University of Virginia Library

14. XIV.
THE SEDITION AT LA CAROLINE.

1. —Chap. I.
MOUVEMENT.

There was bustle of no common sort in the fortress of La Caroline.
The breezes of September had purged and relieved of its
evil influences the stagnant atmosphere of summer. The sick of
the garrison had crawled forth beneath the pleasant shadows of
the palms, that grew between the fortress and the river banks,
and there were signs of life and animation in the scene and among
its occupants, which testified to the favorable change which healthier
breezes and more encouraging moral influences, were about
to produce among the sluggish inhabitants of our little colony.
There were particular occasions for movement apart from the
cheering aspects of the season. Enterprise was afoot with all its
eagerness and hope. Men were to be seen, in armor, hurrying to
and fro, busy in the work of preparation, while Monsieur Laudonniere
himself, just recovered from a severe illness, conspicuous in
the scene, appeared to have cast aside no small portion of his
wonted apathy and inactivity. He was in the full enjoyment of his
authority. He had baffled the disease which preyed upon him, and
had defeated the conspiracy by which his life and power had been

threatened. He was now disposed to think lightly of the dangers
he had passed, though his having passed them, in safety, had
tended greatly to encourage his hope and to stimulate his adventure.
He now stood, in full uniform, at the great gate of the
fortress, reading at intervals from a paper in his grasp, while extending
his orders to his lieutenants. He was evidently preparing
to make considerable use of his authority. It is, perhaps, permitted
to a Gascon to do so, at all seasons, even when he owes his security
to better wits than his own, and has achieved his successes
in his own despite. Our worthy captain of the Huguenot garrison
upon the river of May, was not the less disposed to insist upon
his authority, because it had been saved to him without his own
participation. It might have been difficult, under any circumstances,
to persuade him of that, and certainly, the conviction,
even if he had entertained it, would, at this juncture, have done
nothing to dissipate or lessen the confident hope which prompted
his present purposes. The present was no ordinary occasion. It
was as an ally of sovereigns that Laudonniere was extending his
orders. He had, already, on several occasions, permitted his lieutenants
to take part in the warfare between the domestic chieftains,
and he was now preparing to engage in a contest which threatened
to be of more than common magnitude and duration. A warfare
that seldom knew remission had been long waged between the rival
warriors, whose several dominions embraced the western line of the
great Apalachian chain. Already had the Huguenots fought on
the side of the great potentate Olata Utina, commonly called
Utina, against another formidable prince called Potanou. He
was now preparing to second with arms the ambition of Kings Hostaqua
and Onathaqua, who were preparing for the utter annihilation
of the power of the formidable Potanou. Of the two former
kings, such had been the account brought to Laudonniere, that he
at first imagined them to be Spaniards. They were described as
going to battle in complete armor, with their breasts, arms and
thighs covered with plates of gold, and with a helmet or headpiece
of the same metal. Their armor defied the arrows of the
savages, and proved the possession of a degree of civilization
very far superior to anything in the experience or customs of the
red-men. Subsequently it was ascertained that they were Indians
like the rest. differing from the rest, however, in this other remarkable
trait, that, while all the other tribes painted their faces red,
these warriors of Hostaqua and Onathaqua employed black only to
increase the formidable appearance which they made in battle.
The golden armor used by this people, and the excess of the
precious metals which this habit implied, were sufficient inducements
for our Huguenot leader to attempt his present enterprise.
It had furnished the argument of the conspirators against him,
that he done so little towards the discovery of the precious metals;
having provoked that cupidity, which his necessities alone compelled
him to refuse to gratify. His error, at the present moment
was, in employing other than the discontents of his colony in making
the discovery. But of this hereafter.

Laudonniere had not been wholly neglectful, even while he
seemed to sleep upon his arms, of the reported treasures of the
country. He had sent two of his men, La Roche Ferrière a
clever young ensign, and another, to dwell in the dominions of
King Utina, and these two had been absent all the summer, engaged
in rambling about the country. Others, as we have seen,
were sent in other directions. Lieutenant Achille D'Erlach, the
brother of the favorite Alphonse, had been absent in this way,
during all the period when Laudonniere was threatened by conspiracy;

and it was now decreed that, even while his brother
continued absent, Alphonse should depart also. The eagerness
of Laudonniere would admit of no delay. His curiosity had just
received a new impulse from a present which had been sent him
by Hostaqua, consisting of a “Luzerne's skinne full of arrows, a
couple of bowes, foure or five skinnes painted after their manner,
and a chaine of silver weighing about a pounde weight.” These
came with overtures of friendship and alliance, which the Huguenot
chief did not deem it polite to disregard. He sent to the
savage king, “two whole sutes of apparell, with certain cutting
hookes or hatchets,” and prepared to follow up his gifts, by sending
a small detachment of picked soldiers, under Alphonse d'Erlach,
still more thoroughly to fathom the secrets of the country,
but ostensibly to unite with Hostaqua and his ally against the
potent savage Potanou, who was described as a man of boundless
treasures, also.

The bearer of these presents from Hostaqua was an inferior
chieftain named Oolenoe. This cunning savage, of whom we
shall know more hereafter, did not fail to perceive that the ruling
passion of our Huguenots was gold. It was only, therefore, to
mumble-the-precious word in imperfect Gallic—to extend his
hand vaguely in the direction of the Apalachian summits, and
cry “gold—gold!” and the adroit orator of the Lower Cherokees,
on behalf of his tribe or nation, readily commanded the
attention of his gluttonous auditors. His auguments and entreaties
proved irresistible, and the present earnestness of Laudonniere,
at La Caroline, was in preparing for this expedition.
To conquer Potanou, and to obtain from Hostaqua the clues to
the precious region where the gold was reputed to grow, with almost
a vegetable nature, was the motive for arming his European

warriors. It was also his policy, borrowed from that of the
Spaniards, to set the native tribes upon one another;—a fatal
policy in the end, since they must invariably, having first destroyed
the inferior, turn upon the superior, through the irresistible
force of habit. But, even with the former object, we do not perceive
that there was any necessity to take any undue pains in its
attainment. Tribes that live by hunting only, must unavoidably
come into constant collision. No doubt the natural tendency of
the savage might be stimulated and made more inveterate and
active, by European arts; and Laudonniere, however Huguenot,
was too little the Christian to forbear them. With this policy he
proposed to justify himself to those who were averse to the present
enterprise. One of these was his favorite, Alphonse D'Erlach,
the youth to whom he owed his life. This young man, on
the present occasion, approached him where he stood, eager and
excited with the business of draughting the proper officers and
men for the present hopeful expedition. At a little distance,
stood the stern old savage, Oolenoe, grimly looking on with a satisfaction
at his heart, which was not suffered to appear on his
immovable features. The artist of the statuesque might have
found in his attitude and appearance, an admirable model.
While his eye caught and noted every look and movement, and
his ear every known and unknown sound and accent, the calm
unvarying expression of his glance and muscles was that of the
most perfect and cool indifference. They only did not sleep.
He leaned against a sapling that stood some twenty paces removed
from the entrance of the fort, a loose cotton tunic about his loins,
and his bow and quiver suspended from his shoulders, in a richlystained
and shell-woven belt, the ground work of which was cotton
also. A knife, the gift of Laudonniere, was the only other
weapon which he bore; but this was one of those very precious
acquisitions which the Indian had already purposed to bury with
him.

As Alphonse D'Erlach approached his commander, a close observer
might have seen in the eyes of Oolenoe, an increased brilliancy
of expression. The sentiment which it conveyed was not
that of love. It is with quick, intelligent natures to comprehend,
as by an instinct of their own, in what quarter to find sympathies,
and whence their antipathies are to follow. Oolenoe had soon
discovered that D'Erlach was not friendly to his objects. With
this conviction there arose another feeling, that of contempt, with
which the extreme youth, and general effeminacy of the young
man's appearance, had inspired him. He did not seem the warrior,—and
the Indian is not apt to esteem the person of whose
conduct in battle he has doubts. Besides, the costume of D'Erlach
was that of dandyism; and, though the North American
savage was no humble proficient in the arts of the toilet, yet
these are never ventured upon until the reputation of the hunter
and warrior have been acquired. Of the abilities of D'Erlach,
in these respects, Oolenoe had no knowledge; and his doubts,
therefore, and disrespects, were the natural result of his conviction
that the youth was suspicious of, and hostile to, himself. Of
these feelings, D'Erlach knew nothing, and perhaps cared as little.
His features, as he drew nigh to Laudonniere, were marked
with more gravity and earnestness than they usually expressed;
and, touching the wrist of his commander, as he approached him,
he beckoned him somewhat farther from his followers:

“It is not too late,” said he, “to escape this arrangement.”

“And why seek to escape it, Alphonse?” replied the other,
with something like impatience in his tones.

“For the best of reasons. You can have no faith in this savage.
If there be this abundance of gold in the country, why
brings he so little. Where are his proofs? But this is not all.
But lately our enemy, jealous of our presence, and only respectful
because of his fears, we can have no confidence in him, as an
ally. He will lead the men whom you give him, into ambuscade
—into remote lands, where provision will be found with difficulty,
—require to be fought for at every step, and where the best valor
in the world, and the best conduct will be unavailing for their extrication.”

“To prevent this danger, Alphonse, you shall have command
of the detachment,” said Laudonniere, with a dry accent, and a
satirical glance of the eye.

“I thank you, sir, for this proof of confidence,” replied the
other, no ways disquieted, “and shall do my best to avoid or
prevent the evils that I apprehend from it; but—”

“I have every confidence in your ability to do so, Alphonse,”
said the other, interrupting him in a tone which still betrayed the
annoyance which he felt from the expostulations of his favorite.
The latter proceeded, after a slight but respectful inclination of
the head.

“But there is another consideration of still greater importance.
Your security in La Caroline is still a matter of uncertainty. You
know not the extent of the late conspiracy. You know not who
are sound, and who doubtful, among your men. Le Genré,
Fourneaux, Le Genevois, and La Roquette, are still in the woods.
You are weakening yourself, lessening the resources of the fortress,
and may, at any moment—”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Laudonniere, with renewed impatience.
“You are only too suspicious, Alphonse. You make too much

of this conspiracy. It does not seem to me that it was ever so
dangerous. At all events, the danger is over, the ringleaders
banished and in the woods, and will rot there, if the wolves do
not devour them. They, at least, shall not be made wolves of
for me.”

D'Erlach bowed in silence. His mouth was sealed against all
further expostulation. He saw that it was hopeless—that his
captain had got a fixed idea, and men of few ideas, making one
of them a favorite, are generally as immovable as death. Besides,
Alphonse saw that the obligations which he had so lately conferred
upon his commander, in baffling the conspiracy of Le Genré, by
his vigilance, had somewhat wounded his amour propre. It is a
misfortune, sometimes, to have been too useful. The consciousness
of a benefit received, is apt to be very burdensome to the
feeble nature. The quick instinct of Alphonse D'Erlach readily
perceived the condition of his captain's heart. A momentary
pause ensued. Lifting his cap, he again addressed him, but with
different suggestions.

“Am I to hope, sir, that you really design to honor me with
this command?”

“Certainly, if you wish it, Alphonse.”

“I certainly wish it, sir, if the expedition be resolved on.”

“It is resolved on,” said Laudonniere, with grave emphasis.

“I shall then feel myself honored with the command.”

“Be it yours, lieutenant. In one hour be ready to receive
your orders.”

“One minute, sir, will suffice for all personal preparation;”
and, with the formal customs of military etiquette, the two officers
bowed, as the younger of them withdrew to his quarters. In one

hour, he was on the march with twenty men, accompanied by
Oolenoe and his dusky warriors.

2. CHAPTER II.—THE OUTLAWS.

The little battalion of Alphonse D'Erlach marched along the
edge of a wood which skirted a pleasantly rising ground—one of
those gentle undulations which serve to relieve the monotonous
levels of the lower regions of Florida. Deep was the umbrage—
dense in its depth of green, and dark in its voluminous foliage,
the thicket which overlooked their march. Their eyes might not
penetrate the enclosure, from which eyes of hate were yet looking
forth upon them. The wood concealed the outlaws who had
lately made their escape from La Caroline, after the exposure of
their conspiracy. They had not ceased to be conspirators. Bold,
bad men—sleepless discontents, yearning for plunder and power
—the defeat of their schemes, and the necessity of their sudden
flight from the scene of their operations, had not lessened the
bitterness of their feelings, nor their propensity to evil. Fierce
were the glances which they shot forth upon the small troop which
D'Erlach conducted before their eyes on his purposes of doubtful
policy. Little did he dream what eyes were looking upon him.
Could they have blasted with a glance or curse, he had been
transformed with all his followers where he passed. But the
three conspirators had no power for more than curses. These,
though “not loud, were deep.” With clenched fists extended
towards him on his progress, they devoted him to the wrath of a
power which they did not themselves possess; and, watching his

course through the parted foliage, until he was fairly out of sight,
they delivered themselves, in muttered execrations, of the hate
with which his very sight had inspired them. Stephen Le Genevois
was the first to speak. He was a stalwart savage, of broad
chest, black beard, and most dauntless expression.

“Death of my soul!” was his exclamation; “but that we
have lost so much by the game, it were almost merry to laugh at
the way in which that brat of a boy has outwitted us. We have
been children in his hands.”

“He is now in ours,” said La Roquette, gloomily.

“Aye, if the Indian keeps his faith,” was the desponding
comment of Fourneaux.

“And why should he not keep faith,” said Le Genevois. “He
has good reason for it. When did the hope of plunder fail to
secure the savage?”

`You must give him blood with it,” responded Fourneaux.

“Aye, it must be seasoned. He must have blood,” echoed La
Roquette.

“Well, and why not? Do we not give him blood? will he
not have this imp of Satan in his power? may he not feed on him
if he will? Aye, and upon all his twenty!” exclaimed Le Genevois,
fiercely.

“True—but —”

“But, but, but—ever with your buts! You lack confidence,
courage, heart, Fourneaux—you despair too easily! I wonder
how you ever became a conspirator!”

“I sometimes wonder myself. Ask La Roquette, there. He
can tell you. I owe it all to his magic.”

“What says your magic now, Roquette—have you any signs
for us?”

“Aye, good ones! We shall have what we desire. I have
seen—I have said! Be satisfied.” This was spoken with due
solemnity by the person in whom the credulity of his companions
had found sources of power unknown to their experience.

“But why not show us what you have seen? Speak plainly,
man. Out with it, and leave that mysterious shaking of the head,
which has really nothing in it.”

Such was the language of the more manly and impetuous Le
Genevois. It provoked only a fierce glance from the magician.

“All in good time,” said the latter. “Be patient. We shall
soon hear from Oolenoe.”

“Good! and you have seen that we shall be successful?”
demanded Fourneaux.

“We shall be successful.”

“That will depend upon ourselves, rather than upon your
visions, I'm thinking,” said Le Genevois. “We must have
courage, my friends. The signs are not good when we call for
signs. If we despond, we are undone.”

“Stay—hark!” said Fourneaux, interrupting him eagerly.
“I hear sounds.”

“The wind only.”

“No!—hist.”

They bent forward in the attitude of listeners, but heard
nothing. They had begun again to speak, when an Indian, covered
with leaves artfully glued upon his person, stood suddenly
among them. They started to their feet and graspel their
weapons.

“Ami!” was the single word of the intruder, at he stretched
out his arms in signification of friendship.

“Said I not?” demanded the magician, confidently. “This
is our man.”

His assurance was confirmed by the savage, who spoke the
French sufficiently to make himself understood. He came from
Oolenoe, and a few sentences sufficed to place both parties in
possession of their mutual plans. The outlaws were not without
friends in La Caroline. They were to find their way once more
into that fortress. They had no fears from the sagacity of Laudonniere,
during the absence of the youthful but vigilant D'Erlach;
and, for the latter, he was to be disposed of by Oolenoe. And
now the question arose, who should venture to “bell the cat?”
who should venture himself within the walls of La Caroline?

“Ah!” said one of the conspirators, “if we could only bring
Le Genré to his senses. He would be the man.”

“Speak nothing of him,” cried Le Genevois, quickly; “he
is no longer a man. He is a priest. That defeat has killed his
courage. He repents, and is constantly writing to Laudonniere
for mercy and pity, and all that sort of thing. He must not
know what we design.”

“Who has seen him lately?”

“I know not. He was crossed to the other side of the river
by Captain Bourdet in his boats. He crossed to seek refuge with
the people of Mollova.”

“He is not far, be sure. He will linger close to the fort, in
the hope to get back to it, and, finally, to France. He is not to
be thought of in this expedition.”

“Who then?” was the demand of Le Genevois. “Somebody
must muzzle the cannon. Who? Who will take the peril and
the glory of the enterprise, and in the character of an Indian will
put his head in the jaws of the danger?”

The question remained unanswered. Fourneaux excused himself
on a variety of pleas, not one of which would be satisfactory
with a brave man. La Roquette declared that his magical powers
were always valueless when any restraint was set upon his person;
in other words, he could better perform his incantations
when the danger threatened everybody but himself. He certainly
would not think of risking them within La Caroline, while
Laudonniere was in power. Besides “he had no arts of imitation.
He had no abilities as an actor.” Stephen Le Genevois
smiled as he listened to their pleas and excuses.

“My friends!” he exclaimed. “Did you think that I would
suffer a good scheme to be spoiled by such as you? I but waited
that you should speak. This adventure is mine, and I claim it.
I will return to La Caroline. I will play the spy, and take the
danger. Mark ye, now, comrade!”—addressing the Indian,—
“prepare me for the business. Clothe me in copper, and make
me what you please. I have no beauty that you need fear to
spoil.”

Thus saying, he threw off, with an air of scornful recklessness,
the costume which he wore. Wild was the toilet, and wilder still
the guise of our buoyant Frenchman. In an open space within
the thicket, beneath a great moss-covered oak, which wore the
beard of three centuries upon his breast, the chief conspirator
yielded himself to the hands of the Indian. A keen knife shore
from his head the thick black hair with which it was covered. A
thin ridge alone was suffered to remain upon the coronal region, significant
of the war-lock of that tribe of Apalachia, to which
Oolenoe belonged. The small golden droplets which hung from
the Frenchman's ears, were made to give way to a more massive
ornament of shells, cunningly strung upon a hoop of copper wire.

His body, stripped to the buff, was then stained with the brown
juices of a native plant, which, with other dye-stuffs, the Indian
produced from his wallet. His brow was then dyed with deeper
hues of red—his cheeks tinged with spots of the darkest crimson,
while a heavy circlet of black, about his eyes, gave to his countenance
the aspect of a demon rather than that of a man. This
done, the savage displayed a small pocket mirror before the eyes
of the metamorphosed outlaw. With an oath of no measured
emphasis, the Frenchman bounded to his feet, his eyes flashing
with a strange delight.

“It will do!” he shouted. “It likes me well! Were I now
in France, there would be no wonder beside myself. I should
stir the envy of the men—I should win the hearts of the women.
I should be the loveliest monster. Ho! Ho! Would that my
voice would suit my visage!”

A cotton tunic with which the Indian had provided himself,
was wrapped round the loins of our new-made savage, his feet
were cased with moceasins, and his legs with leggins made of
deerskin—a bow and quiver at his shoulder—a knife in his girdle
—a string of peäg or shells about his neck;—and his toilet was
complete. That very night, accompanied by his Indian comrade,
Stephen Le Genevois entered the walls of La Caroline, bearing
messages from Oolenoe and Alphonse D'Erlach—the latter
of which, we need scarcely say, were wholly fraudulent. The
credulous Laudonniere, delighted with assurances of success on
the part of his lieutenant, was not particularly heedful of the nature
of the evidence thus afforded him, and laid his head on an
easy pillow, around which danger hovered in almost visible forms,
while he, unconsciously, dreamed only of golden conquests, and
discoveries which were equally to result in fame and fortune.

His guardian angel was withdrawn. His mortified vanity had
driven from his side the only person whose vigilance might have
saved him. His own unregulated will had yielded him, bound,
hand and foot, into the power of a relentless enemy.

3. CHAPTER III.—THE MIDNIGHT ARREST.

Sweet were the slumbers of Monsieur Laudonniere, commandant
of the fortress of La Caroline. Anxious was the wakening of
Stephen Le Genevois, the conspirator, who, in garbing himself
after the fashion of the Indian, had not succeeded in clothing his
mind in the stolid and stoic nature of his savage companion. The
conspirators watched together in one of the inner chambers of the
fortress. They had not restricted themselves to watching merely.
Already had Le Genevois made his purpose known to one of his
ancient comrades. The name of this person was La Croix. He
was one of the trusted followers of Laudonniere, whose superior
cunning alone had saved him from suspicion, even that of D'Erlach,
at the detection of the former conspiracy. La Croix, in the
absence of the latter, was prepared for more decisive measures.
He was one of those whose insane craving for gold had surrendered
him, against all good policy, to the purposes of the conspirators.
He was now in charge of the watch. As captain of the night, he
led the way to the gates, which, at midnight, he cautiously threw
open to the two companions of Le Genevois. Fourneaux and
Roquette had been waiting for this moment. They were admitted
promptly and in silence. Darkness was around them. The
fortress slept,—none more soundly than its commander. In

silence the outlaws led by La Croix, all armed to the teeth, made
their way to his chamber. The sentinel who watched before it,
joined himself to their number. They entered without obstruction
and without noise; and, ere the eyes of the sleeper could unclose
to his danger, or his lips cry aloud for succor, his voice was
stifled in his throat by thick bandagings of silk, and his limbs
fastened with cords which, at every movement of his writhing
frame, cut into the springing flesh. He was a prisoner in the
very fortress, where, but that day, he exulted in the consciousness
of complete command. A light, held above his eyes, revealed
to him the persons of his assailants;—the supposed Indians,
in the outlaws whom he had banished, and others, whom, for the
first time, he knew as enemies. When his eyes were suffered to
take in the aspects of the whole group, he was addressed, in his
own tongue, by the leading conspirator.

“René Laudonniere,” said Stephen Le Genevois, in his bitter
tones, “you are in our power. What prevents that we put you
to death as you merit, and thus revenge our disgrace and banishment?”

The wretched man, thus addressed, had no power to answer.
The big tears gathered in his eyes and rolled silently down his
cheeks. He felt the pang of utter feebleness upon him.

“We will take the gag from your jaws, if you promise to make
no outcry. Nod your head in token that you promise.”

The prisoner had no alternative but to submit. He nodded,
and the kerchief was taken from his jaws.

“You know us, René Laudonniere?” demanded the conspirator.

“Stephen Le Genevois, I know you!” was the answer.

“'Tis well! You see to what you have reduced me. You
have held a trial upon me in my absence. You have sentenced

me and my companions to banishment. You have made us outlaws,
and we are here! You see around you none but those on
whom you have exercised your tyranny. What hope have you
at their hands and mine? Savage as you have made me in
aspect, what should prevent that I show myself equally savage in
performance. The knife is at your throat, and there is not one
of us who is not willing to execute justice upon you. Are you
prepared to do what we demand?”

“What is it?”

“Read this paper.”

A light was held close to the eyes of the prisoner, and the paper
placed near enough for perusal. The instrument was a commission
of piracy—a sort of half-legal authority, common enough in
that day, to the marine of all European countries, under maxims
of morality such as made the deeds of Drake, and Hawkins, and
other British admirals, worthy of all honor, which, in our less
chivalrie era, would consign them very generally to the gallows.

As Laudonniere perused the document, he strove to raise himself,
as with a strong movement of aversion;—but the prompt
grasp of Genevois fastened him down to the pillow.

“No movement, or this!”—showing the dagger. “Have you
read?”

“I will not sign that paper!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.

“Will you not?”

“Never!”

“You have heard the alternative!”

Laudonniere was silent.

“You do not speak! Beware, René Laudonniere. We have
no tender mercies! We are no children! We are ready for any
crime. We have already incurred the worst penalties, and have

nothing to fear. But you can serve us, living, quite as effectually
as if dead. We do not want your miserable fortress. We are
not for founding colonies. It is your ships that we will take, and
your commission. We will spare your life for these. Beware!
Let your answer square with your necessities.”

“Genevois!” said the prisoner, “even this shall be pardoned
—you shall all be pardoned—if you will forego your present
purpose.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the person addressed. “This to me!
I scorn your pardon as I do your person! Speak to what concerns
you, and what is left for you to do. Speak, and quickly,
too, for the dawn must not find us here.”

“I will not sign!” said the prisoner, doggedly.

“Then you die!” and the dagger was uplifted.

“Strike—why do you stop?” exclaimed Fourneaux; “we can
slay him, and forge the paper.”

His threatening looks and attitude, with the stern air which
overspread the visage of Genevois, and, indeed, of all around him
contributed to overcome the resolution of the wretched commander.
Besides, a moment's reflection served to satisfy him,
that the conspirators, having gone too far to recede, would not
scruple at the further crime which they threatened.

“Will my life be spared if I sign? Have I your oath,
Stephen Le Genevois? I trust none other.”

“By G—d and the Blessed Saviour! as I hope to be saved,
René Laudonniere, you shall have your life and freedom!”

“Undo my hands and give me the paper.”

“The right hand only,” said Fourneaux, with his accustomed
timidity.

“Pshaw, unbind him!” exclaimed Genevois; “unbind him,
wholly. There, René Laudonniere, you are free!”

“I cannot forgive you, Genevois; you have disgraced me forever,”
said the miserable man, as he dashed his signature upon
the paper.

“You will survive it, mon ami,” replied the other, with something
like contempt upon his features. “You are not the man to
fret yourself into fever, because of your hurts of honor. And
now must you go with us to the ships. We will muffle your jaws
once more.”

“You will not carry me with you,” demanded the commander,
with something like trepidation in his accents.

“No! You were but an incumbrance. We will only take
you to the ships, and keep you safe until we are ready to cast off.
To your feet, men, and get your weapons ready. Softly, softly—
we need rouse no other sleepers. Onward,—the night goes!—
away!”