CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH DE SANCERRE BREAKS HIS FAST AND SMILES
WORN out with the exhausting experiences of long hours, unprecedented, even in his varied career, for the many contrasted emotions with which they had assailed him, de Sancerre had thrown himself, fully dressed, upon a bed of plaited reeds in Noco’s hut, and, despite his inclination to muse upon the joy and wonder of the day’s concluding episode, had fallen into a dreamless, restful sleep, which still wrapped him in its benign embrace long after the sun-god had blinked at the matutinal shouts with which the shining orb was greeted by its worshippers at dawn. The day was nearly ten hours of age before the Frenchman, stretching his arms and legs to their full length, awoke suddenly, and, with a smile upon his lips and a gleam of happiness in his eyes, recalled instantly the marvel which had made his present environment, with all its perils, a delight to his refreshed and ardent soul. Suddenly he discovered that while he slept his outer garments had been removed. Turning on his side he raised his head, rested it upon his hand, and glanced toward the centre of the room, which still bore marks of the disorder begotten by the hasty flight of the disguised Franciscan and his charge.
Squatting upon the ground beside a bench, upon which rested de Sancerre’s nether garments, sat old Noco, busily plying her fish-bone needle, while she repaired the many rents in his doublet and crooned a monotonous chant in a harsh, guttural voice. At the further end of the hut a crackling fire sent forth an odor which increased the satisfaction of the Frenchman with his surroundings. With corn-meal and fish, de Sancerre’s hostess had prepared a repast which the most fastidious palate at Versailles would have found seductive. Upon a small bench at Noco’s right hand stood a bowl of reddish crockery, in which wild strawberries awaited the pleasure of her guest.
“You will pardon me, señora,” cried de Sancerre, gayly, “if I remark that my present plight is somewhat embarrassing. I shall be late at table unless my overworked wardrobe is restored to me at once.”
“Mas vale tarde que nunca!” retorted the old hag, glancing inquiringly at the fire, and then resuming her patchwork. “You slept well, señor?”
“Like a log,” answered de Sancerre—“a log saved from the sacred fire. And now, there is no time to lose! We have before us, Doña Noco, a busy day.”
“Nay,” returned his hostess, approaching his bedside with his rejuvenated garments upon her withered arm. “’Tis well to wait a while. When Cabanacte has returned, we’ll hold a council and perfect a plan. It is not fitting that the Brother of the Moon should show himself at once. My people worship best the gods they do not see.”
Again de Sancerre caught in Noco’s eyes a mocking gleam which once before had placed him in close sympathy with her. That this old hag, whose mind was quick and clear, had, in her heart of hearts, discarded many of the ancient superstitions to which she outwardly conformed the Frenchman more than half suspected. But he spoke no further word to her until he had made a hasty toilet, and, refreshed by an application of cool water to his face and hands, had seated himself upon a bench to rejoice his inner man with strawberries, corn-cake, and skilfully-cooked fish. The variety of Noco’s accomplishments filled de Sancerre with mingled admiration and astonishment. Speaking two languages, expert with her needle, an admirable cook, quick-witted, fertile in resource, the old woman impressed the Frenchman that morning as a being well entitled to his respect and gratitude. But his mind dwelt no long time upon the praiseworthy versatility of his aged hostess. Impatient and impetuous by nature, he chafed sorely at inaction.
“Cabanacte!” he exclaimed, after he had satisfied his appetite, observing that Noco had disposed of the most exacting of her many tasks. “When think you, señora, your grandson will return?”
“When ’tis best for you, señor,” answered the old woman, shortly.
“And ’twas he, Doña Noco, who found Coyocop, the spirit of the sun, by the shore of the great sea?”
“’Twas Cabanacte who found Coyocop, whose coming was foretold when the mountains were but hillocks, and bore her to the sacred City of the Sun.”
“He found her by the sea alone?” asked de Sancerre, wonderingly.
“The Brother of the Moon should know all things,” muttered Noco, with satire in her eyes and voice. Then she went on: “The white-faced children of the moon who bore her to our land lay sleeping on the beach, awaiting the coming of their god to waken them. But Cabanacte knew that she was Coyocop. And so, she came to us.”
From outside the hut de Sancerre could hear the noises of a town astir, the tread of bare-footed men upon the hardened earth, the cries of children at their play, and, now and then, the voices of women chattering of many wondrous things. He longed to make his way at once to Coyocop’s abode that with his eyes he might assure himself that last night’s strange adventures had not taken place in dreams. Even yet, he found it hard to believe that Julia de Aquilar was, in reality, a captive, like himself, in this weird town. But there lay her own handwriting on the bark! He read and reread the message which she had sent to him, and, turning toward Noco, asked, pensively:
“Coyocop, señora, seemed glad to learn that I was here?”
“I know not what the chief priest may have thought,” croaked the old crone, a gleam of malice in her black eyes as they met de Sancerre’s gaze, “but to me she seemed less like a goddess than a girl. She wept for joy to read your note.”
De Sancerre sprang to his feet and paced up and down the hut restlessly.
“Cabanacte!” he exclaimed, petulantly. “Nom de Dieu! When will the man return?”
“We care not much for women in this land of ours,” muttered Noco, using her broken Spanish to tease her impatient guest. “Out of clay the Great Spirit moulded the first man, and, pleased with what he’d made, blew into him the breath of life. And thus he fell to sneezing, the first man, ’til from his nose there dropped a doll-shaped thing which set to dancing upon the ground there at his feet. And as she danced, she grew in size, until a woman stood before his eyes. It is not strange that man should make us work!” A sarcastic grin rested upon the hag’s brown face as she gazed up at de Sancerre.
“But Coyocop is more than woman,” cried de Sancerre, earnestly. “Caramba! But you love to torture me, señora! I say to you, beware! I know not what may lie the deepest in your heart, but this I say to you, ’twill serve you well to do your best for me. The time is coming when I’ll pay you tenfold for your kindness now.”
Noco drew near to the Frenchman and stood before him, listening for a time to the familiar noises outside her hut. Then she asked, in a tone which had no mischief in it:
“The Spanish, señor. Do you love them well?”
For a moment de Sancerre, startled by so unexpected an interrogatory, gazed down at the old hag, speechless. His suspicious mind strove in vain to find her motive for a question which seemed to him, at first, to have no bearing upon the topics they had just discussed. But his intuitions told him that upon the answer he should make to her would depend her attitude toward him from this time forth. By one word, he well knew, he might destroy in an instant the good-will of the one ally who could save him and Julia de Aquilar from the dangers which menaced them. Noco spoke Spanish, a tongue which, it seemed probable, she had learned from her immediate ancestors. That the Spaniards had treated the native Americans with great cruelty, de Sancerre had often heard. Was it possible that Noco had inherited a hatred for a race of oppressors from whom her forebears had fled in fear? On the chance that this might be, the Frenchman, hesitating only a moment, decided finally to tell the truth to his dusky inquisitor.
“Doña Noco,” said de Sancerre, impressively, placing a hand upon the old crone’s arm, “the Spanish are my dearest foes. Often have I led my men against them on the fields of war. I hold for them a hatred only less intense than the love I bear for Coyocop.”
The dark, beady eyes of the beldame seemed to search de Sancerre’s very soul. Suddenly she fell upon her knees, and, seizing his cold hand, pressed it to her shrivelled lips.
“I am your servant, señor—even unto death,” she muttered, hoarsely. Then she sprang to her feet with marvellous agility and stood listening intently, as if the noise outside bore some new tale to her quick ears.
“’Tis Cabanacte!” she exclaimed. “And with him comes the sister of the foolish man they slew.”
Hardly had de Sancerre grasped the significance of her words, when Katonah, followed by Noco’s grandson, stole into the hut, panting as if their journey had been a hurried one.
“Bienvenue, Katonah!” cried de Sancerre, a note of mingled annoyance and surprise in his voice. “I did not think to see you here again. You bring me word from Sieur de la Salle?”
Katonah’s sensitive ear caught the hollow sound in the Frenchman’s word of welcome. The suggestion of a sad smile played across her weary face, as she said:
“The great captain urged me not to come. But, monsieur, I was so lonely! With you and Chatémuc not there, I could not stay.” A suppressed sob checked her words. Handing to de Sancerre a note from de la Salle, the Mohican maiden seated herself upon a bench and gazed mournfully at the glowing embers of Noco’s dying fire.
“Ma foi, Cabanacte, I’m glad to see your giant form again!” cried de Sancerre, smiling as he perused de la Salle’s epistle. It ran as follows:
“Let this chance, monsieur, to serve your king atone for your disobedience to me. Be firm, unbending, and conservative. Well I know that you will be courageous. Await me where you are. I return shortly, and will send for you. I must teach the mouth of this great river to speak the name of France. I go to ring the knell of Spain! Adieu et au revoir!
“DE LA SALLE.”
“Bien!” exclaimed de Sancerre, kissing his hand to old Noco, smilingly. “We hold the cards we need. ’Twill be my fault if blunders now should lose the game we play.”
The old woman had come to the side of her eccentric guest.
“My captain,” went on de Sancerre, in a lower tone, “a brother of the moon-god, like myself, tells me in this note that he goes to seize a kingdom from our Spanish foes. You are content, señora? You are content?”
“Aye, señor, well content!” answered the old hag with grim emphasis.
“And now,” exclaimed the Frenchman, beckoning to Cabanacte to approach them, “we’ll hold a solemn council, for the truth is this: unless I soon have speech with Coyocop, my throbbing heart will thump itself to death. Tell me, Cabanacte, is there danger for yon maiden, whose brother died the death?”
The bronze athlete had stretched himself at de Sancerre’s feet in such a position that he could fix his gaze upon the sombre beauty of Katonah’s face. He showed his perfect teeth, and his black eyes gleamed as he answered:
“Danger for her? No, none! Not while Cabanacte lives.”
De Sancerre smiled gayly. Cabanacte’s answer had delighted him.