The Grey Cloak - Page 202/256

"You would be drunk."

"Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night. Now, I am going to promote my

character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." And

he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying

his body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.

The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that

this exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte as

one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the

white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine

man. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him

roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian

folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man

calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists,

shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.

D'Hérouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said

the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.

"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Hérouville, glancing boldly at the

Chevalier.

"Some day your habit will choke you to death."

D'Hérouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of

his boots.

"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became

quiet.

This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself

with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them

to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had

lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her

purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was

he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her

flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he had

come upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his

lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And that

memory was all he had. She did not love him!

The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out and

struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the

fire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon a

glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughter

resounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of

pain.

With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully.

There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave's

wrists in a grip of iron. The Oneida was a strong youth, but he

wrestled in vain. The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength,

and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibers

unyielding as oak. Gradually he turned the Indian around. The others

watched the engagement with breathless interest. Presently the Indian

came to his knees. Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon his

face, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into the

fire. There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter. Without

seeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among the

evil-tempered dogs. So long as he continued to smile, the Indians saw

nothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which caused

Victor his pain. The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloak

around his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.