“Speak nothing of him,” cried Le Genevois, quickly; “he is no longer a man. He is a priest. That defeat has killed his courage. He repents, and is constantly writing to Laudonniere for mercy and pity, and all that sort of thing. He must not know what we design.”
“Who has seen him lately?”
“I know not. He was crossed to the other side of the river by Captain Bourdet in his boats. He crossed to seek refuge with the people of Mollova.”
“He is not far, be sure. He will linger close to the fort, in the hope to get back to it, and, finally, to France. He is not to be thought of in this expedition.”
“Who then?” was the demand of Le Genevois. “Somebody must muzzle the cannon. Who? Who will take the peril and the glory of the enterprise, and in the character of an Indian will put his head in the jaws of the danger?”
The question remained unanswered. Fourneaux excused himself on a variety of pleas, not one of which would be satisfactory with a brave man. La Roquette declared that his magical powers were always valueless when any restraint was set upon his person; in other words, he could better perform his incantations when the danger threatened everybody but himself. He certainly would not think of risking them within La Caroline, while Laudonniere was in power. Besides “he had no arts of imitation. He had no abilities as an actor.” Stephen Le Genevois smiled as he listened to their pleas and excuses.
“My friends!” he exclaimed. “Did you think that I would suffer a good scheme to be spoiled by such as you? I but waited that you should speak. This adventure is mine, and I claim it. I will return to La Caroline. I will play the spy, and take the danger. Mark ye, now, comrade!”—addressing the Indian,—“prepare me for the business. Clothe me in copper, and make me what you please. I have no beauty that you need fear to spoil.”
Thus saying, he threw off, with an air of scornful recklessness, the costume which he wore. Wild was the toilet, and wilder still the guise of our buoyant Frenchman. In an open space within the thicket, beneath a great moss-covered oak, which wore the beard of three centuries upon his breast, the chief conspirator yielded himself to the hands of the Indian. A keen knife shore from his head the thick black hair with which it was covered. A thin ridge alone was suffered to remain upon the coronal region, significant of the war-lock of that tribe of Apalachia, to which Oolenoe belonged. The small golden droplets which hung from the Frenchman’s ears, were made to give way to a more massive ornament of shells, cunningly strung upon a hoop of copper wire. His body, stripped to the buff, was then stained with the brown juices of a native plant, which, with other dye-stuffs, the Indian produced from his wallet. His brow was then dyed with deeper hues of red—his cheeks tinged with spots of the darkest crimson, while a heavy circlet of black, about his eyes, gave to his countenance the aspect of a demon rather than that of a man. This done, the savage displayed a small pocket mirror before the eyes of the metamorphosed outlaw. With an oath of no measured emphasis, the Frenchman bounded to his feet, his eyes flashing with a strange delight.
“It will do!” he shouted. “It likes me well! Were I now in France, there would be no wonder beside myself. I should stir the envy of the men—I should win the hearts of the women. I should be the loveliest monster. Ho! Ho! Would that my voice would suit my visage!”