And so it was all over. The mission of De Gourgues was ended. However bloody the retribution he had wrought upon his enemies, France was avenged. I was thankful that my flight into the woods had spared me much of the butchery at Fort San Mateo; what we saw in the forest was horrible enough, and though by the time we returned the Fort had been cleared, a dreadful climax to this grim tragedy was being enacted.

As we entered the postern gate we saw De Gourgues standing,—menacing, sinister and pitiless,—before the ranks of trembling, haggard wretches who had been spared from the massacre. They were not many; and the slenderness of their number was a dire augury of the punishment which was to be theirs. They did not know what was to come. They scanned the merciless man who stood before them, seeking to find in the lines of his face one trace of sorrow or pity. But the eyes where pity might have been were set and fixed; hard as the lines of the nose and mouth. The brows had lost their melancholy and were drawn into a tangle and snarl of wrinkles, which took away every vestige of the man I knew and loved. He returned their look with a glance from which they cowered as though he had struck them; a glance that meant but one thing, and that was—the end. A few of them stood upright and fearless; others fell down upon their knees, whimpering. The end—Holy Virgin! What end? What death? When the Avenger spoke, his voice was dry and hard as flint.

“Did you think,” he said, “that so vile a treachery, so detestable a cruelty, against a King so potent and a nation so fearless, would go unpunished? Hell knows no viler traitor than your master, Menendez de AvilÉs, of whom you are but the spawn! No! I am only one of the humblest of the subjects of my King, but I have charged myself with avenging the deeds of this Menendez—and yours—against my hapless countrymen. There is no name base enough to brand your actions, no punishment sharp enough to requite them. But though you cannot suffer as you deserve, you shall suffer all that an enemy can honorably inflict, that your example may teach others to observe the peace and alliance between our Kings which you have so perfidiously violated.”

Then he waved his hand, and the wretches were marched out through the gate down to the river. Some of them cried aloud that they would not go. Others clasped the knees of the French arquebusiers, sobbing out like women in their degradation that they had helped to hang the Frenchmen of Fort Caroline, that they had confessed and hoped for mercy. These were rudely dragged to their feet and prodded with pikes until they followed the others, trembling in an agony of fear. When they had come to a place near the river, the Indians pointed out to De Gourgues the trees upon which the Frenchmen of Fort Caroline had hung. De BrÉsac and I knew them well. And upon these same trees without other speech or ceremony, the Spaniards were hanged.

After it was over, De Gourgues caused tablets of pine to be nailed over their heads where all men might read. Upon these tablets were inscriptions burned with a hot iron which read:—

“Not as to Spaniards,
But as to Traitors, Robbers and
Murderers.”

His vengeance was complete.

That night, when it was dark, De BrÉsac, Job Goddard and another, buried De BaÇan deep in a sand-dune. Indian messengers were sent to the river of Tacatacourou to bring the Vengeance and others’ vessels into the River of May. But at dawn the following morning we saw them passing the forts at the river’s mouth and we knew that the anxiety of FranÇois Bourdelais had got the better of him. When those on the vessels saw the standards of France waving upon the battlements of the lower forts, their cannon boomed forth a joyous salute which was answered there and at San Mateo. Before noon they anchored near the Fort and I was carried aboard to Mademoiselle.

I could not suffer her to go ashore while traces of the slaughter were in such ghastly evidence. For there were sights to cloud and torment throughout all recollection a mind innocent of the indecencies of life. Already the vultures were wheeling high over the forest and I prayed that the business which still kept the Avenger would soon be concluded. We were sick of the place, and Mademoiselle and I had no desire to go upon the shore.

In the afternoon Maheera came aboard. Unable to stay at the Tacatacourou River while these great events were going forward, she had followed us and lain in concealment since the attack. To Mademoiselle she brought a message from Olotoraca, who was at the Indian encampment—not dead, but very sorely wounded from the thrust De BaÇan had given him—and who wished Mademoiselle to go to him.

I would have deterred her, for I knew not what design he might cherish. Maheera understood me, but she smiled as she had not smiled since I had seen her.

“The White Giant has no need to fear. Olotoraca knows all, and it is well. He has a great friendship for the White Giant.”

Mademoiselle started up.

“I must go, Sydney. There will be no harm, and if he wishes me I cannot leave this land without seeing him. Maheera would not give me bad counsel.”

“The Moon-Princess will take no hurt.”

I could not be satisfied to have her out of my sight, but asked Cazenove to take some men and go with her. They were gone a long time, and when they returned Mademoiselle was smiling and tranquil. Olotoraca was very weak, but would recover. He said that I, the White Giant, had parried the blow which had wounded him and so had saved his life. He wished to live fair in the memory of the White Giant,—he was glad that the Moon-Princess was safe with me.

“It is not well,” he had said at last, taking Maheera’s hand in his, “that a man should love at all unless of the people of his own race.”

Had I been able to go to him I would have clasped him heartily by the hand. But they told me I must lie quiet for fear of setting loose an artery, and so I stayed on my pallet fanned by the cool breezes of the sea and blessed by the sight of Diane, who sat near at hand with beaming eyes, ministering to me.

The capture of the Spanish Fort had in one way been a great godsend to her. For in the quarters of the women, De BrÉsac had found a box full of linen and silks and a few things even that had been brought to Florida by Mademoiselle herself. These the Chevalier sent to her with a gracious word as her share of the spoils. The silks were of no very recent fashion to be sure, but all the gold and silver in the world could not have contributed so much as these to Mademoiselle’s content. Nor were they of any particular kind of shape, hanging about her slender figure like lean biscuit-bags. But with ready grace and wit she made shift to fasten and tuck them, so that after all they were none so bad as they might have been. She was so sweet and graceful a sight to my eyes that I feared should I close them I would lose not only the vision but the reality, and find myself again upon the sand-spit,—at Paris,—or in the forest,—seeking her ever with new hopes which were born only to be blasted again and again.

At last I slept; and the morning sun was breaking across the narrow cabin as I wakened. When I had eaten, I felt so strong and well that I would have risen, but Diane pressed me quietly by the shoulders and would not permit it. After awhile, when all was ready, my pallet was carried up on the after-castle, in the shadow of an awning, where I lay with several others and watched the fellows upon the shore. They were busy as bees and I felt a lazy dolt to be lying there twiddling my thumbs.

Two or three times the unruly and riotous spirit, engendered by shedding of blood, broke forth among the Frenchmen; but so complete was the control and discipline which De Gourgues had put upon them that little harm was done. Once they had broken into a wine cask without his knowledge, and there was like to be a repetition of the affair of Cabouche. It is a strange thing that Cabouche himself, who had often made good his boast of bully of the fore-castle, should have been the one to put this small mutiny down. For he stood in the doorway of the wine room pointing his arquebuse toward his companions and vowing he would shoot the one who advanced. It was said, when it was done and they had retreated, that he disappeared into the darkness and took a good paunch-full himself, coming forth with a strong smell of alcohol hanging about him.

In the afternoon there was a wonderful scene. De Gourgues gathered all the Indians about him under the battlements and, through Dariol, made them a long speech. From time to time they uttered loud cries which broke in upon his words. When he had done, a prolonged yell came from the savages and they swarmed over the ill-fated Fort, looking not unlike a swarm of ants upon a hill of their own. They rushed through the living quarters and the barracks and out upon the roofs tearing and rending until it seemed as though some movement of the earth or elements were splitting the buildings to pieces. In two hours the corps-de-garde was razed to the ground. Meanwhile a great number had mounted the battlements and with pikes, pieces of iron, and any rough implements that came to hand, began prying the stones from their places. With savage cries of exultation they tossed these out into the river or threw them in the ditch or thicket. A dust arose which hid them from our sight, but they worked on, as though maddened, in the heat and glare until sundown, when not one stone was left upon another. It was a whirlwind of ruin.

That night when I heard the preparations above me for sailing on the morrow, it seemed impossible that only a week and three days had passed since we had come to anchor in the Tacatacourou—since we had made our league—found Mademoiselle—passed the hardships of the march and attack, and come to the successful ending of our expedition. De Gourgues said little. When he had finished speaking to the Indians he had come aboard and set all the seamen to work stowing the vessel and breaking out the spars and sails for the voyage. That night Mademoiselle and Maheera bade a tearful good-by, for they had come to love each other with a fond affection; and to this day I cannot forget the services the Indian maiden did for me and mine. On the morrow the anchors were broken out, and with a favoring breeze we moved slowly down the river toward the sea; while the Indians, shouting messages of good will to us, ran along the banks until the freshening wind had driven us from their sight.

When the ships passed the smaller forts I could see that there too the work of destruction had been complete; for the stones and fascines were scattered in all directions, and only a few overturned and broken gun rests showed where the bastions had been. We sailed out over the bar at high tide and with a last salute to our friendly hosts we set our prow squarely abreast the broad surges, for France. In a few days I could almost crawl about the decks without an arm to steady me. In two weeks I went about some simple duties; and in the long summer twilights, Mademoiselle and I would sit high up on the slanting after-castle near the lanthorns, looking back down the pink, swirling wake toward the land where we had both suffered so much. Of De BaÇan we spoke but once. I let fall a word of regret that so gallant and splendid a fighter should have been of so ill-favored a disposition. But Mademoiselle made me no reply. With the thought how near she had come to falling into his hands after the capture of Fort Caroline, she shuddered, drew closer to me and would hear of him no more. We had too many present joys to conjure up the miseries that were past. We had been born into a new world of our own and we peopled it with fancies as blithe as ourselves. Under the laughing stars we were creatures of unreality, unconscious of all save the great love which had conquered everything. De Gourgues sat with us sometimes, but not for long; for there is no pain keener than that which comes from seeing a forbidden joy through the eyes of another.

My tale is soon ended. We reached Rochelle after a voyage of little event, and were greeted with great honor. So soon as it could be accomplished,—and that was with such speed of habit and frock making as was never known before or since,—Diane and I were married. The endurance and strength of heart which bore her up in all her sufferings among those wild western forests has, to this day of our age and contentment, been my sturdiest prop in time of stress. I need not tell at length how, through Coligny, the prize money for the San Cristobal was turned over at last to Captain Hooper; and how upon a certain successful voyage from Plymouth I came to be his second in command, nor how I owned my own vessel before my mistress had Domenique and little Diane well out of their swaddling clothes. The Chevalier de BrÉsac has come back from his voyage with Sir Walter Raleigh. M. de Teligny is dead, leaving the Chevalier a great fortune, and he is now out upon a venture of his own. Job Goddard, hoary headed and staunch, but convincing and windy-worded as ever, sits smoking at his window in the Pelican with Martin Cockrem. And the two rogues, gathering the growing youth of the docks about them, with easy elaboration, tell wonderful yarns of voyages to strange countries where people walk upside down, and of a preference use their toes for fingers, to which the urchins listen, their wide mouths agape and their eyes agog with curiosity. Job has set about planting a patch of tobacco at Plymouth; but his pursuit has fared ill, and so he gets the leaf in bales from the ships that come laden to Plymouth from the western main.

It is history how De Gourgues was spurned at Paris by that weakling, Charles; how our own good Queen Bess of England offered him a command, and how Charles thereupon relented, and would have given him a position of authority. But De Gourgues was never a stranger to adversity; and through it all, his great grief has ever been that Menendez de AvilÉs escaped the vengeance at San Mateo, of which he had been the dearest object. This malefactor died full of honor and riches, high in the favor of Philip of Spain, who, had he lived, would have given him command of the great Armada.

That Spanish fleet, so long threatened, has come and gone. Through the good offices of Sir Francis Drake and Lord Howard, for both of whom my father had performed some service, I was given considerable responsibility and command upon Drake’s own Revenge, acquitting myself to the great Admiral’s satisfaction. So that I came into the royal service again as commander of the White Bear, and gained for myself many emoluments and honors. By great good fortune I thus won my way into the notice of the Queen, and so, through her generosity, was enabled in some sort to restore my family to the prestige it had enjoyed before the imprudences and generosities of my grandfather and father had depleted the value of the estates. I lay no claim to credit for these achievements. Had it not been for Diane, I should have made no attempt to regain the position of my family before the Court. Her soft influences, strong and womanly, have weaned me away from the boisterous habits of my wild young life, and have shown me the value of the refinements which come of gentle living: With the death of the Queen Mother, in France, there came, too, a change in the fortunes of Diane and the great Henry—the greatest, Henry of Navarre,—with that rare grace which has ever distinguished him, has given back again the estate of La Notte, at Villeneuve, to my wife. Thither, at certain seasons, we go; forming thus another link, not without a certain value, between two great Christian monarchs.

Diane has built a summer-house on her estate, and she has fashioned it after the lodge of Olotoraca, where during those long months she waited for me. It is not in a wild pine forest, where every night the winds may sing their grand and lonely psalms. It is on the borders of a quiet lake, where soft sweeping willows whisper with the rippling water, and tall poplars, like sentinels, guard us against the legions of unrest. When the sun has set, and the slender moon has sailed out across the deep green vault above us, then we sit, hand-in-hand, dreaming and at peace, I—and Mademoiselle.

THE END.