IN WHICH THE CITY OF THE SUN ENJOYS A FÊTE
The moon of strawberries had been succeeded by the moon of old corn,
and there was joy in the land of the sun-worshippers. In other words,
the month of April had gone by and the month of May had found the Great
Sun’s grateful subjects making ready to celebrate his restoration to
health by national games and a thanksgiving feast.
The laggard weeks had told many a flattering tale of hope to Count
Louis de Sancerre, but at the end of a month’s sojourn in the City
of the Sun he still found himself, in all essential particulars, a
helpless stranger in a fickle and jealous land, honored by the Great
Sun and the chief priest, and admired by the people, but closely
watched by sharp black eyes, from which flashed gleams of malice
and suspicion. Impatient and impetuous though he was, the Frenchman
dared not force the issue to a crisis. Easy of accomplishment as the
kidnapping of Coyocop seemed to be, de Sancerre realized that he
would rush to certain death if he took a false step and attempted a
rescue hampered by his ignorance of the surrounding country and of the
movements of Sieur de la Salle. Day succeeded day and no word came from
the river to the pale and haggard Frenchman, whose only joy in life
during those dreary weeks sprang from the voice of Julia de Aquilar,
which reached his grateful ears now and then as he prowled around
her cabin late at night. Even this source of delight he was obliged
to forego after a time, receiving from the chief priest a broad hint
regarding the dangers which menaced a stranger in the town after dark,
and learning from Noco that Coheyogo had discovered in the temple the
existence of a fanatical faction among the sun-priests which had sworn
to overcome de Sancerre’s moon-magic by physical force.
But it was Cabanacte’s failure to return from his quest of Katonah
that had wound the strongest cord around the Frenchman’s hands. Could
he have had the giant’s assistance at this crisis, de Sancerre felt
confident that any one of a number of schemes which he had been obliged
to reject for lack of an ally could have been forced to the goal of
success. But Cabanacte had disappeared, had made no further sign, and
old Noco, to whom her grandson was as an open book, had said sadly to
de Sancerre that the youth would not return.
The restless and wellnigh discouraged Frenchman had, through his
success as a physician, won the enthusiastic gratitude of the Great
Sun, who had insisted upon making his Brother of the Moon the honored
guest of the royal cabin, within which de Sancerre was compelled, much
against his will, to spend the major portion of the time, talking to
the convalescent king by the aid of Noco’s nimble tongue.
It was the dawn of a cloudless day near the middle of the moon of old
corn when de Sancerre, opening his eyes after a night of dreamless,
restful sleep, enjoyed, for a moment, that sensation of physical
well-being which suggests the possibility that nature harbors no enmity
to man. Outside the royal cabin the morning vibrated with the melody of
birds and the distant rumors of a forest springing gladly into life.
There was movement and bustle inside the hut, and de Sancerre turned
lazily upon his gayly-bedecked couch to watch the Great Sun as he paid
homage to his risen god. With a spotless white robe flowing from his
royal shoulders, the King, still feeble from his recent illness, stood
in the centre of the room gravely lighting his calumet from a live
ember which one of his wives held out to him. Then striding toward the
dawn-beset exit to the cabin, which led straight to the rising sun,
the convalescent chief blew three puffs of tobacco-smoke toward the
deified orb of day.
“_Pardieu_,” muttered de Sancerre, “if they would but sacrifice more
tobacco and less blood to their shining god, this city would not be so
repulsive to a man of tender heart.” The Frenchman had thrown his slim
legs over the side of the plaited bed and sat gazing at the Sun-Chief
with a quizzical smile upon his clean-cut, thin and colorless face.
Suddenly upon the air of morning arose the shouts of a joyful multitude
approaching the Great Sun’s cabin. As if born of the dawn, the noisy
throng poured into the square, carrying to the palace of their king
offerings of fruit, flowers, vegetables, meats and fish. Into the
cabin crowded the smiling, chattering sun-worshippers, their white
teeth gleaming and their black eyes flashing fire as they piled their
gifts around the Great Sun’s hand-painted throne, interfering with de
Sancerre’s toilet but treating him with the respect due to a son of
the full moon, in whose magic they had reason to rejoice. A noisy,
picturesque, light-hearted crowd, delighting in the escape of their
king from death, and in the postponement of the general slaughter of
men, women, and children which would have followed his demise, they
impressed the Frenchman as overgrown, frolicsome, unreliable children,
beneath whose gayety lurked the capacity for bloody mischief.
Half-dressed and somewhat weary of the glad uproar, de Sancerre, having
withdrawn to a distant corner of the hut, stood watching a ceremony
which was destined to replenish the royal larder, when he felt a tug at
his arm, and, looking down, met the keen eyes of Noco.
“’Tis from Coyocop,” she muttered, slipping into his hand a piece of
mulberry bark. The corner in which he stood was not well-lighted, but
de Sancerre was able, at length, to decipher the scrawl made by Julia
de Aquilar. Her words were few:
“Eat no fish at to-day’s banquet,” ran the message. De Sancerre glanced
down at the old hag questioningly, but there was nothing in her face to
suggest that she understood the warning which had been scratched upon
the bark. The moment seemed to be ripe for putting into operation a
plan upon which de Sancerre’s mind had been at work for several days.
“Tell me, señora,” he said, observing with satisfaction that no prying
eyes were fixed upon them at that moment, “would it please you to find
your grandson, Cabanacte, and lure him from the forest to his home?”
There was a gleam in her small, black eyes as they met his which
assured de Sancerre that he had pressed a finger upon the beldame’s
dearest wish.
“It cannot be done,” she croaked, turning her back to him as if about
to mingle with the laughing throng. De Sancerre seized her by the arm.
“Listen, Noco,” he urged, bending down to whisper eager Spanish into
her old ears. “Coyocop and I, going to the forest side by side, could
find Cabanacte and the maiden from the north. Tell this to Coyocop,
that I will come to her when the banquet nears its end at dark. I leave
the rest to you, for you must lead us from the city to the woods. The
moon of old corn will give us light to-night to find your grandson in
the forest glades or where the river floweth toward the sea. Will you
take my word to her?”
“_Si, señor_,” muttered Noco, gazing up at de Sancerre with eyes which
strove to read his very soul. “But if we fail--if Coyocop is missed--it
will be death for you and me.”
“We cannot fail, señora, for the full moon is my god! We’ll find your
Cabanacte ere the night is old--and none will ever know. And now,
begone! Between the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon I’ll
come to you and Coyocop. Be true to me, señora, and by the magic of my
silver wand you’ll look upon your grandson’s face to-night.”
In another moment Noco, eluding the Great Sun’s glance as she stole
between the tall sun-worshippers, had crept from the cabin into the
rosy light of day.
The hours which followed her departure passed like long days to de
Sancerre. He watched the Great Sun’s wives as they became surfeited
with the petty tyranny which they exercised at the expense of a throng
of lesser women, upon whom rested the drudgery necessitated by the
approaching feast. Cares of state--an inventory of the tribute paid to
his divine right--occupied the attention of the King until noon had
long been passed and left de Sancerre to his own devices. Seated at the
entrance to the cabin, the Frenchman could observe what was passing in
the sunny square outside, while he still kept an eye upon the Great Sun
and his busy household. Half-naked boys and girls, gay with garlands of
flowers, were arranging long lines of wooden benches in front of the
royal dwelling under the direction of a master of ceremonies who had
escaped death with his king.
The bench upon which the Great Sun, the chief priest, and de Sancerre,
the nation’s guest, were to sit stood just in front of the King’s
cabin, and had been covered with painted skins and surrounded by a
carpet of magnolia blossoms.
As the hour for the banquet approached the nobly-born sun-worshippers
gathered in groups at the further end of the square, awaiting a signal
from royalty to seat themselves upon the benches, hot by this time from
the glare of a cloudless day. Gayety, suppressed but impatient, reigned
in the City of the Sun. Black eyes flashed above smiling lips, and now
and then a chorus of happy voices would raise a chant in praise of a
deity who had blessed the earth with fecund warmth. Even the stealthy,
silent, keen-eyed temple priests failed to cast a damper upon the
joyous children of the sun as they mingled with the throng or lurked in
the shadow of their skull-crowned palisade.
The banquet had been under way for more than an hour before de
Sancerre, seated between the Great Sun and Coheyogo, had been able to
revive the hope which had sprung up in his breast earlier in the day.
His environment, as it met his eyes at the outset of the feast, seemed
to preclude all possibility of a successful issue to the plan which
he had impulsively put into operation. A group of plebeians, watching
the nobility as it made merry--apparently at the King’s expense, but,
in reality, at theirs--stood directly in front of Coyocop’s abode and
were laughingly driving de Sancerre’s heart into his pointed shoes.
Would the gaping throng disperse as the sun sank low in the sky, and
leave to the Frenchman one chance in a thousand for the triumph of his
daring scheme? The hours, as they passed, left de Sancerre less and
less self-confident, while they increased the joyous hilarity of the
feasters among whom he sat. The mud-made walls of the houses on either
side of him had begun to throw long shadows across the square before
de Sancerre was able to cull from his surroundings a bud of hope. It
sprang from the tongue of Noco, who, as she passed behind his back,
muttered in Spanish:
“I will touch your arm at dark. Then follow me.”
At that moment the women serving the royal table placed before the
Great Sun and his guests of honor bits of bark upon which rested fish
still hissing from the heat of a wood-fire. De Sancerre, who had turned
to nod to Noco, caught a gleam of excitement in the black eyes of the
serving-woman who had stretched her scrawny, brown arms between him and
the chief priest. As he faced the feast again the fish in front of him
recalled the written warning which he had received that morning from
Julia de Aquilar.
“Touch no fish at to-day’s banquet,” repeated de Sancerre to himself.
“’Twas good advice, I think. I’ll let this schemer, Coheyogo, eat my
dish.” Acting upon the impulse of the moment, the Frenchman touched the
chief priest upon the arm, and, as Coheyogo’s black eyes met his, he
made a gesture toward the retreating form of Noco, as if he invoked
the aid of the temple to recall the interpreter to his side. The
spontaneity of de Sancerre’s action had its effect upon the sun-priest,
for he turned instantly and called aloud to the double-tongued
and two-faced hag. With a rapidity and deftness worthy of a
prestidigitateur, do Sancerre transposed the fragments of fish-laden
bark upon the bench, and, as Coheyogo resumed his former attitude, he
was confronted, unknowingly, with a dish with which a fanatical but
disobedient priest, hating moon-magic, had tampered.
There is but short shrift given to the day when the sun deserts it in
southern climes. Twilight had already begun to cast a gloom upon the
feast, against which the forced gayety begotten of cinnamon-flavored
wine could not prevail, when de Sancerre again felt old Noco’s touch
upon his arm. Before he turned to her the Frenchman, whose heart was
beating wildly beneath his rusty velvets, cast a glance at the Great
Sun. To his great satisfaction he discovered that his royal patient
had wholly disregarded the warning vouchsafed by his recent illness
and had been indulging in the pleasures of the table to an extent
that had placed again in jeopardy the lives of those of his subjects
who were doomed to accompany him in state to the spirit-land. But
it was the condition of Coheyogo at that moment which gave to de
Sancerre the greater cause for joy. The chief priest sat blinking
down at a half-eaten fish, as if he struggled vainly to read the grim
secret which it held. Now and then his head would drop forward as if
he had been overcome by sleep. Then, by an effort of will, he would
straighten his spine and attempt to collect his thoughts. The Frenchman
watched him searchingly for a moment, and observed with delight that
the struggle which the chief priest was making against a slothful but
resistless foe would end in full defeat.
“_Ma foi_,” muttered de Sancerre, as he crawled softly from between the
intoxicated State and the bedrugged Church into the shadow into which
Noco had stolen, “had I not learned a trick or two in camps, ’tis I
who would be nodding, not Coheyogo. I would I could remain to see the
outcome of this contest between a poison and a snake!”
Noco had grasped him by the arm, and in another instant de Sancerre
found himself stealing toward Doña Julia’s cabin through the darkest
corner of the crowded square. Either the saints or the moon-god, or
senseless chance, granted the Frenchman favors at that crucial hour;
for, as he approached Coyocop’s sacred abode, wellnigh hidden from
sight beneath hillocks of cut flowers, a group of enthusiasts at the
feast, still unconquered by the fermented juice of the cassia-berry,
had mounted the food-stained benches and raised a maudlin, monotonous
chant, in which the onlooking plebeians accompanied them. At the same
moment a crowd of boys and girls at the further end of the square
had begun a weird, ungraceful, unseemly dance, in which, as time
passed, men and women joined with shouts of wild laughter. Presently
the kettle-drum added its barbaric clamor to the din which fretted
the darkness as it crept across the disordered square. Even the
sun-priests, heated by the epidemic of gayety which had seized the
town, had left their sacred fire to the care of a chosen few, and were
now mingling with the shouting, dancing, delirious multitude upon a
pretext of good-fellowship, which was not too well received.
“Wait here, señor,” whispered Noco, in a guttural voice which shook
with excitement, pushing de Sancerre against the wall at the rear of
Doña Julia’s hut. “Don’t stir until I return. I fear some priest may
still be watching me.”
The old crone disappeared around the corner of the cabin, and de
Sancerre stood, trying to swallow his insistent heart, as he listened
to the uproar in the square and, presently, to the voice of Julia de
Aquilar whispering to Noco almost at his very side.
“Come,” hissed Noco, at his shoulder, seizing him by the wrist, and
dragging Doña Julia toward the black shelter of the forest by the other
hand. “No word! No rest! There will be no safety for us until we reach
the trees.”
Followed through the gloom by the harsh discord of a mad town’s
revelry, Doña Julia de Aquilar, of Seville, and Count Louis de
Sancerre, of Languedoc, linked together by a wrinkled beldame, who
looked at that moment like a grinning witch escaping to the wilds with
the helpless victims of her spite, hurried, with hearts growing lighter
with every step, toward a pathless wilderness, in which a thousand
lurking perils would menace them at every turn.