IN WHICH DE SANCERRE RUNS A STUBBORN RACE
It is but fair to the memory of a noble, if somewhat too impetuous
proselyter, to say that if Zenobe Membré--whose achievements and
sufferings entitle him to all praise--had realized that martyrdom, the
rewards for which he had painted in such glowing colors, really menaced
the aroused Mohican, he would have weighed his words with greater care.
But the gray friar had long been in the habit of using heroic language
to stir the soul of Chatémuc to religious enthusiasm, and he had not,
as yet, found cause to regret the use which he had made for years
of his pliable convert. Furthermore, the Franciscan placed absolute
confidence in the Mohican’s ability to take good care of his red skin.
He had seen the craft of Chatémuc overcome appalling odds too many
times to long indulge the fear that the Indian’s sudden disappearance
at this juncture presaged disaster. Nevertheless, he regretted that his
convert had set out upon a mission of some peril with such unwonted
precipitancy. The friar would have felt better satisfied with himself
if he had been permitted to breathe a word of caution into Chatémuc’s
ear before the latter had gone forth upon his lonely crusade against
the fires of hell.
“At the worst,” muttered the Franciscan to himself, as he made his
way toward the royal litter between lines of black-eyed, smiling
sun-worshippers--“at the worst, it would be one life for Paradise and a
nation for the Church! May the saints be with my Chatémuc! If he won a
martyr’s crown, his blood would quench a fire which Satan keeps alive.
But Mother Mary aid him! I love him well! I’d lose my right hand to
save my Chatémuc from death! May Christ assail me if so my words were
rash!”
Thus communing with himself, the Franciscan approached the excited
group surrounding royalty.
“_Ma foi_, good father, you come to us most opportunely!” cried de
Sancerre, springing to his feet, a smile upon his lips but a gleam
of repressed anger in his eyes. “Monsieur de Tonti is bent upon
repaying his Majesty’s hospitality with marked ingratitude. He orders
us--courageous captain that he is--to return at once to Sieur de la
Salle. As for me, I have promised the Brother of the Sun to pass the
night in yonder city--to the greater glory of our sire, the moon!”
Henri de Tonti, a black frown upon his brow, had overheard the
Frenchman’s sarcastic words. Seizing the friar by the arm, he flashed a
glance of rage and menace at the exasperating de Sancerre, and drew the
Franciscan aside, to lay before him weighty arguments in favor of an
immediate retreat to the river.
Meanwhile the younger men among the sun-worshipping nobility, moved by
the same cinnamon-flavored inspiration which had driven Chatémuc toward
a Satan-lighted fire, had abandoned the scene of the recent feast to
indulge in athletic rivalries on the greensward which undulated gently
between the outskirts of the forest and the City of the Sun.
“Will you say to his Majesty, señora,” cried de Sancerre, gayly,
drawing near to the Great Sun and addressing Noco, “that he has reason
to be proud of the prowess of his young men? I have never watched
a more exciting wrestling-bout than yonder struggle between those
writhing giants. It is inspiring! It is classic! Could Girardon carve
a fountain from that Grecian contest over there, ’twould add another
marvel to Versailles.”
The Brother of the Sun smiled down upon de Sancerre with warm
cordiality as the aged interpreter, having caught the general drift
of the Frenchman’s words, turned his praise into her native tongue.
The monarch’s momentary annoyance at Henri de Tonti’s lack of tact
had passed away, and, standing erect, a right royal figure on his
flower-bedecked dais, he watched, with unconcealed pride, the skilful
feats with bow-and-arrow performed by the sun-worshipping aristocrats
and the prodigies of strength which the wrestlers and stone-hurlers
accomplished.
“Tell me, Doña Noco,” exclaimed de Sancerre presently, at the
conclusion of a closely-contested foot-race, which even the distraught
and restless Katonah, searching vainly with her eyes for Chatémuc,
had watched for a moment with bated breath--“tell me the name of
yonder greyhound, carved in bronze, who smiles so disdainfully upon
the victor. I have never before seen a youth whose legs and shoulders
seemed to be so well fashioned by nature to outstrip the wind itself.
Why does he not compete?”
The shrivelled crone grinned with delight.
“That is my grandson, Cabanacte,” she answered, proudly. “He’s now a
nobleman, for, at the risk of life, he bore the spirit of the sun to
us. The whirlwind cannot catch him. The falling-star seems slow behind
his feet. He stands, in pride, alone; for none dare challenge him.”
A flush crept into the pale face of the Frenchman as his sparkling
eyes garnered with delight all the inspiring features of the scene
before him, features which formed at that moment a picture reminding
him of the glory of ancient Athens, the splendors of a pagan cult which
found in strength and beauty idols worthy of adoring tribute. The
passing day breathed a golden blessing upon the City of the Sun, which
gleamed in the distance like a dream of Greece in the old, heroic days.
De Sancerre, well-read and impressionable, mused for a moment upon the
strange likeness of the scene before him to a painting that he had
gazed upon, in a land far over-sea, representing Attic athletes engaged
in classic games beneath a stately temple behind which the sun had hid
its weary face. Awakening from his day-dreams, he turned toward Noco
and addressed her in a voice which made his Spanish most impressive.
“Go to Cabanacte, señora, and say to him that Count Louis de Sancerre
of Languedoc--the fairest province in the silver moon--dares him to a
test of speed, the course to run from here to yonder lonely tree, near
to the city’s gate, and back again.”
A grin of mingled admiration and amazement lighted the old hag’s face
as she turned toward the King and repeated to him his guest’s daring
defiance of a runner whose superiority no sun-worshipper had cared to
test for many waning moons. A courteous smile played across the firm,
well-cut mouth of the Great Sun as he listened to Noco’s words, but the
scornful gleam in his black eyes as they rested upon the Frenchman’s
slender, undersized figure was not lost upon the observant challenger.
De Sancerre realized fully that he had placed in jeopardy his influence
with the Brother of the Sun by risking a trial of speed with a youth
whose fleetness he had had, as yet, no means of gauging. If he should
be outstripped by Cabanacte the good-will of the Great Sun would be
changed to contempt, and the relationship of host to guests, already
disturbed by de Tonti’s lack of tact, might be transformed into that
of a victor to his captives. What, then, would become of de Sancerre’s
efforts to solve the mystery to which old Noco held the key?
But de Sancerre, always self-confident, placed absolute faith in the
elasticity of his light, nervous frame, whose muscles had been hardened
by his campaigns over-sea and by his wanderings with de la Salle.
No fleeter foot than his had been found in the sport-loving army of
Turenne, and he had been as much admired in camps for his agility as
at courts for his grace. If, perchance, he should outrun the stalwart
Cabanacte, de Sancerre felt sure that his easily-won popularity with
these impressionable sun-worshippers would be placed upon a much more
stable foundation than its present underpinning of smiles and courtly
bows.
“My grandson, Cabanacte, sends greeting to the envoy of the moon,”
panted Noco, returning speedily to de Sancerre’s side, “and will gladly
chase the wind with him in friendly rivalry. He bids me say that night
falls quickly when the sun has set and that he craves your presence at
this moment on the course.”
Making a courteous obeisance to the Brother of the Sun, de Sancerre was
about to hasten to the side of his gigantic adversary, who, stripped
almost to nakedness, stood awaiting his challenger, when he felt a
detaining hand upon his arm, and, turning petulantly, looked into
Katonah’s agitated face.
“Chatémuc! My brother! I cannot see him anywhere!”
“Fear not, _ma petite_,” exclaimed de Sancerre, cheerily. “Wait here
until I’ve made this sun-baked Mercury imagine he’s a snail, and we’ll
find your kinsman of the joyous face. ’Twould break my heart to lose
the gay and smiling Chatémuc! Adieu! I go to victory, or, perhaps, to
death! Pray to Saint Maturin for me, Katonah! He watches over fools!”
A great shout arose from the sun-worshippers as de Sancerre and
Cabanacte, saluting each other with ceremonious respect, stood side
by side awaiting the signal for their flight toward the distant tree
which marked the turning-point in the course which they were about
to run. The Frenchman, attired in tattered velvets and wearing shoes
never designed for the use of an athlete, seemed to be at that moment
handicapped by both nature and art for the race awaiting him. Almost a
pygmy beside the bronze giant, whose limbs would have driven sleep from
a sculptor’s couch, de Sancerre had apparently chosen well in asking
Katonah for an invocation to the saint who protects fools from the
outcome of their folly. The black-eyed sun-worshippers glanced at each
other in smiling derision. Surely, these children of the moon must eat
at night of some plant or fruit which stirred their blood to madness
when they wandered far afield! No dwarf would dare to measure strides
with a colossus unless, indeed, he’d lost his wits through midnight
revelry in moonlit glades! This white-faced, queerly-dressed, and most
presumptuous rival of the mighty Cabanacte might smile and bow and
gain the ear of kings, but look upon him now, with head bent forward,
waiting for the word! Fragile, petite, thin in the shanks, and with
a chest a boy might scorn, he dares to measure strides with a sturdy
demigod who towers above him, a giant shadow in the gloaming there!
A howl from the overwrought throng shook the leaves upon the trees.
The runners had sprung from the line at a cry and, elbow to elbow,
were speeding toward the distant tree. Falling back to Cabanacte’s
flank, de Sancerre, seeming to grow taller as he ran, and using his
feet with a nimbleness and grace which emphasized the clumsiness of
his fleet rival’s tread, hung with ease upon the giant’s pace, moving
with a rhythmical smoothness which indicated reserved power. Through
the twilight toward the city rushed the courtier and the savage, made
equals at that moment by the levelling spirit of a manly sport, while
the onlookers stood, eager-eyed and silent, watching with amazement
the pertinacity of the lithe Frenchman who so stubbornly kept the pace
behind their yet unconquered champion.
As the racers turned the tree marking the half of their swift career,
the dusky patriots saw, with growing consternation, that the child of
moonbeams still sped gayly along behind the stalwart, wavering figure
of a son of suns. The pace set by Cabanacte had been heartrending
from the start, for he had cherished the conviction that he would be
able to shake off his puny rival long before the turn for home was
made. But ever as he strove to increase his lead the bronze-tinted
athlete heard, just behind his shoulder, the dainty footfalls of
a light-waisted, wiry, bold-hearted antagonist, who panted not in
weariness behind the champion after the manner of his rivals of other
days. Out of the glowing West came the racers side by side, every step
a contest as they struggled toward the goal.
“Cabanacte! Cabanacte!” cried the sun-worshippers, mad with the fear
that the dwarf might outrun the giant at the last. For the Frenchman
had crept up from behind and was now speeding homeward on even terms
with his delirious, reeling, wind-blown, but still unconquered
rival. For a hundred yards the racers fought their fight by inches,
each marvelling in his aching mind at the stern persistence of his
antagonist. Then, when the strain grew greater than human muscles could
endure, the bursting heart of de Sancerre seemed to ease its awful
pressure upon his chest, his faltering steps regained their light and
graceful motion, and, passing Cabanacte as the latter glanced up with
eyes bloodshot with longing, the Frenchman, with a gay smile upon his
pallid face, rushed past the line, a winner of the race by two full
yards.
[Illustration: “THE FRENCHMAN, WITH A GAY SMILE UPON HIS PALLID FACE,
RUSHED PAST THE LINE, A WINNER OF THE RACE BY TWO FULL YARDS”]
The hot, generous blood of the sun-worshippers bounded in their veins
as they seized the tottering victor and, with shouts of wonder and
acclaim, raised him to their shoulders and bore him, a wonder-worker
in their eyes, to the smiling presence of their astonished king. But
before de Sancerre could receive the congratulations of the Brother of
the Sun, the voice of Katonah had reached him over the heads of the
excited patricians.
“Monsieur,” cried the Mohican maiden, in French, her voice vibrating
with excitement, “Père Membré and Monsieur de Tonti have set out for
the camp, and Chatémuc has not returned!”
“_Peste, ma petite!_” exclaimed de Sancerre, blowing her a kiss over
the turmoil of black heads beneath him. “Why trouble me with trifles
such as these? See you not that a splinter from a moonbeam has put
the sun to shame--to the greater glory of our Mother Church. _Laude,
Katonah! Laude et jubilate!_”