Then southward through the haunted bearded trees The Spaniards fought their way—Mauila's fires Devoured their vestments and their chalices, Their sacramental wine and bread—the choirs No longer sang their requiems, and the seas Lay between them and all their sacred spires.
At last in a lone cabin, where the cane Hid the black mire before the lowly door, De Soto died—although they sought to feign By some pretended magic mirror's lore That still he lived, a gentleman of Spain,— And the dread flood rolled onward to the shore!
XIV
THE FACE OF THE TERROR
"Paris is no place in these times for a Huguenot lad from Navarre," said Dominic de Gourgues, of Mont-de-Marsan in Gascony. "His father, François Debré, did me good service in the Spanish Indies. One of these days, Philip and his bloodhounds will be pulled down by these young terriers they have orphaned."
"If the Jesuits have their way all Huguenots will be exterminated, men, women and children," said Laudonnière, with a gleam of melancholy sarcasm in his dark pensive eyes. "Life to a Jesuit is quite simple."
"My faith," said Gascon, twisting his mustache, "they may find in that case, that other people can be simple too. But I must be off. I thank you for making a place for Pierre."
In consequence of this conversation, when Ribault's fleet anchored near the River of May, on June 25, 1564, Pierre Debré was hanging to the collars of two of Laudonnière's deerhounds and gazing in silent wonder at the strange and beautiful land.