CHAPTER III
IN WHICH A MAIDEN SHOWS HER HEART
SIEUR DE LA SALLE’S temporary stockade had been erected upon the western bank of the great river, and his followers had received with delight the report that their leader had decided to indulge in a few days of recuperation before continuing his journey to the gulf. After weeks of labor at the paddles, the canoemen were in sore need of rest. The party consisted of twenty-three Frenchmen, eighteen Indians—Abenakis and Mohicans—ten squaws, and three pappooses. Discontent and even open grumbling had already developed in this incongruous assemblage, and it was only the stern, imperious personality of de la Salle that had saved the expedition from falling asunder through the inherent antagonisms of the elements of which it was composed.
But upon the morning following the Count de Sancerre’s receipt of an inexplicable gift from the children of the sun there reigned an air of gayety in the camp. Provisions were plentiful, the terminus of the exploration, it was rumored, was near at hand, and, for the next few days, at least, no exhausting task, no menacing danger seemed likely to annoy the adventurers. The glories of early spring upon the lower Mississippi met their wondering and grateful eyes. In his delight the Frenchman carolled forth a chanson to greet the rising sun, while his phlegmatic comrade, the native American, grunted with satisfaction as he reclined upon the long grass and appeared to muse indolently upon the strange vivacity of the men from over-sea.
Shortly after dawn de Sancerre, pale, heavy-eyed, restless, weary of his vain efforts to gain a dreamless sleep, had wandered away from the camp and thrown himself listlessly down upon the gently sloping shore of the river, across whose ripples flashed the gleaming arrows of the April sun. As he lay there, reclining against a slender tree-trunk, the last few hours seemed to him to have been a long nightmare, through which the mocking black eyes of a woman of wondrous beauty had taunted him for his helplessness.
As de Sancerre, refreshed by the cool breeze that chased the sunbeams across the flood, recalled every detail of his recent adventure, he found himself confronted not only by a mystery, but by a choice between two courses of action which must be made at once. Should he tell his comrades of the strange episode that had disturbed his rest, or should he keep the secret to himself, trusting to Chatémuc’s pride and reticence to repress the story of the night? In a certain sense he was under obligations to de la Salle to keep him informed of every happening which, even remotely, might affect the welfare of the expedition. On the other hand, there was that in his leader’s personality which caused de Sancerre to hesitate before telling him a tale which, he reflected, would sound like the ravings of a lunatic. He could picture the cold, disdainful glance in de la Salle’s searching eye ere he turned upon his heel with the curt remark that the Count de Sancerre’s dreams should test the friar’s skill.
To the Count, thus vexed by a most disturbing problem, came Katonah, sister of Chatémuc, the only Indian maiden in Sieur de la Salle’s strangely-assorted suite. With the most punctilious courtesy de Sancerre sprang erect, removed from his head his travel-worn but still picturesque bonnet, and, making a sweeping bow, pointed to the grass-grown seat that he had just vacated.
“Mademoiselle Katonah, I bid you welcome! I was dreaming, petite, of the land across the sea. Your eyes and smile shall change my mood again.”
The Indian girl gazed at the Frenchman with dark, fearless eyes, in which there gleamed a light that told the courtier a tale he had no wish to learn. Not that the Count was better than his age, more scrupulous than the pleasure-loving court in which his youth had been passed, but in the freer, nobler atmosphere of this brave New World, and in the companionship of men striving in the midst of peril to do great deeds, all that was most admirable in de Sancerre’s character had been born anew, and, to his own amazement, he had learned that his views of life had undergone a change, that there had grown up something in his soul which gave the lie to his scoffing tongue, still from habit the tongue of a mondain fashioned in an evil school.
Katonah, reclining against the tree and gazing upward at the Frenchman, formed a deep-toned picture becoming to that land of hazy sunlight, drowzy zephyrs, and opening flowers, bright-hued and redolent of spring. Her dark eyes, clear-cut features, and white, even teeth, her slender, supple limbs, satisfied even the exacting eye of a man who had looked with admiration upon La Vallière, de Montespan, de Maintenon.
“The land across the sea!” exclaimed Katonah, waving a slender, well-turned hand toward the opposite shore of the great river. “You would go back to it?” She had learned the French tongue from her brother, Chatémuc.
Her eloquent eyes rested questioningly upon the pallid, symmetrical face of de Sancerre.
The barbaric directness of her question brought a smile to the Frenchman’s lips as he threw himself down by her side and took her hand in his.
“Mayhap some day I shall go back, ma petite. But at this moment I have no wish to go.”
De Sancerre was looking at Katonah, but in his mind was the picture of a scrap of white bark upon which had been scrawled the name of the only woman his heart had ever loved. Perhaps Katonah weighed his words at their real worth, for she withdrew her hand from his, while her gentle eyes rested mournfully upon the mighty river upon whose bosom she had learned the joy and sorrow of a hopeless love.
De Sancerre, whose delicately-moulded face, graceful figure, ready wit, and quick perceptions, added to high birth and a reputation for physical courage, had made him a favorite at a voluptuous court, felt a mixture of self-satisfaction and annoyance at the unsought homage that he had won from this handsome savage. No coquette at Versailles could have put into artful words the flattery that Katonah gave him by a glance. But de Sancerre realized that, under existing circumstances, her devotion to him might involve them both in serious peril. Her brother, Chatémuc, was a sentry whose eyes and ears would not always be blind and deaf to what was stirring besides the river and the leaves.
“Katonah,” said the Count, presently, “let me tell you why I may never go back to the land beyond the sea.”
The Indian girl gazed up at him with earnest attention.
“To the great wigwam of the king who rules all kings there came a maiden from a distant land. Her eyes were like the night, her hair the color of a raven’s wing.”
De Sancerre met Katonah’s eyes and remained silent for a time. There was something in her glance that chilled him for the moment with an inexplicable foreboding. Annoyed at his weakness, he went on:
“All men loved her, ma petite, and so it was not strange that I— Mais n’importe. Among the braves, Katonah, who followed in her train was a youth with evil eye, a black, soft-footed, proud, and boastful man, to whom her word was sworn.”
“You killed him, then,” said Katonah, with conviction.
De Sancerre started nervously and gazed around him searchingly. There was an uncanny precipitancy in Katonah’s mental methods which affected him unpleasantly.
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “I killed him, Katonah.”
“And the maiden with the raven hair? You carried her away?”
“No, Katonah. I came across the sea and left her there.”
The eyes of the Mohican wore a puzzled expression as she tried to read his face.
“I do not understand,” she murmured, presently.
De Sancerre remained silent for a while. He realized that, with the limited vocabulary at his disposal, he could not make the Indian girl comprehend the exigencies which, in a civilized land, might arise to drive a lover from his loved one’s side. The mind of the savage maiden was unfitted to grasp those finer distinctions which made the habits and customs at Versailles so superior to the methods and manners prevailing among her Mohican kindred. Presently the expatriated courtier said:
“Katonah, let me tell you a strange tale. Your brother kept guard last night between the river and our hut. But while we slept an aged woman crept up beside my bed and gave me this.”
De Sancerre removed from his breast the piece of mulberry bark upon which rested the name of Julia de Aquilar. Katonah gazed at the writing awe-struck.
“It is the name,” said the Frenchman, in answer to her glance, “of the woman with the raven hair.”
The Indian girl, with marvellous grace and agility, sprang to her feet. Motionless she stood for a moment looking down at de Sancerre.
“She followed you across the sea?” she asked, in a dull, passionless voice.
De Sancerre smiled as he slipped the bark into his doublet and rose to a standing posture.
“That could not be, Katonah,” he said, lightly. “I think some wizard, making medicine, has read her name upon my heart.”
More he might have said, but at that instant Chatémuc, with stormy brow, stood beside them. Not glancing at the Frenchman, his angry gaze rested upon the shrinking figure of Katonah. With an imperious gesture he pointed towards the camp, and, as the girl hurried away in obedience to her brother’s silent behest, de Sancerre threw himself wearily upon the bank, a mocking light gleaming in his eyes as he turned and watched the retreating Mohicans until they were lost to sight behind the osier-trees.