IN WHICH DE LA SALLE REACHES A FATEFUL DECISION
“I have heard it said that the good Father le Jeune, the Jesuit, not
speaking Algonquin, was obliged to expound the mysteries of the faith
to the Montagnais through the aid of a blasphemous backslider, far gone
in liquor. This tool of Satan put vile words into the mouth of the
Jesuit, so that the Montagnais laughed mockingly while le Jeune fondly
thought that he was explaining to them the doctrine of the Trinity.”
Henri de Tonti, Zenobe Membré, and Sieur de la Salle had joined the
Count de Sancerre, after the departure of Chatémuc and Katonah, and the
quartet had formed itself for the time being into a council, to answer
at once an insistent and momentous question. Two white-robed envoys,
carrying a disk of burnished copper to represent the sun, had entered
La Salle’s hut an hour before this, bringing to him an invitation to
visit, with his followers, the city of their chief. Henri de Tonti,
enthusiastic lay proselyter though he was, had taken the ground that
an expedition to the haunts of the sun-worshippers would result in
nothing more valuable than a waste of time and energy, while it might
involve the party in unforeseen dangers. To check the enthusiasm of the
Franciscan friar, who longed to convert these friendly idolaters to the
true faith, de Tonti had just been calling the attention of the council
to the difficulties besetting a missionary who attempted to explain the
teachings of Mother Church in a tongue with which he was not thoroughly
conversant.
The slender, white-faced friar, whose great physical endurance was
suggested by nothing in his outward seeming but the clear, steady
gleam in his large gray eyes, turned, rather impatiently, from the
Italian adventurer and put forth an appealing palm towards Sieur de la
Salle, who lay at full length upon the bank, his head resting upon his
upturned hand, as he listened attentively to the debate between the
soldier and the priest.
“There is much efficacy in signs, monsieur,” exclaimed Membré, with
fervor. “Could I have led a thousand redmen to a knowledge of the
truth had I always waited for an alien tongue? When all seemed lost,
when their ears were deaf, when my prayers and hymns were but the
feeble strivings of a voice they would not heed, has come a miracle,
vouchsafed by Jesus Christ, and howling savages have fallen prone in
penitence before the cross. I ask not much of you, monsieur, but in the
name of Mother Church I crave an escort to these children of the sun.
To pass them by, to leave them hopeless in their blind idolatry, to say
no word to bring them to the faith--Mother of God, but this would be a
sin!”
The delicate face of the Franciscan glowed with the fervor of his soul.
He had drawn himself up to his full height, and his rich, penetrating
voice echoed weirdly across the gleaming waters of the flood.
De la Salle put up his hand with a gesture seemingly intended to calm
the exuberance of the devoted priest. Turning to de Sancerre, who was
seated on his right, he said:
“What think you, Monsieur le Comte? Shall we risk a visit to these
children of the sun?”
“_Mais oui, monsieur._ There is no other course. If they should take
offence at our neglect--_ma foi_, it might go hard with us.”
A scornful smile played across de Tonti’s scarred and rugged face. He
was annoyed at his failure to prevent the delay which this apparently
useless visit to a pagan tribe would engender. De Sancerre observed
the satirical expression upon the Italian’s countenance, but wisely
refrained from giving voice to the anger which he felt at the sight.
Between de Tonti and de Sancerre a national antagonism had been
intensified by the jealousy existing between them regarding the
attitude of their leader. The evident fondness shown by de la Salle
for the companionship of the itinerant French nobleman had displeased
the Italian veteran, whose long years of devotion to the explorer’s
service had begotten a claim to special consideration. In more highly
civilized surroundings the friction between de Tonti and de Sancerre
would long ago have found relief in bloodshed. One striking difference
between Versailles and the wilderness lay in the fact that in the
latter greater provocation was needed to impel men to run each other
through with steel than in the parks in which gay courtiers insulted
one another with soft words.
“Furthermore, monsieur,” went on de Sancerre, observing that his
words had not impelled de la Salle to come to an immediate decision
regarding the question at issue--“furthermore, there may be a way to
find an interpreter through whom these lost idolaters shall learn the
teachings of our faith.” If there sounded a note of insincerity in the
Frenchman’s voice, none marked it save de Tonti, whose smile was always
satirical when de Sancerre touched upon the Church.
“Your words, Monsieur le Comte, mean much or nothing. Explain
yourself,” said de la Salle, coldly.
“Did you notice at the further end of yonder hut a hole through which a
good-sized dog might crawl?” asked de Sancerre, impressively, arising
and pointing toward the camp.
“Sieur de la Salle has eyes for everything, Monsieur le Comte,”
remarked de Tonti, tauntingly.
Paying no attention to his rival, de Sancerre went on:
“Through that hole last night there crept into the hut an aged hag,
who, coming to my side, gave us a welcome from the children of the sun.
They call us--as you know--the children of the moon.”
De la Salle, calm, phlegmatic, but ever on the alert, gazed searchingly
at the speaker.
“Your tale is somewhat late, monsieur,” he remarked, meaningly.
“I feared the gossip of an idle camp,” said de Sancerre, lightly,
carelessly tossing a pebble into the rippling waters at his feet. “The
matter’s not of moment but for this: the old crone spoke a Spanish
_patois_, hard to understand, but not impossible. Her tongue, I think,
might serve our friar well.”
“A Spanish _patois_?” repeated de la Salle, musingly. “’Tis well you
spoke of this, Monsieur le Comte. I told the keen-eyed Colbert that
there was no time to lose. Below, around us lie the lands of gold, and
stretched across them rests the arm of Spain. The time has come when we
must lop it off.”
De la Salle had arisen and, with his hand upon the hilt of his sword,
gazed toward the waters which flowed toward a Spanish sea. He looked,
for the moment, the very incarnation of the martial spirit of an
adventurous age, bidding defiance to a mighty foe. Suddenly he turned
and eyed his followers sternly. In a voice which admitted of no reply,
he said:
“De Tonti, de Sancerre, and Membré, prepare to set out at once to these
people of the sun. I’ll give you presents for their chiefs and wives.
Send Chatémuc to me. He shall go with you, and his sister--Katonah, is
it not? She’ll find the woman with the Spanish tongue where you, as
men, might fail.”
“But,” exclaimed de Sancerre, springing to his feet, “there may be
peril for the girl in this. ’Tis best we go alone.”
“I am amazed, Monsieur le Comte,” remarked La Salle, sternly. “Obey my
orders! ’Tis not for you to question what I plan. Whatever comes of
this, the blame shall rest with me.”
De Tonti, Membré, and de Sancerre had turned to make their way
hurriedly back to the camp.
“De Sancerre,” called La Salle, ere they had gone beyond ear-shot. The
French nobleman returned hurriedly to his leader’s side.
“There is no danger to Katonah in all this,” said La Salle, meaningly,
his eyes reading de Sancerre’s face. “No harm can come to her, for
Chatémuc is ever by her side. No nobleman in Spain or France is
prouder, de Sancerre, than Chatémuc. You understand me?”
“_Ma foi_, I am not dull, monsieur!” exclaimed the Count, a note of
anger in his voice. Then he turned on his heel and strode rapidly
toward the camp.