University of Virginia Library

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.