“I presently descried others, and came upon the artist Le Moyne and a Flemish soldier carrying a woman who had been wounded in the breast. Then after toiling through a deep swamp we met Captain Réné de Laudonnière, with whom we struggled through the marshes in great distress to the vessel of Captain Mallard.”
The Admiral paused, scanning the document. “Um—ah. The remainder deals with the voyage to Swansea in Wales, and is of no importance.”
“By my faith! Nor is any of it, save as information. ’Twas a most scurvy trick to lock those gentlewomen up to die in an oak tree. Your carpenter could better have learnt gallantry from the hardy Flemish soldier whom he is at pains to describe.”
“And yet ’tis just such a place that these devils might overlook,” replied Coligny. “Réné de Laudonnière, who has sent me his report——”
“Ah, mon père,” said the King, rising abruptly. “Shall you not spare us further reports this morning? It will all be looked to in good time. You shall prepare a plan and I will follow it. Will that please you?” And then gaily, “As for me, this morning, mon brave,—ah! I have so inventive a humor that not less than three inspirations have come to me while I have listened. My dear Ronsard will be here within the minute and I have a sonnet which I must write to him.” And then turning to us, “Messieurs, you may be sure that nothing will be left undone to secure the punishment of this Menendez de Avilés for the insult which he has offered me and the people of France.”
And so we bowed ourselves out, I a prey to violent emotion, De Brésac not knowing whether the King were insincere or only a fool—M. de Teligny sure that he was both.
[CHAPTER XIX.]
I MEET THE AVENGER.
My wound was open again. I had learned that the carpenter Challeux had seen Mademoiselle alive after the massacre at Fort Caroline, and the tide of ebbing hope, ever restless as the moving sea, flooded up again upon my heart and engulfed me with tender memories. There was a chance—the merest thread of doubt—which held and led me willing captive amid the maze of uncertainties which seemed to compass me about. Even as Challeux had told, the story of Emola’s brave might still be true. They had perhaps captured her and she had died on the way to San Augustin! But the ring might have been lost! She who was killed might have been another! My lady may have remained hidden secure in the great tree trunk where Challeux had concealed her! She had followed my advice to be on her guard; why might she not have waited and fled by night to Satouriona? His camp at that time, as she knew, was to the north, nearer the Fort than that of Emola, where we had been. If she had reached it, she would be safe as though in England. For had not the great Satouriona, marveling at her beauty, given her a necklace of beads, saying that she was fair as the moon and calling her the “Moon-Princess”? These strange people would take her into their village and serve her as they would one of their own blood, high in the councils of their nation.