[Illustration: [Page 11
“‘THE SWORD AND THE CRUCIFIX,’ WHISPERED DE SANCERRE,
POINTING TO THE SOLDIER AND THE PRIEST”]
With
Sword and Crucifix
_Being an Account of the Strange Adventures of
Count Louis de Sancerre, Companion of Sieur
de la Salle, on the Lower Mississippi
in the Year of Grace 1682_
BY
EDWARD S. VAN ZILE
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900
Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN WHICH A GREAT EXPLORER LISTENS AT MIDNIGHT TO A TALE
OF LOVE 1
II. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE IS CONFRONTED BY A MYSTERY 9
III. IN WHICH A MAIDEN SHOWS HER HEART 18
IV. IN WHICH DE LA SALLE REACHES A FATEFUL DECISION 26
V. IN WHICH A DAUGHTER GRANTS A FATHER’S WISH 33
VI. IN WHICH JUAN RODRIQUEZ UNDERGOES AN UNPLEASANT HALF-HOUR 40
VII. IN WHICH JUAN RODRIQUEZ TAKES HIS REVENGE 49
VIII. IN WHICH SATAN HAS HIS WAY WITH THE _CONCEPCION_ 58
IX. IN WHICH TWO CHILDREN OF THE SUN ASTONISH A SCOUNDREL 64
X. IN WHICH THE CROSS IS CARRIED TO A CITY OF IDOLATERS 72
XI. IN WHICH THE BROTHER OF THE SUN WELCOMES THE CHILDREN
OF THE MOON 81
XII. IN WHICH CHATÉMUC FINDS THE INSPIRATION WHICH HE LACKED 92
XIII. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE RUNS A STUBBORN RACE 103
XIV. IN WHICH THE RESULTS OF CHATÉMUC’S ENTHUSIASM ARE SEEN 114
XV. IN WHICH THE GRAY FRIAR DONS THE LIVERY OF SATAN 123
XVI. IN WHICH A SPIRIT SAVES DE SANCERRE FROM DEATH 133
XVII. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE BREAKS HIS FAST AND SMILES 146
XVIII. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE HEARS NEWS OF THE GREAT SUN 156
XIX. IN WHICH COHEYOGO EXHIBITS HIS CRAFTINESS 167
XX. IN WHICH A WHITE ROBE FAILS TO PROTECT A BLACK HEART 181
XXI. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE WIELDS HIS SWORD AGAIN 194
XXII. IN WHICH THE CITY OF THE SUN ENJOYS A FÊTE 206
XXIII. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE UNDERGOES MANY VARIED EMOTIONS 219
XXIV. IN WHICH SPIRITS, GOOD AND BAD, BESET A WILDERNESS 232
XXV. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE WEEPS AND FIGHTS 242
XXVI. IN WHICH DOÑA JULIA IS REMINDED OF THE PAST 253
XXVII. IN WHICH ST. EUSTACE IS KIND TO DE SANCERRE 264
XXVIII. IN WHICH DE SANCERRE’S ISLAND IS BESIEGED 277
XXIX. IN WHICH THE GREAT SPIRIT COMES FROM THE SEA TO
RECLAIM COYOCOP 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
“‘THE SWORD AND THE CRUCIFIX!’ WHISPERED DE SANCERRE,
POINTING FROM THE SOLDIER TO THE PRIEST” _Frontispiece_
“THE CAPTAIN HURLED HIM DOWN UPON THE DECK” _Facing p._ 46
“THE FRENCHMAN, WITH A GRAY SMILE UPON HIS PALLID FACE,
RUSHED PAST THE LINE, A WINNER OF THE RACE BY TWO
FULL YARDS” “ 112
“COOL, MOTIONLESS, WITH UNFLINCHING EYES, THE FRENCHMAN
STOOD WATCHING THE CHIEF PRIEST” “ 176
“A WHITE-FACED MAN PRESSING TO HIS BREAST A DARK-HAIRED
MAIDEN” “ 238
“HE FELT A LIGHT HAND UPON HIS ARM, AND GAZED DOWN INTO
THE DARK EYES OF THE MAIDEN” “ 296
WITH SWORD AND CRUCIFIX
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH A GREAT EXPLORER LISTENS AT MIDNIGHT TO A TALE OF LOVE
“Louis le Grand, King of France and Navarre, has deserted pleasure to
follow piety--and times are changed, monsieur.”
The speaker, Louis de Sancerre, of Languedoc, descendant of a famous
constable of France, leaned against a tree near the shore of a majestic
river, and musingly watched the moonbeams as they chased the ripples
toward an unknown sea. A soft, cool breeze, heavy with the odor of
new-born flowers, caressed his pale, clear-cut face, and toyed with the
ruffles and trappings of a costume more becoming at Versailles than in
the mysterious wilderness through which its wearer had floated for many
weeks.
On the bank at the exiled courtier’s feet lay reclining the martial
figure of a man, whose stern, immobile face, lofty brow, and piercing
eyes told a tale of high resolve and stubborn will. Sieur de la Salle,
winning his way to immortality through wastes of swamp and canebrake
and the windings of a great river, had made his camp at a bend in the
stream from which the outlook seemed to promise the fulfilment of his
dearest hopes. On the crest of a low hill, sloping gently to the water,
his followers had thrown up a rude fort of felled trees, and now at
midnight the adventurous Frenchmen and their score of Indian allies
were tasting sleep after a day of wearisome labor.
De la Salle and a hapless waif from the splendid court of Louis
XIV., more sensitive than their subordinates to the grandeur of the
undertaking in which they were engaged, had felt no wish to slumber.
They had strolled away from the silent camp; and, for the first time
since Count Louis de Sancerre had joined the expedition, its leader
had been learning something of the flippant, witty, reckless, debonair
courtier’s career.
“Beware the omnipresent ear of the Great Order, Monsieur le Comte!”
exclaimed La Salle, rising to his elbow and searching the shadows
behind him with questioning eyes. “Think not, de Sancerre, that in the
treacherous quiet of this wilderness you may safely speak your mind.
I have good reason to distrust the trees, the waters, and the roving
winds. Where I go are ever savages or silence, but always in my ear
echoes the stealthy footfall of the Jesuit. And this is well, monsieur.
I seize this country in the name of France; the Order takes it in the
name of God!”
“In the name of God!” repeated de Sancerre, mockingly. “You know
Versailles, monsieur? There is no room for God. Banished once by a
courtesan, the Almighty now succumbs to a confessor.”
“Hold, monsieur!” cried La Salle, sternly. “This is blasphemy!
Blasphemy and treason! But enough of priests! You tell me that you
loved this woman from the court of Spain?”
“How can I say? What is love, monsieur?” exclaimed de Sancerre,
lightly, throwing himself down beside his leader.
It was as if a butterfly, born of the moonbeams, had come to ask a
foolish riddle of the grim forest glades. The incarnation of all that
was most polished, insincere, diabolical, fascinating at Versailles
had taken the form of a handsome man, not quite forty years of age,
who reclined at midnight upon the banks of an unexplored river, and
pestered the living embodiment of high adventure and mighty purposes
with the light and airy nothings of a courtier’s tongue. How should
Sieur de la Salle know the mystery of love? He who had wooed hardship
to win naught but the kiss of disappointment, he who had cherished
no mistress save the glory of France, no passion but for King and
Church, was not a source from which a flippant worldling could wring a
definition of the word of words.
The majestic silence of the night was broken by the raucous muttering
of some restless dreamer within the confines of the camp. An owl
hooted, and far away a wolf bayed at the moon. La Salle arose, climbed
the bank to see that his sentries were attentive at their posts, and
then returned to Count de Sancerre’s side.
“You do not answer me, Sieur de la Salle!” exclaimed the latter,
testily. “I have sought the answer from La Fontaine, from Moliêre,
Racine; aye, from Bossuet and Fénelon. ’Twas all in vain. They were
men, you say, and did not understand? But I have asked the question of
de Montespan, la Vallière, la Fayette, Sêvigné. One was witty, another
silent, and all were wrong. There remained, of course, de Maintenon.
Her I never asked. She would have said, I doubt not, that love is a
priest who leads by prayer to power.”
“You wander far afield, Monsieur le Comte,” remarked La Salle, coldly,
after an interval of silence. “The night grows old, and still you have
not told me why you left the splendors that you love, to risk your life
in this fierce struggle in an unknown land.”
“To risk my life?” cried the Count, laughingly. “If that were all!
To tear my velvets where no draper is, to see the gay-plumed birds
a-laughing at my plight, to long in vain for powder for my wig, to
find my buckles growing red with damp--all this is worse than death.
But still, I bear it bravely, do I not? Ah, well, Turenne--God rest
his soul!--taught me the lessons of a hard campaign. What is this
voyage in a bark canoe upon the peaceful breast of yonder stream? A
pleasure-jaunt, monsieur, to one who fought with France against the
world--who sheathed his sword at Nimeguen. Once only were we beaten,
de la Salle. The Dutch let in the sea, and, lo! his Majesty and
Luxembourg, Turenne and Condé, Vauban and the rest, were powerless
against the mighty ally of the foe. I say to you, Monsieur le
Capitaine, beware the sea! You seek it in your quest. ’Tis full of
treachery.”
The Count had arisen and drawn his sword, which gleamed in the
moonlight as he turned its point toward the unknown mouth the roving
river sought.
“This blade,” he said, reseating himself and patting the steel with
affection, “flashed gayly for the King upon the Rhine. Alas for me, it
drove me at the last to seek my fortunes in a weary land.”
“You drew it, then, for something other than the cause of France?”
remarked La Salle, suspiciously.
“For that of which we spoke, which no tongue voices but all hearts have
felt. I drew it once for love--_et voilà tout_!”
“You killed a Spaniard, then?”
“They speak the truth, monsieur, who say your mind is quick. She--as I
told you--came to France with Spain’s great embassy. He, a strutting
grandee, proud and bigoted, came with the suite, holding some post that
made his person safe. The tool of diplomats, the pet of priests, my
rival--as he was--defied my hate. ’Tis said they were betrothed, Don
Josef and-- But hold! her name I need not speak.”
The Count remained silent for a time, watching the moon-kissed
waters at his feet. La Salle, grim, reticent, but not unsympathetic,
gazed steadfastly at his companion’s delicately-carved face. A stern
knight-errant, who sought to win an empire for his king, lay wasting
the midnight hours to listen to a love-tale from a flippant tongue.
“’Twas with this blade,” went on de Sancerre after a time, waving
his sword from side to side in the moonlight, “that I pierced his
heart--and broke my own. For which all praise be to Saint Maturin, who
watches over fools.”
“He was no coward, then?” questioned La Salle.
“Not when his pride was pricked,” answered de Sancerre. “Great wars
have been begun with less diplomacy than I employed to make my insult
drive him to his steel. But, Spanish blood is hot, and, truth to tell,
my tongue can cut and thrust. Her eyes were on us at a _fête champêtre_
when, standing by his side, I spoke the words that made him mine at
midnight--’neath a moon like this. There’s little left to tell. He knew
a Spanish trick or two, but, monsieur, he was a boy! In the moonlight
there his eyes were so like hers I lost all pity--and--so--he died.”
“And then?”
“And then I vowed a candle to St. Christopher and sailed across the
sea. Breathe it not, monsieur--I bore a letter from de Montespan to
Frontenac.”
“Then cut your tongue out ere you tell the tale,” exclaimed La Salle,
gruffly. After a moment’s silence he went on, more gently: “But,
Monsieur le Comte, I cannot understand the ease of your escape. You’ve
roused the anger of the King, de Maintenon, the Jesuits, and Spain.
Such foes could crush an empire in a day.”
“But you yourself, monsieur, have stood against them all.”
“I?” exclaimed La Salle, musingly. “You may be right, my friend. I
sometimes wonder if my life is charmed. Whom can I trust, monsieur?
Allies false when the hour of danger came, assassins at my bedside, and
poison in my food--all these I’ve known, monsieur. And still I live.”
The two adventurers had arisen and were facing each other in the
moonlight. La Salle, tall, commanding--a king by the divine right of
a dauntless soul--stood, with head uncovered, looking down at the
slender, graceful patrician confronting him.
“You strive for France, Sieur de la Salle,” exclaimed de Sancerre, the
mocking note gone from his voice--“for the glory of dear France--and
France will not destroy you.”
“For France!” repeated La Salle, solemnly. “For France and for the
Church! _Vive le Roi!_”
Silently they turned and, mounting the hillock, made their way toward
the sleeping camp, while the Mississippi rolled on beneath the moon to
tell a strange tale to the listening waters of the gulf.