The Gascon sprang to his feet muttering something between his teeth.  “I crave your pardon, my lord,” he added with a courteous bow.  “I am but a plain rough soldier unused to the ways of courts, but it seems to me that things being as they are, my duty is quite simple.”  He bowed himself out and left Coligny wondering.

During the following months it was noted that in choosing the men for his coming expedition Gourgues appeared to be unusually select.  He sold his inheritance, borrowed some money of his brother, and fitted out three small ships carrying both sails and oars.  He enlisted, one by one, about a hundred arquebusiers and eighty sailors who could fight either by land or sea if necessary.  He secured a commission from the King to go slave-raiding in Benin, on the coast of Africa.  On August 22, 1567, he set sail from the mouth of the Charente.

“I should like to know,” said one of the trumpeters, Lucas Moreau, “whether we are really going slave-catching, or not.”

“Why do you think we are not?” asked the pilot, to whom he spoke.

“Because I have seen nothing on board that looks like it.  Moreover, he was very particular to ask me if I had been in the Spanish Indies, and when he heard that I had been in Florida he took me on at once.  I was out there, you know, when you were, two years ago.”

“And you would like to go back?” asked the other, gruffly.

“If there were a chance of killing Menendez, yes,” answered Moreau with a fierce flash of white teeth.

The trumpeter’s guess was a shrewd one.  When the tiny fleet reached the West Indies, the commander took his men into his confidence and revealed the true object of his voyage—­to avenge the massacre at Fort Caroline.  The result proved that he had not misjudged them.  Fired by his spirit they became so eager that they wanted to push on at once instead of waiting for moonlight to pass the dangerous Bahama Channel.  They came through it without mishap, and at daybreak were anchored at the mouth of a river about fifteen leagues north of Fort Caroline.  In the growing light an Indian army in war paint and feathers, bristling with weapons, could be seen waiting on the shore.

“They may think we are Spaniards,” said Dominic de Gourgues.  “Moreau, if you think they will understand you, it might be well for you to speak to them.”

No sooner had the trumpeter come near enough in a small boat for the Indians to recognize him, than yells of joy were heard, for the war party was headed by Satouriona himself, who well remembered him.  When Moreau explained that the French had returned with presents for their good friends there was great rejoicing.  A council was appointed for the next day.