the breast, and puffing out the smoke in curls and rings, regarding each other the while with great solemnity.
“Ye see, Master Sydney,” said Goddard between puffs, “if once I can get me stommick made good against the smoke suckin’, ’twill be a most gratifyin’ achievin’. For though we may find an’ win no new lands—by the beards of the martyrs, ’tis surely somethin’ we have done to make the discovery of a new habitude, or taste, which has much of the vartue an’ little of the inconvenciency of drinkin’.”
I could not but smile at this sally, for things most ridiculous have a way of intruding themselves upon the most sad and melancholy moments of life.
“To-morrow we will push onward to the sea,—is it not so?” asked De Brésac abruptly.
This brought me to myself.
“I am most uncertain, monsieur,” I replied. “I hardly know in which way my duty or desire lies. I have felt to this moment as though my greatest wish were to find my way back to Europe and set the armies of all civilized nations about the ears of this devil Menendez de Avilés. But now that I am free—well, monsieur—I will tell you.”
Whereupon I told him briefly of the love I bore for Diane de la Notte, of the hope I had of her escape from death and of my fears for her safety, saying at the last that I could not leave the vicinity of San Augustin until I was sure that she was not in the power of Diego de Baçan.
As I told my story his face saddened. “I suspected as much,” he said. “There is a great bond between us, monsieur; I too have loved—the sister of La Caille was my betrothed. When she died, I vowed I would look no more upon the face of woman, and so I came here to this savage land to lose my sorrow in adventure and perhaps in death. And I have come only to lose him I loved best after his sister.” He spoke of La Caille. “No, monsieur, I cannot forget—and it is fated that I shall not die. That is my story.”
I wrung him silently by the hand.