My wound was open again. I had learned that the carpenter Challeux had seen Mademoiselle alive after the massacre at Fort Caroline, and the tide of ebbing hope, ever restless as the moving sea, flooded up again upon my heart and engulfed me with tender memories. There was a chance—the merest thread of doubt—which held and led me willing captive amid the maze of uncertainties which seemed to compass me about. Even as Challeux had told, the story of Emola’s brave might still be true. They had perhaps captured her and she had died on the way to San Augustin! But the ring might have been lost! She who was killed might have been another! My lady may have remained hidden secure in the great tree trunk where Challeux had concealed her! She had followed my advice to be on her guard; why might she not have waited and fled by night to Satouriona? His camp at that time, as she knew, was to the north, nearer the Fort than that of Emola, where we had been. If she had reached it, she would be safe as though in England. For had not the great Satouriona, marveling at her beauty, given her a necklace of beads, saying that she was fair as the moon and calling her the “Moon-Princess”? These strange people would take her into their village and serve her as they would one of their own blood, high in the councils of their nation.

Ah! ’Twas sweet and holy thinking for me. But alive or dead, my wish to cease this idle play at service to the King and be up and doing something to find her, or to avenge her death, came upon me again strong as upon the sand-spit when my heart beat high with hope. I must go back in search of Mademoiselle. I could not wait with this fever of hope burning into my heart. I wished now that I had never left the country—that I had thrown in my lot with the Indians and thus lost no opportunity to hang upon the trail of the Spaniards and so have learned the truth beyond any doubt. De BrÉsac would say nothing. He merely shook his head, or, sighing deeply, shrugged his shoulders. M. de Teligny advised that I give up all hope of ever seeing Mademoiselle again. So I had no encouragement, save only that hope which came like an instinct from my own breast.

The days dragged slowly by. Another messenger had been sent to Forquevaulx and another answer had arrived from the Court of Spain. The whole affair was now the property of the people, and in every inn could be heard expressions of horror and consternation from Catholic and Protestant alike. Charles had written Forquevaulx in this fashion:

Brave words enough. Words indeed! Words were made to hide the thoughts of courtiers!

Forquevaulx fulfilled his commission. Philip’s only reply was to refer him to the Duke of Alava.

“I have no hope,” wrote Forquevaulx after this, “that the Duke d’Alava will give any satisfaction as to the massacre, for it was he who advised it from the first.”

That was the news we heard, and that was like to be the end of the matter. The King of France had been three times insulted and now refused to raise further voice in reply. Charles and the Queen-mother would not quarrel with Spain, and all France rang with the indignity. They had resigned themselves to the affront. We saw the King almost daily going to the hunt, a faint color stealing into his sallow cheeks as he cantered down the crooked streets with his brave following. Smiles wreathed the lips where sternness should have been; and eyes that should have wept his own heart’s blood danced and sparkled with the joy and passion of the chase. It was a grievous thing to see a man of his good presence falling deeper and deeper under the blight of his weakness. For all Charles cared, outraged humanity might forever cry aloud, the blood of hundreds of murdered Frenchmen might stain his very hearthstone, and the proud standards of France be lowered and trampled in the dust by the soldiers or assassins of any nation of the earth. Was he not the King? Was the stag-hunting not good? And had he not written a sonnet to the eyes of Marie Touchet and an ode to “Justice,” both of which M. Ronsard had pronounced incomparable?

But there were still gallant men in France. Our petitions and those of the relatives of the martyrs were not to be made in vain. Upon the morning of a certain day, while we were yet within doors, came a gentleman asking for M. de BrÉsac. He was a soldier of ancient birth and high renown, named Dominique de Gourgues of Mont-de-Marsan. De BrÉsac had served with him, and had told me something of his vigorous fiery nature and life; how as a boy he had been taken by the Spaniards near Sienna; how with brutal insult they had chained him to the oar as a galley-slave; how the Turks had captured this vessel and carried her to Constantinople; how they had put to sea again and were captured by a galley of the Knights of Malta who had set the prisoners free. De Gourgues had served in all parts of the world and his reputation as a naval commander in France was high—second only to that of the martyred Ribault. He hated the Spaniards with a mortal hatred and the tidings which we had brought from Florida had set his hot Gascon blood a boiling.

But I was ill-prepared for the figure he presented. I had pictured him a great swarthy man built somewhat upon the scale of Diego de BaÇan, with a deep roaring voice and the manner of a bravo. The person I saw was none of this; for he was not large in stature, having a figure tight-knit even to slenderness. Yet it was plain to see he was built upon the model of a hound, and that the muscles upon him were as steel springs fastened upon a frame of iron. His head was ugly beyond expression, somewhat in the shape of a pear, with a wide bulging forehead, the flesh falling away at the temples and cheeks almost to emaciation. I looked in vain to his mouth and chin for the force I could not find in his brows; and then back to his eyes, where my gaze at last rested enthralled. All else might have been as nothing and those mysterious eyes would have revealed how deep lay the soul of the man. I saw them not often in repose upon this morning, for they were flashing forth the fire that was raging in his heart; but when he paused a moment they opened wide under the broad brows,—melancholy, penetrating, but frank, sincere and true; eyes to watch, to grieve, to weep even, but not to deceive those he held in esteem. His voice was not strident or harsh, even as he spoke loudly, but soft as that of a woman. But in it there was that note of command which no man who has served with a great officer can ever forget.

He bounded up the stone stairs, two steps at a time, and came into the chamber with an unmistakable vigor and firmness, as one accustomed and sure of his welcome.

“Ah, seigneur,” he cried, espying De BrÉsac. “Welcome to France!” And rushing to the Chevalier he embraced him as a brother.

“Mon ami, you are new-come from Mont-de-Marsan?”

“This very hour, mon brave, and I have ridden directly to you.”

Whereupon the Chevalier presented me to him, explaining that I was the Killigrew who had been at San Augustin.

“Good!” he said abruptly. “Monsieur, I am indeed fortunate. It is upon this very business that I am come to you.” With an abrupt gesture he threw his cloak aside and seated himself. Then without ado, he began to speak.

“The King of France is a sluggard and a coward,” he said fiercely. “He has bowed the head of every honorable man in France upon the breast in shame. I, who have been upon the soil of many countries, have ever held my head aloft in pride; for I am a Frenchman. That heritage holds enough honor to place me among the ranks of the chosen of the earth. Our nation is a brave nation and in our land a man of honor dies rather than suffer a stain to fall upon his name. The glory of our deeds has resounded from one end of the world to the other, and the lustre of our achievements has been like the gleam of a shining blade in the fore of battle.”

He paused and then continued slowly, “M. le Chevalier, that pride is gone; that heritage of a good name,—an empty sound; that lustrous escutcheon,—beaten to the earth, and dimmed and blotted by the blood of our own kindred which has flowed upon it.”

“God knows it is so,” said De BrÉsac.

“You of England,” he continued, appealing to me, “know well that no insult such as this could rest against the fair fame of your Queen, monsieur,” and he rose from his seat. “Unless something is done we are a people dishonored upon the face of the earth.”

“The King has promised the degradation of this Menendez,” said the Chevalier.

“His promises, like his verses, come ready made,” sneered De Gourgues. “Pah! he is without candor, this King;—without strength, without honor,—without anything that men hold most high.” M. de Gourgues was walking furiously up and down as one possessed.

“Sh——” said De BrÉsac.

“I care not,” said the wild Gascon. “’Tis better far to die, or to have no country. Spain insults the King and the King is dumb. The nobles about him are Italians in the Spanish interest. God save poor France from her rulers now and ever, say I.”

Then he sat down and unburthened himself of the object for which he had come to Paris.

“I am come,” he continued less wildly, “to ask you to help me avenge this wrong—to raise again the Standard of France from where it has been trailing in the mud by Spanish feet.”

So rapid and fiery had been his speech that I could not get the exact purport of his words. How he, a simple country gentleman, could hope to embark upon so large a venture without King’s aid or commission was more than I could readily comprehend. Nor was De BrÉsac in any better understanding. “But, monsieur,” he began, “if there were any——”

“Ah, BrÉsac,” he cut in, “you do not trust me. You think I will not do as I say. As you will—I tell you, I will destroy this Fort San Mateo if it takes every crown and acre in Mont-de-Marsan!”

“Forgive me, Chevalier, I am but a slow thinker. I am with you if you will but give me half an earful of your plans.”

“You will go?”

“With all my heart.”

“And you?”—to me.

“If not with you, then with some other,” I replied.

“Ah! Then that is done,” he exclaimed joyfully. “Now to the plans. I believe in my company first and my plans next. For plans are of no use if there is no one to put them to practise. Here is what I shall do. If during the week to come the King of France does not obtain reparation from Spain and the degradation of this monster, Menendez, I will provide ships and men, and myself sail for Florida.”

“But how?” we both asked in the same breath.

“My inheritance is for sale,” said this wonderful man with a cunning smile, as though he were bartering a horse. “I shall obtain money from my brother and any others who may still find a virtue in honor. I shall have three small vessels with a hundred arquebusiers and eighty sailors. Blaise de Montluc, lieutenant for the King in Guienne, where my brother has a high post, will give me a commission to make war upon the negroes of Benin—to bring them out as slaves, an adventure now held most honorable—and then—then, voyez-vous, we will go not to Benin, but elsewhere—where, we cannot at this time precisely tell and so cannot inform our valiant company—but to some place where there is easy service and much profit. Is not the plan a good one?”

De BrÉsac had listened, his eye kindling with enthusiasm. He now cried out, “It is more than good, it is wonderful! And upon my life, it succeeds! You shall have—not two hundred men, but two thousand—for by now there is not one Indian friendly to the Spanish among all the tribes of Satouriona. They will not live in subjection. I have lived among them and I know.”

“Think you so? Then pardieu, ’tis simple as plain sailing, and not one stone of this fort will we leave upon another. There’s my hand on it. And now adieu and for the present—silence!” So saying he threw his cloak about him and went away as quickly as he had come.

So rapidly had the whole business been accomplished, that when he had disappeared I began wondering whether it were all true, or whether this strange person were but a whirlwind creature of the fancy. But there was De BrÉsac holding his hand and looking at his fingers, which De Gourgues had clasped.

“Ugh! Shall I ever straighten them?” he cried. “He has the grasp of the Scavenger’s Daughter.[C] This comes of being chained to a galley-oar. No, ’tis no dream. He will do what he promises, never fear. ’Tis the most wonderful man this side of hell, Killigrew!”

I laughed at his manner of expressing it. Yet I did not doubt that it was so. For after De Gourgues had gone, I could not cast from me the spell of those melancholy eyes, and so great was his charm and vigor that it seemed as if the spirit of vengeance had been born again and had taken a new life in us all. Here was a man to dare a chimera—to achieve the impossible. BrÉsac and I embraced each other and went flying to M. de Teligny to tell him of the good fortune.

As I think of it now it seemed as though we were going upon a journey for sport or play at beast hunting instead of a deadly mission of death and destruction upon men like ourselves. But like the Avenger, there was no restraining us. At last we had a champion—at last there was a plan—something definite and certain in our minds, however foolhardy, to lift us from this quiet and inaction, this slough of despond, which, after our travail and excitement, lay upon us and weighed us down like a sickness.

M. de Teligny listened in surprise to the plan of De Gourgues, his eyes sparkling with joy at the news, for all the world like those of some old war-horse champing at the bit and impatient for the scent of battle. It was a great venture, he vowed, and much honor would come of it. It was one of those expeditions most to his liking, for were we not outnumbered three to one? And would not all men rejoice that we had wiped away a stain from the fair name of France? He sighed deeply that he was worn in years and service. But he would have gone had we not shown him how much more we would have need for men with all the vigor of youth, to strike blows quicker and harder than had ever been struck before.

The week passed, and the King was still busy upon his hunting and ballade-making. No word came from the Court of Spain and no word was given forth at the Louvre for the people. The affront had been passed over.

De Gourgues, not wishing that M. de Teligny should be implicated in his plots, came no more to his house. Our meetings, which M. de Teligny attended, however, were held in a small house just off the Place St. Germain, where negotiations were conducted, with the utmost secrecy. I had not acquainted Goddard with our plans, for I knew from what had happened in Dieppe that on any matter of deep interest his tongue would wag in spite of himself. I told him only that we were soon to depart upon another mission to the New World. At which he knew not whether to manifest most joy or sorrow; for he was torn between a desire to remain at the side of the damsel he had gained and the wish for another packet of tobacco, as his own through much squandering had been greatly reduced in size. Day after day we saw our numbers slowly increase until soon ten gallants, young and hardy like ourselves, the rank and chivalry of France, were vowed to our purpose. The Chevalier de Gourgues meanwhile had entered upon negotiations for the sale of his estates and had written to his brother in Guienne, from whom after a time there came a reply most encouraging, enclosing the commission from Blaise de Montluc and an offer of money for the enterprise. Fortune so far seemed to smile upon our efforts, for nothing had occurred to mar our plans and all things needful were readily procurable. Word came from Bordeaux, where an agent of the Chevalier had been secretly at work, that several vessels lay at that harbor which might be made to serve us admirably.

Twice M. de Teligny went to Admiral Coligny to learn if despatches had passed between Paris and Madrid and what was the disposition of the King. Each time he came back with fury at his heart, saying that the King had no humor for religious discussions. But even had Charles shown a disposition to take up his own quarrel, nothing would have deterred the Chevalier de Gourgues from carrying out his plans, upon which he had entered with a nervous energy that knew no abating. By the end of a month or so, all the necessary money having been secured, De Gourgues and I set out for Bourdeaux to look into the worthiness of the vessels upon which the agent had reported. We found all three to be of small size. One was somewhat larger than the others, being built upon the plan of the vessels of the Levant, propelled, if need be, by both wind and oars. The two smaller ones were staunch enough and could they hold all of our company, I did not doubt that we might reach the Terra Florida in safety. They, too, had banks of oars and this I considered to be a matter of great value; for, the draught being not too deep, all of the craft could be brought over the bar and into the River of May if necessary. Arrangements were made with a victualer that supplies to last a year were to be set aboard; and arquebuses, morions, pikes, and arbalests were to be procured. The agent was instructed upon the class of men we needed and notices were set up in the shipping towns for men of youth, skilled in the use of pike and arquebus, who wished a venture of a year which would be attended with honor and profit. During the second month of our preparations the word had gone abroad that we were gold-seeking and many hundreds of adventurers came beseeching De Gourgues to take them. From these he picked out those he wished, with the same skill and quick judgment that he used in buying his hemp and oakum. He had that nice eye for hardiness that PompÉe had for a piece of steel or Montmorency for a saucy bit of horseflesh. Toward the end of April, De BrÉsac with Goddard, and the cavaliers, rode down from Paris, and with great rejoicing we all straightway entered aboard the ships which lay, full victualed and supplied, at anchor in the Rade.