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                                                   Appleton's
                                                 Town and Country
                                                     Library
                                                     No. 251



THE SCOURGE OF GOD






BY J. BLOUNDELLE-BURTON.

_Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents_.

The Clash of Arms.

In this stirring romance of the seventeenth century the reader shares
the adventures of an English officer who serves under Turenne in his
German campaigns. The author has written an engrossing story of love
and war.


Denounced.

"The author of 'Denounced' is second to none in the romantic
recounting of the tales of earlier days. A story of the critical times
of the vagrant and ambitious Charles I, it is so replete with incident
and realistic happenings that one seems translated to the very scenes
and days of that troublous era in English history. The interest
throughout is of that absorbing and magnetic kind that holds one's
attention closely from the first chapter to the last."--_Boston
Courier_.


In the Day of Adversity

"We do not hesitate to declare that Mr. Bloundelle-Burton's new
romance will be very hard to beat in its own particular
line. . . . Mr. Burton's creative skill is of the kind which must
fascinate those who revel in the narratives of Stevenson, Rider
Haggard, and Stanley Weyman. Even the author of 'A Gentleman of
France' has not surpassed the writer of 'In the Day of Adversity' in
the moving interest of his tale."--_St. James's Gazette_.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.






THE SCOURGE OF GOD

_A ROMANCE
OF RELIGIOUS PERSECUTION_


BY
JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON.
AUTHOR OF DENOUNCED, IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY, ETC.


"Prince! que j'ai honoré comme mon Roi, et
que j'honore encore comme Le Fléau de Dieu!"
Saurin à Louis XIV




NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1898






COPYRIGHT, 1898,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.






CONTENTS.

I.--Awaiting the traveller.
II.--The traveller from England.
III.--A parting soul.
IV.--Les attroupés.
V.--'Twixt then and now.
VI.--"La femme, malheureusement si fameuse, funeste et
      terrible."--St. Simon.
VII.--The house by the bridge.
VIII.--An exodus.
IX.--"Baville! un magistrat dont les epouvantables rigueurs doivent
     être signalée à l'horreur de la postérité"--St. Simon.
X.--The lighted torch.
XI.--"Consorting with heretics."
XII.--"I am a Protestant."
XIII.--Urbaine.
XIV.--The attack.
XV.--Shelter and refuge.
XVI.--Succour.
XVII.--The ruse.
XVIII.--La divinéresse.
XIX.--Lex talionis.
XX.--What is this mystery?
XXI.--"You will never find him."
XXII.--I love you.
XXIII.--"Love her! Beyond all thought! And she is there."
XXIV.--"An errand of life or death."
XXV.--Par le fer et par le feu.
XXVI.--Doomed.
XXVII.--Her father, Urbain Ducaire.
XXVIII.--Baville--superb!
XXIX.--"Her father's murderer."
XXX.--Free.
XXXI.--Betrayed.
XXXII.--The bitterness of death.
XXXIII.--Tout savoir, c'est pardonner.






THE SCOURGE OF GOD.




CHAPTER I.

AWAITING THE TRAVELLER.

With all the pomp and ceremony that should accompany the dying hours
of a great lady of France, the Princesse de Rochebazon--Marquise du
Gast d'Ançilly, Comtesse de Montrachet, Baronne de Beauvilliers,
and possessor of many other titles, as well as the right to the
tabouret--drew near her end.

A great lady of France, yet a woman against whom scandal had never
breathed a word; a woman whose name had never been coupled with that
of any courtier in a manner disadvantageous to her fame, but who
instead, since first she came into the family a bride, had always been
spoken highly of. As a saint by some--nay, by many; as a Christian by
all; as a good servant of the Church. Now, the priests said, she was
about to reap her reward in another existence, where her exalted rank
would count as nothing and the good deeds of her life as everything.

Below, in the courtyard of her great hotel--which was situated in the
Rue Champfleury, still called by many La Rue Honteuse because of what
had gone on in that street hundreds of years before--the huge Suisse
stood at the open gateway, leaning on his silver-headed cane, which he
no longer dared to thump vigorously on the ground for fear of
disturbing his dying mistress, stood and gazed forth into the long
though narrow street. Perhaps to see that none intruded within the
crimson cord set in front of the _porte-cochère_ of the Hôtel de
Rochebazon; perhaps to observe--with that pride which the menial takes
in the greatness of his employers--how all the noble and illustrious
callers on his mistress had to leave their coaches and their chairs
outside of that barrier, and advance on foot for some yards along the
filthy _chaussée_ ere they could enter the courtyard; also, perhaps,
to tell himself, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that none below
royalty who had ever approached their end in Paris had been inquired
after by more illustrious visitors.

Above, in the room where the princess lay dying--yet with all her
faculties about her, and with, though maybe she hardly thought so, a
great deal of vitality still left in her body--everything presented
the appearance of belonging to one of wealth and position. The
apartment was the bed chamber in which none but the chiefs of the
house of de Rochebazon were ever permitted to lie; the bed, of great
splendour and vast antiquity, was the bed in which countless de
Beauvilliers and Montrachets and du Gast d'Ançillys and de Rochebazons
had been born and died. A bed with a _ruelle_ around it as handsome in
its velvet and gold lace and gilt pilasters as the _ruelle_ of _Le
Dieudonné_ himself--for the de Rochebazons assumed, and were allowed
to assume without protest, many of the royal attributes and
peculiarities--a bed standing upon a raised platform, or rostrum, as
though the parquet floor was not exalted enough to come into contact
with the legs of the couch on which the rulers of the house stretched
their illustrious limbs.

In the room itself all was done that could be done to make it a
fitting apartment for those heads of this great family. Arras and
tapestry hung on the walls, representing religious scenes, battle
scenes, hawking and hunting scenes; upon the uncovered portions of the
wainscot were paintings of members who had borne at different times
the different names of the family; on _plaques_ in other places were
miniatures and pictures by Bordier and Petitot, Mignard and Le Brun.
Also, although 'twas autumn now, all about the great chamber were
placed bowls of flowers and ferns and grasses. These brightened not
only the room, but sweetened it as well, and mingled their pure
perfume with the less pure Pulvilio and _Bouquet du Roi_ with which
the air was impregnated.

In silvery tones a masterpiece of Fromantil's struck far down the
room, over the mantelshelf of the huge fireplace, by the side of
which a monk sat reading his breviary, and as it did so the princess,
lying on her bed, opened her eyes--large, blue-gray eyes, the
brightness of which age had no power to quench, nor would have till
she was dead--and spoke to a girl seated outside the _ruelle_.

"What hour was that, Manon? Three or four?"

"Three, Madame la Princesse," the other answered, rising and passing
under the bar to her mistress.

"The day is fair," the dying aristocrat said, letting her eyes glance
toward the windows, through the heavy lace curtains of which the sun's
rays strayed. "Fair. There is nothing to impede his journey. He should
be here to-night. He must have crossed from England yesterday, must he
not?"

"I should suppose so, madame. This is Friday. Your courier left for
London last Sunday. It is certain Monsieur Ashurst must be very near
Paris now."

"Ah, Manon! Monsieur Ashurst! Monsieur Ashurst! I would, instead, he
were Monsieur de Beauvilliers. Then--then----" She broke off in what
she had been about to say and bade the girl go tell the holy father he
might leave the room, might walk in the garden if he chose, and see if
there were any roses left. His services were not now required; if she
could judge by her feelings, her death was not to be yet. Send him
away, she gave order.

Obedient to her commands--was she not a patroness of all the religious
foundations in and around Paris, as well as a magnificent
benefactress?--the monk departed. Then the Princesse de Rochebazon
continued:

"If he were not Monsieur Ashurst, but were instead of my husband's
side, the de Rochebazons would not have come to an end--to an end. My
God! why is he not a de Beauvilliers? Yet, had he been, I might not
have loved him as I do."

"'Tis pity, madame," the girl said. "Yet even as it is----" then
paused, breaking off.

"'Even as it is,' you would say, 'he will inherit much--much of the de
Rochebazon fortune.' Yes, 'tis true. He will be well provided for.
After the Church--that first. Also you, Manon, are remembered."

"Madame!" the girl exclaimed softly, gratefully. Then went on, while
as she spoke the tears stood in her eyes. "You have been always very
good to me, oh! so good, so good, as ever and to all. What shall we
do? What shall we do?"

"Nay, weep not. And--and--'Good!' Never say that. I----"

A tap, gentle as became the sick room, was heard at the door,
whereupon the girl, drying her eyes, went down to where it opened, and
after a whispered word with some domestic outside, returned to the bed
and, standing outside the _ruelle_, said, "Madame is here."

"Again! To-day! She is very thoughtful. Let her be brought to me at
once. And, Manon, we will be alone."

"Yes, Madame la Princesse," whereupon, bowing, she left her mistress,
going once more toward the door, at which she waited until steps were
heard outside, when she opened it wide and courtesied lowly and
reverently before the woman who had been spoken of as "Madame," and
who now came in.

A lady well advanced in years, having the appearance of being about
seventy, yet looking almost more, since the sumptuous black in which
she was arrayed seemed by its fashion to be suitable to an older woman
than even she was--a lady stately enough, though not tall, with a
white complexion and worn features, eyes that were piercing though not
dark, a mouth in which there were few teeth left, those that still
remained being black and discoloured.

"Aurore," she said, advancing to the bedside and passing within the
_ruelle_, a bar of which had been lifted by the attendant ere she went
out, "Aurore, I thank our Heavenly Father that he has not yet thought
fit to take you to himself. I--I--was very desirous of seeing you
again before we meet in Heaven--as I pray we shall ere long."

"Madame," the princess said, her voice calm and, for one reaching her
end, marvellously clear and distinct, "to see you must always be a
gratification to me, even in my extremity. Madame----"

"Cease this form of address," the other said, seating herself as she
did so in a low chair by the side of the great bed. "There is no
necessity for ceremony. We have always been friends, going hand in
hand in God's work since--long ago--since you were wife to the Baron
de Beauvilliers and with a greater position still to come; since I was
Madame Scarron only, with little thought of ever being a----"

"Queen!"

"Nay! Never that. A king's wife--but no queen."

"It rested with you. The acknowledgment might have been forthcoming
had you desired it."

"Even so. Only it was best to--to--let matters remain as they are."

So far as one so feeble as the princess now was could do so, she bent
her head acquiescingly; doubtless she knew also that it was best that
this woman should never be an acknowledged queen. She had not been a
brilliant figure of the court of France for fifty years without being
aware of all that was said, all that was whispered of Françoise
d'Aubigné ere she found religion--as well as favour in the eyes of the
king! Also, all that was whispered after that favour was found. There
were a thousand tongues for ever wagging, as well as innumerable
pens--the pen of De Sevignés to hint, the pens of Rabutins and
Tallement des Réaux  to speak plainly. Also her first lover was
remembered and spoken of with many a courtier's tongue thrust in his,
or her, cheek.

But now--now! she posed as God's vicegerent in France. Religion, even
God himself, as some said bitterly, had been taken under her
patronage; the king trembled for his soul as she worked on the fears
of his mind, and Jansenists, Calvinists, Huguenots had been driven
forth by hundreds of thousands to other lands, or, remaining in
France, had been dragooned, sent to the galleys, the wheel, and the
flames. The "_femme fameuse et funeste_" was the greatest living saint
in Europe.

And as a saint, a patroness of the Holy Roman Church, she came now to
visit the Princesse de Rochebazon once more ere she died.

"Aurore," she said, a moment later, "I have come to you again, hoping
to find you not yet gone before me; because--because--oh, Aurore!
to--to plead once more for the sacred cause of our Church; to beseech
you to consider what you are about to do. Think! Think! You have
worked so much good for that Church--yet you may do more."

"More!" the dying woman said, her clear, bright eyes fixed full blaze
upon the other. "Madame--well, Françoise, since you insist--what more
can I do? There is no de Rochebazon succeeding to title or estate, the
power to will the latter, and--and all the movables, the _argent
comptant_, is mine. And it is done. Beyond a few gifts to those who
have served me, beyond what I have saved from that which is not justly
mine, the Church will have all--all! Can it demand further?"

"'Tis that, 'tis that, Aurore! What you have saved from that which is
most justly yours? 'Tis that! You told me," and now her voice, never
loud, sank almost to a whisper, as though she feared that even in this
vast room there might still be some who could overhear her, "that to
this young man, this Martin Ashurst--this _Anglais_--you have left
those savings. A noble heritage, five hundred thousand pistoles.
Oh, Aurore! Aurore! think, think! it is French money, and he
is--English----"

"He is my own flesh and blood," the other interjected. "My brother's
child! And he is of our Church!"

"That alone redeems it. Yet think of all our Church, here in this
France of ours, needs. Money to extirpate the heretics--some can even
be _bought_ with money, they say; in the _Midi_ there are those who
will adopt our religion for a handful of Louis d'ors----"

"They must have changed since their grandfather's days!--since La
Rochelle!"

"They _have_ changed, though--Vengeance confound and crush them!--some
are still obstinate. But, Aurore, listen. This young man, this nephew,
needs not the money. He is provided for, will be provided for in his
own land. He will do well--go far under the heretic, Anne. Oh, Aurore,
he is your flesh and blood, I know. 'Tis but nature that you should
benefit him--yet not so much, not so much. God is before man--before
all earthly relations."

"He is my brother's child," the Princesse de Rochebazon repeated. "And
I loved that brother. Also this one has been my care----"

"I know, I know! Supported, educated by you, given money hourly to
squander in waste. Yet I speak not against that; he is of your race.
But now you will give him all this--so great a sum! And France needs
money. Aurore," she cried, "do you know that our--that Louis'--coffers
are empty? The wars, the buildings, the pomps and vanities, the awful
prodigalities of the court have left those coffers bare. And money is
needed so, needed so--especially for the work of the Church--needed so
much!"

And she almost wrung her hands as thus she pleaded. Yet again the
dying aristocrat murmured: "My own flesh and blood. Also of our
faith."

Exhausted by her own efforts, the De Maintenon--the Curse of France!
as many had termed her--seemed now to desist, to be beaten back by the
words of the princess. Then suddenly seemed also roused to fresh
excitement as the other spoke again--excitement mixed this time with
anger, as testified by the glances her eyes shot forth. For the dying
woman had continued: "Though I provide for him I must tell him the
truth--tell all. I can not die with a lie on my lips--in my heart."

"Aurore!" she exclaimed--had she not been a king's wife, had this not
been a sick-room, it might almost have seemed that she screamed at the
other--"Aurore, your brain is gone. You are mad. Tell him all, and
lead to further evil to our Church. Aurore, for God's sake say this is
a fantasy of your mind. Why," she exclaimed, her passion mounting with
her thoughts, "why should you, a stranger to France, a woman raised by
marriage to your high position, bring scandal on the name of a noble
family--reveal secrets that have slumbered for years?"

"I can not die," the other repeated, "with the truth hidden."

"The truth," Madame de Maintenon muttered through her discoloured
teeth, "the truth! What has the truth to do with--what account is it
when set against our faith! Aurore, in the name of that faith, recall
your words, your resolve."

But the dying woman was unshaken. Even the other, whose influence
terrified all France, could not affright her--perhaps because the
princess knew that henceforth she had to answer to a greater than she.

"I must confess it to him--I must--I must!" she murmured faintly. "I
must. I can not die with such a secret in my heart."




CHAPTER II.

THE TRAVELLER FROM ENGLAND.


A great _Berline à quatre chevaux_ halted at the North Gate outside
Paris, and the young man seated within the carriage let down the
window and prepared to once more answer all the questions that would
be put to him. Yet he also thanked Heaven, in a somewhat wearied
manner, that this must be the last of it. After that he would be in
Paris, with nothing before him but to drive as fast as might be to the
Rue Champfleury, known long ago as La Rue Honteuse.

Then the formula began once more, was repeated and gone through with,
precisely in the same manner as it had been gone through with at
Boulogne, where he had landed, at Amiens, Abbeville, and half a dozen
other towns and villages.

"Monsieur's name?" asked the _guet_, respectfully enough, while as
each answer was made he glanced at the passport handed to him and
countersigned by the Ambassador to England from "Louis, Roi de France
et de Navarre, etc."

"Martin Ashurst."

"Country?"

"England."

"Position?"

"Gentleman. Also----"

But here he found that no more explanation whatever was required from
him. Precisely as he had found it all along the road, whenever the
inquiring eyes of warders or _guets_ or gatekeepers (in some cases
soldiers) had lit upon one of the many statements appended to his
passport--the statement that Monsieur Ashurst was nephew to "Madame la
Princesse de Rochebazon."

"Passez, monsieur," said the man, as all the other men had said on
seeing this, and saluting as all the other men had saluted; after
which, with a direction to the coachman to proceed, he retired into
his room in the gatehouse.

"The last, thank God," the occupant of the Berline muttered, "the
last. It has been wearisome, but, well, it is over. Now for my aunt."

In spite of his weariness incurred by an unhalting journey from
London, in which sleep could only be obtained by snatches here and
there, in spite of the dust along the highroads both of England and
France having discoloured his scarlet coat and tarnished his gold
lacings and rendered dirty his Valenciennes cravat, as well as having
turned the whiteness of his wig to a dirty yellowish brown, Martin
Ashurst presented an attractive appearance. His features were handsome
and manly, clear-cut and aristocratic--Madame la Princesse de
Rochebazon, once Aurora Ashurst, had herself possessed the same
features when young--his figure was slight, yet strong and well knit,
his whole appearance satisfactory. Also he bore about him those
indefinable traits which mark the gentleman, which, perhaps, it may be
said without offence to others, mark and distinguish the English
gentleman particularly. A certain calm, a self-contained air, a lack
of perception of the existence of those who were unknown to him, and
thereby without his ken, distinguished Martin Ashurst as it has always
distinguished so many of the well-bred of our land.

Yet his life had not been all passed in England, the first fifteen
years of it being, indeed, spent in France under the patronage of the
aunt to whom the _Berline à quatre chevaux_ was now bearing him as
fast as four heavy Flanders roadsters could drag it.

Gabriel Ashurst, his father, and Gabriel's sister Aurora, had been two
among the hundreds of Royalists who, in the year 1647, were taken by
their parents to France as soon as it was possible to escape out of
England and from the clutches of the Parliamentarians. Then, in
France, in Paris, had begun for them that long career of exile against
which so many of the followers of the Stuarts had repined so much at
first, and which, in due course, so many had come to like and, in some
cases, to appreciate. Also there had come to this exiled family a
splendid piece of good fortune, the like of which did not fall often
in the way of English exiles. Aurora Ashurst, a girl of twenty, had
won the heart of Henri de Beauvilliers, then Baron de Beauvilliers,
but with, before him in the near future, the titles and wealth and
great positions of Comte de Montrachet, Marquis du Gast d'Ançilly, and
Prince de Rochebazon, for the head of the house who held them all was
near his end; they were almost within the grasp of Henri, as he stood
at the altar with his English bride. Three months after their marriage
they were his.

Time passed. Gabriel married, as well as his sister, his wife being a
countrywoman of his own, also in exile with her family. Cromwell died,
the Stuarts were restored. Then Gabriel and his wife returned to
England, but the lad, Martin, was left in charge of the Princesse de
Rochebazon, who had become by now a childless widow--was, indeed,
almost adopted by her. It was true she could not make him heir to the
great titles--those must die out!--but at least she could provide for
him, and she set about doing it. The whole control of the de
Rochebazon wealth was hers to do what she pleased with; she
might, if she had desired, have left their châteaux, their
woods and forests in half a dozen provinces, their hotel in the Rue
Champfleury--everything, to him. Only, because she was a just woman
and a religious, she would not do that, recognising that the wealth
accumulated by generations of French nobles ought not in common
honesty to go to one who had no tie of blood with them and who
belonged to a land which was almost always at war with France.
Therefore, urged partly by the promptings of her own heart and deep
Catholic feelings, partly by the promptings of a priest, and partly by
those of the De Maintenon, as well as by a whispered hint in the soft
courtly tones of _le Roi Soleil_, now cowering under the awful terrors
that too often assail the self-righteous, she left all the wealth of
the heirless De Rochebazons to the Church, reserving only for Martin
Ashurst the fortune she had saved out of her private purse.

Yet 'twas a fortune which would make him rich for life, place him on a
high pinnacle in either France or England, cause women either at St.
James's or Versailles to angle for him, and throw aside forever, as
commodities too expensive to be indulged in, the men whom they loved;
a fortune that would buy him a peerage in England, obtain for him the
_justaucorps à brevet_ in France, and orders and decorations, the
command of regiments, the governorships of provinces, embassies, stars
and ribbons, surround him with parasites and flatterers! Half a
million pistoles! In English money nigh upon five hundred thousand
guineas!

As the berline rolled through St. Ouen and Aubervilliers, the wheels
sometimes sticking in a rut of the ill-kept roads--whereby the great,
cumbersome vehicle lurched so heavily that the young man expected to
be overturned at every moment--sometimes, too, scattering a flock of
ducks and fowls before it as they sought for subsistence amid the dust
and filth, while the coachman and postillion hurled curses at all and
everything that came in their way, and the English man servant in the
banquette roared with laughter, Martin Ashurst thought of what lay
before him in the future. For he knew well enough to what he went--the
princess had long since apprised him of the inheritance that was to be
his--he knew that future. Yet he was not particularly enamoured of it.

"The conditions," he muttered more than once to himself, "are irksome.
To live in France, yet with my thoughts ever cast back to England, to
London, to St. James's and the suppers at Locket's and Pontac's, the
merry nights at Chaves's and White's. And--and--to be banished from
England! Faugh! whatever my aunt has to leave me can scarce be worth
that."

In sober truth, although he knew he was heir to Madame la Princesse,
he did not know how great the inheritance was to be. In thinking it
all over, in talking it all over, too, with his father and mother, he
had imagined with them that there might be some thirty or forty
thousand pounds which would be his, and that, owning this sum of
money, he would thereby be a rich man. But that any such sum as that
which his aunt had really put aside was ever likely to come to him had
never entered his thoughts.

"Also," he mused, "how serve Louis, be subject to him when my own
country may require me? And though we are at peace, how long shall we
be so? Marlborough, the Dutch, are restless; they itch to fly at this
French king's throat. It will come again. It must. No treaty ever yet
put an end to our wars for any considerable time. Also--also--there is
the other thing. In honour I must tell her that, even though by doing
so I cause her to renounce me, to disinherit me. To leave me not so
much as will pay the score at Locket's for suppers. She must know it."

Down the Rue de la Boucherie the berline rumbled, the dry fetid smell
of the blood of slaughtered beasts being perceptible to the young
man's nostrils as he passed through it, since it was still the
shambles of Paris; down the Rue des Chants Poulets and past the Rue
des Mauvais Garçons it went, with still the driver hurling curses at
all who got in his way, at children playing in the road and at a
_cordelier_ telling his beads as he walked, yet glinting an evil eye
at the coachman and muttering maledictions at him under his breath,
and with the English servant still laughing as now he donned his
drugget coat and put on his puff wig. For the driver, in between his
curses and howls and whoops at the animals, had found time to mutter
that the next street was La Rue Champfleury, though, _diantre!_ few
flowers grew there now, except in the gardens of the great Princesse
de Rochebazon.

"Sir," said the man servant, glancing down through the open window in
the back of the great vehicle, "we are nearly there."

"I know it," Martin Ashurst replied. Then asked suddenly, as they
passed under the _Beau Dieu_ stuck in a corner house of the street,
"Why does he roar afresh, and why pull up with such a jerk?"

"There are red cords stretched all about the street, sir, in front of
a great house; also the road is half a foot deep in tan to deaden
sounds. And a fellow with a three-cornered hat as big as a table waves
a gilt stick to him to stop. What shall we do?"

"Why, stop to be sure. Also I will alight. We have arrived."

Whereon he descended out of the berline, bidding the man follow with
his sword, as well as pay the driver and see to the necessaries being
taken off the roof. After which he passed through the cords, and
addressing the Suisse, said:

"How is it with Madame la Princesse?"

"Madame la Princesse still lives, monsieur," the man replied, his eye
roving over the scarlet coat and richly laced hat of the traveller;
noticing, too, the rings upon his fingers and the silver-hilted rapier
carried by the servant. "Doubtless monsieur is the nephew of Madame la
Princesse, expected to-day."

"I am he."

With a bow the man invited Martin Ashurst to follow him, and led him
through a cool vestibule to where some footmen stood about, then
ordered them to conduct monsieur to his apartment, saying that
possibly he would desire to make his toilet.

"The rooms prepared for monsieur are those he has occupied often
before, I hear," this man of importance said. "Upon this _étage_,
giving on the garden, if monsieur pleases."

And now, left alone with only his servant to attend upon him, monsieur
made a hasty toilet, washing from off his hands and face the dust and
dirt of the journey, discarding, too, his scarlet coat and waistcoat
for others of a more suitable colour, changing his wig and shoes and
stockings. Then bade the man go say that if the princess would receive
him he was ready to attend upon her.

Sitting there waiting to be summoned to her presence, his eyes
glancing out through the long open windows on to the fresh, green
garden with its banks of roses, now drooping with the advent of
autumn, he thought of all that she had done for him since first he
could remember. Of how, as a child, when he lived in this great house,
or went with her in the summer heats to fair Touraine--where was a
castle of the de Rochebazon's embowered in woods--or to that other
great château in Perche, or to still a third one which hung over the
golden sands of La Gironde, she seemed to live almost to shower gentle
kindnesses upon him, her brother's child. To do all for him that she
would have done had he been her own; to surround him with luxuries far
too good and dainty for one so young as he; to provide him with tutors
and keepers, with horses and carriages and rich silks and satins, and
gold pieces in his pockets to fling to beggars as other men flung sols
and deniers, because she loved him, and in her love had but one
regret--that he was not a de Rochebazon to succeed to all they owned.

Also, when they were separated, he in England, she at Versailles, how
much she had done for him as he grew to manhood! How much! How much!
Money sent over for his pleasures because she desired that, in all
things, he should have the best, should be able to hold his own with
those who were in the court circle and the fashion. That his early
years should never know any narrowness of means which in after life
might cramp him as he recalled it; also that, as he stepped over the
threshold of youth and reached manhood, he should do so with ease and
comfort.

"I owe her all, everything," he mused to himself as still his eyes
gazed out upon the trim-kept and still luxurious _parterres_ of the
great gardens. "All, all! My father, beggared as he was by his
loyalty, could have done naught beyond equipping me for some
simple, unambitious calling, beyond, perhaps, obtaining me a pair of
colours in some marching regiment. I owe her all--the clothes upon
my back, the food I eat, the very knowledge of how to wield a sword!
And--and--God forgive me! I have deceived her for years, kept back for
years a secret that should not have existed for one hour. Still, she
shall know now. She shall not go to her grave without knowing that I
have no right to own one single livre that she has put aside for me."

As he finished his reflections the door was rapped at, and the
footman, entering at his command, told him that the Demoiselle Manon
was without and waiting to escort him to the bedside of Madame la
Princesse.




CHAPTER III.

A PARTING SOUL.


Looking down upon her as she lay in the great bed whereon had reposed
so many of the de Rochebazons for generations--when they had been the
head of the house--Martin Ashurst told himself how, except for the
reason that he was about to lose the kindest benefactress and
kinswoman any man had ever had, there was no cause for the tears to
rise to his eyes.

For never was a more peaceful parting about to be made, to all
external appearances; never could a woman have trod more calmly the
dark road that, sooner or later, all have to pass along, than was now
treading Aurora, Princesse de Rochebazon. Also it seemed as if death
was smoothing away every wrinkle that time had brought to her face,
changing back that face to the soft, innocent one which, in the spring
of life, had been Aurora Ashurst's greatest charm; the face that had
been hers when, as a winsome child, she played in the meadows round
her father's old home in Worcestershire--demolished by Lambert; the
face that, but a few years later, had won Henri de Beauvilliers away
from the intoxicating charms of Mancinis, of Clerembaults, of
Baufremonts, and Châtillons, and a hundred other beauties who then
revolved round the court of the young king, now grown so old.

"You do not suffer, dear and honoured one," Martin said, bending over
her and gazing into the eyes that were still so bright--the last awful
glazed look and vacant stare, which tell of the near end being still
some hours off; "you do not suffer, dear one. That I can see, and
thank God for so seeing."

"No," the princess said, "I have no pain. I am dying simply of what
comes to all--decay. I am seventy years of age, and it has come to me
a little earlier than it does sometimes. That is all. But, Martin, we
have no time to talk of this. Time is short--I know that." Then,
suddenly lifting the clear eyes to his own, she said, "Do you know why
I sent a special courier to London for you?"

"To bid me hurry to you, I should suppose, dear one. To give me your
blessing. Oh!" he exclaimed, bending a little nearer to her, "you are
a saint. You would not part from me without giving me that. Therefore
bless me now!" and he made as though he would kneel by her side
betwixt the bed and the _ruelle_.

"Wait," she said, "wait. I have something to tell you. After I have
done so I know not if you will still deem me a saint, still desire my
blessing. Bring that chair within the _ruelle_; sit down and listen."

Because he thought that already her mind was beginning to enter that
hazy approach to death in which the senses lose all clearness, and the
dying, when they speak at all, speak wanderingly, he neither showed
nor felt wonderment at her words. Instead, because he desired to
soothe and calm her, he did as she bade him, drawing the chair within
the rail and holding her hand as he did so.

"Whatever," he said softly, "you may tell me can make no difference in
my love and reverence for you--make me desire your blessing less or
deem you less a saint. Yet--yet--if it pleases you to speak, if you
have aught you desire to say, say on. Still, I beseech you, weary not
yourself."

At first she did not answer him, but lay quite still, her eyes fixed
on his face; lay so still that from far down the room he heard the
ticking of the clock, heard the logs fall softly together with a
gentle clash now and again, even found himself listening to a bird
twittering outside in the garden.

Then, suddenly, once more her voice sounded clearly in the silence of
the room; he heard her say: "What I tell you now will make me accursed
in the eyes of all the Church--our Church. I am about to confide to
you a secret that all in that Church have ordered me never to divulge,
or I would have done it long since. Yet now I must tell it."

"A secret," he repeated silently to himself, "a secret!" Therefore he
knew that her mind must indeed be wandering. What secret could this
saintly woman have to reveal? Ah! yes, she was indeed wandering! Yet,
even as he thought this, he reflected how strange a thing it was that,
while he had actually a revelation to make to her--one that his honour
prompted him to make--she, in the delirium of coming death, should
imagine that she had something which it behooved her to disclose.

Once more he heard her speaking. Heard her say:

"All deem that with me perishes the last bearer, man or woman, of the
de Rochebazon name. It is not so. There is probably one in existence."

"Madame!" the young man exclaimed very quietly, yet startled, almost
appalled. "Madame! A de Rochebazon in existence! Are you conscious of
what you are saying?" and he leaned a little over the coverlet and
gazed into her eyes as he spoke. Surely _this_ was wandering.

"As conscious as that I am dying here, as that you, Martin Ashurst,
are sitting by my side."

"I am astounded. How long has what you state been known--supposed--by
you?"

"Known--not supposed--since I became Henri de Beauvillier's wife,
forty-six years ago."

"My God! What does it mean? A de Rochebazon alive! Man or woman?"

"Man!"

Again Martin exclaimed, "My God!" Then added: "And this man,
therefore, is, has been since the death of your husband, the Prince de
Rochebazon?"

"Before my husband's death," the other answered quietly, calmly, as
though speaking on the most trivial subject. "My husband never was the
prince."

Unintentionally, without doubt--perhaps, too, unnoticed by her--his
hand released hers, slipping down from the bedside to his knee, where
it lay, while he, his eyes fixed full on her now and still seeking to
read in her face whether that which she uttered was the frenzy of a
dying woman or an absolute truth, said slowly and distinctly:

"Nor you, therefore--that I must utter the words!--the princess?"

"Nor I the princess."

"It is incredible. Beyond all belief."

"It is true."

Again there was a pause; filled up on Martin Ashurst's part with a
hurtling mass of thoughts which he could not separate one from the
other, though above all others there predominated one--the thought
that this was the derangement of a mind unhinged by the weakness of
approaching death, clouded by the gradual decay of nature. And,
thinking thus, he sat silent, wondering if in very truth--since all
she had said seemed so utterly beyond the bound of possibility--it
were worth disturbing her with questions.

Yet her next words seemed uttered as though with a determination to
force him to believe that what she had said was no delusion.

"There are others who know it--only they will never tell."

"Others! Who?"

"Madame knows it"--he was well enough aware _what_ "Madame" she
referred to, and that it was to neither her of Orleans nor any of the
daughters of the house of France--"so, too, does La Chaise, and also
Chamillart. Also," and now her voice sank to a whisper, "Louis."

"Louis!" he repeated, also whisperingly, yet not recognising that his
voice was lowered instinctively. "The king! knows and permits. My
God!"

"He must permit, seeing that she--De Maintenon--holds him in a grasp
of steel."

"Knowing--herself?"

"I have said."

Again over the room there fell a silence, broken only by the ticking
of the distant clock; also now the shadows of evening were drawing on,
soon the night would be at hand--a silence caused by the dying woman
having ceased to speak, by the man at her side forbearing to ask more
questions.

Yet he was warned by signs which even he, who had as yet but little
acquaintance with death, could not misinterpret; that what more was to
be told must be declared at once, or--never. For the dying woman made
no further effort to divulge more, or to explain aught which should
elucidate the strange statement she had startled him with; instead,
lay back upon her pillows, her eyes open, it was true, but staring
vacantly upon the embossed and richly-painted ceiling, her breathing
still regular but very low.

"She will speak no more," he said to himself, "no more. Thank
God, the secret does not die with her. Yet will those whom she has
mentioned--this woman who is the king's wife; the king himself; La
Chaise, who, if all accounts are true, is a lying, crafty priest; the
minister Chamillart--will they assist to right a wrong? Alas, I fear
not! Ah, if she could but speak again--tell all!"

As thus he thought, the door opened and the waiting maid came in,
accompanied by a gentleman clad in sombre black, his lace being,
however, of the whitest and most costly nature, and his face as white
as that lace itself. And the girl, advancing down the room, followed
by the other, explained to Martin, when she had reached the bed, that
the gentleman accompanying her was Monsieur Fagon, _premier Médecin du
Roi_.

Bowing to him with much courtliness, the physician passed within the
_ruelle_ and stood gazing down upon the dying woman in what was now no
better than twilight, but going through, as the other observed, none
of the usual ceremonies of feeling the pulse or listening to the
breathing. Then once he nodded his head, after which he turned away,
stepping outside the _ruelle_.

"What may we hope, monsieur?" the young man asked, following Fagon
down the room.

"What," answered Fagon in return, "does monsieur hope?"

"That she may be spared for yet some hours--more, I fear, can scarcely
be expected. Also that she may be able to speak again and clearly. I
am her nephew, and, in a manner of speaking, am--was to be--her heir."

From under his bushy eyebrows Fagon shot a glance out of his small
twinkling eyes. Then he said: "So I have heard. Yet monsieur, if he
will pardon me, phrases his statement strangely, in spite of his
having the French extremely well. 'Was to be her heir!' Has monsieur
reason to apprehend that Madame la Princesse has made any alteration
in her testamentary dispositions?"

"Monsieur has no reason to apprehend that such is the case. Yet,"
changing the subject, "he would be very glad if he could know that
some hours of life will still be granted to--to--Madame la Princesse;
that he might hope she will be able to converse again."

"Sir," Fagon said, with still the little twinkling eyes upon him, "she
may live two or three more hours. I doubt her ever speaking again.
There is no more to be done. Sir, I salute you." With which words he
departed, escorted by the maid servant Manon.

It seemed, however, to Martin as though even should his aunt recover
consciousness and be able to throw any further light upon the strange
story which she had commenced, no opportunity would arise for her to
do so, for Fagon had not been gone a quarter of an hour, during which
time she lay so motionless in her bed that more than once he gazed
down upon her, wondering if already the soul had parted from the body,
before the monk who had previously been in attendance came in, and
going toward the great fireplace drew forth his missal and began to
read it. Nor was it without some difficulty that Martin was able to
induce him to quit the room.

"Depart!" this holy man said, glancing up at the tall form of the
other as he whispered his request to him. "Depart, my son! Alas! do
you not know that the end is near--that at any moment the last
services of the Church may be required to speed the passing soul?"

"I know, nor do I intend that she shall be deprived of those services.
But, reverend sir, it is necessary I should be alone with my
kinswoman; if she recovers her intelligence even at the last moment we
have much to say to one another. I beg you, therefore, to leave us
together; be sure you shall not be debarred from ministering to her
when she desires you. I request you to remain outside--yet within
call."

Because he knew not how to resist, because also he was but a humble
member of the Théatine confraternity who, in Paris at least, owed much
to the wealth and support of the Rochebazons, also because in his
ignorance he thought he stood in the presence of him who was, he
imagined in his simplicity, the next possessor of that great name and
the vast revenues attached to it, he went as bidden, begging only that
he might be summoned at the necessary moment.

Then for a little while kinsman and kinswoman were alone once more.

"Will she ever speak again, tell me further?" Martin mused again,
gazing down on the silent woman lying there, her features now lit up a
little by the rays of a shaded _veilleuse_ that had been brought into
the chamber by Manon and placed near the great bed. "I pray God she
may." Then murmured to himself: "As well as I can see--'tis but
darkly, Heaven knows--yet so far as I can peer into the future, on me
there falls the task of righting a great wrong, done, if not by her,
at least by those to whose house she belongs. But, to do so much, I
must have light."

It seemed to him, watching there, as though the light was coming--was
at hand. For now the occupant of the bed by which he sat stirred; her
eyes, he saw, were fixed on him; a moment later she spoke. But the
voice was changed, he recognised--was hoarse and harsh, hollow and
toneless.

"Henri," she murmured, with many pauses 'twixt her words, "Henri was
not the eldest. There was--another--son--a--a--Protestant--a
Huguenot----"

"Great God! what sin is here?" the startled watcher muttered; then
spoke more loudly: "Yes, yes, oh, speak, speak! Continue, I beseech
you. Another son--a Huguenot--and the eldest!"

"That a de Rochebazon should be--a--Huguenot," the now dry voice
muttered raucously, "a Huguenot! And fierce--relentless--strong, even
to renouncing all--all--his rank, his name, his birthri----"

Again she ceased; he thought the end had come. Surely the once clear
eyes were glazing now, surely this dull glare at vacancy which
expressed indefinitely that, glare how they might, they saw nothing,
foretold death--near, close at hand.

"Some word, some name, madame, dear one," the listener whispered.
"Speak, oh! speak, or else all effort must fail. His name--that which
his brother called him--that which he took, if he renounced his
rightful one. The name--or--God help us all! naught can be done."

"His name," the dying woman whispered through white lips, in accents
too low to reach the listener's ears, "was----"

If she uttered it he did not hear it. Moreover, at this supreme moment
there came another interruption--the last!

The door opened again. Down the room, advancing toward the bed, came a
priest, a man thin to attenuation, dry and brown as a mummy, with eyes
that burned like coals beneath an eyebrowless forehead, yet one who
told his beads even as he advanced, his lips quivering and moving
while he prayed.

Do the dying know, even as we bend over them, seeking to penetrate
beneath that glassy stare which suggests so deep an oblivion, of the
last word we would have them speak, the last question we would have
answered ere the veil of dense impenetrable darkness falls forever
between them and us?

Almost it seemed as if she, this sinking woman who had lived for years
a great princess, yet, by her own avowal, was none, did in truth know
what her kinsman sought to drag from her--the clew which should lead
to the righting of a great wrong, as he had said.

For, as the priest came through the lurking shadows of the room and
out of the darkness of the farther end, toward where the small night
lamp cast its sickly shadow, the hand which Martin Ashurst held closed
tighter upon his own, and with a quivering grasp drew his toward her
body, placing it upon a small substance that had lain sheltering
'twixt her arm and side.

And even as thus his hand closed over hers, while that other quivered
warm and damp within it, the priest knelt and, over his crucifix,
uttered up prayers for the passing soul.




CHAPTER IV.

LES ATTROUPÉS.


It was October in the year 1701 when she who had borne the title for
so long of Princesse de Rochebazon was laid in the family vault in the
Church of St. Sépulcre. It was July of the next year when a gentleman,
looking somewhat travel-stained and weary, halted his horse at the
foot of the Mont de Lozère, in Languedoc--the same man who had
travelled from England eight months ago as Martin Ashurst, to attend
his aunt's death-bed, but who since then had been known as Monsieur
Martin.

There were more reasons than one why this change of name should be
made--primarily because war having been declared by England in
conjunction with Austria and Holland against Louis, no subject of
Queen Anne was permitted within France, or, being in, would be safe
if known and identified as such. But with an assumed name, or rather
with part of his own name discarded--Martin being common to both
countries--and with his knowledge of the French language perfect,
owing to his long residence in the country as a child, the
identification of Martin Ashurst with England was, if he held his
peace, almost impossible. Also there were other reasons. He believed
that at last he had found traces of the missing man, of him to whom by
right fell all the vast wealth of the de Rochebazons, accumulated for
centuries.

"Yet even now," he said to himself, "God knows if I shall succeed in
finding him, or even should I do so, if I shall persuade him to claim
what is his own. And, though he should still be willing, will that
scourge of God, Louis, that curse of France, his wife, let one penny
ever come to his hands? A Huguenot, and with the Huguenots in open
rebellion, what chance would he have? I must be careful, more careful
than ever, now that I am in the hotbed of revolution."

As he pondered thus he turned his wrist and urged his horse forward at
a walk, making his way on slowly through the mountains to the village
of Montvert.

"Three months," he said, "three months since I set out for
Switzerland--for Geneva and Lausanne--and now, even now, but little
nearer to the end than before. Coming here, I was told that it was
almost impossible that Cyprien de Beauvilliers could have settled in
the Cévennes without being known; travelling on to Savoy and to
Lausanne, I learn at last that he did most undoubtedly come here from
Geneva years ago. Shall I ever know--ever find out?"

A league or so accomplished at a walking pace, for his poor beast was
almost exhausted now, it having been ridden across the mountains from
St. Victor de Gravière since daybreak, and from Geneva within the last
three weeks, and the banks of a river named Le Tarn being slowly
followed, the rider entered Montvert, and passing across the bridge,
proceeded slowly up the village street. Yet even as he did so he cast
his eyes on a house at the side of that bridge and on the small trim
garden between it and the stream, muttering to himself:

"Ah! Monsieur l'abbé! Monsieur l'abbé! you are one of the firebrands
who stir up dissension in these valleys--you and your familiar spirit,
Baville. Also your evil fame has travelled far. You are known and
hated in Geneva, Lausanne, Vevey--maybe in Holland by now. 'Tis best
you pray to Heaven to avert your fate. 'Tis threatened! And, if all
the stories of you be true, it is almost deserved, no matter in what
form it comes."

Proceeding still farther along the little main street of the bourg, he
came to a wooden house also standing in a small trimly-kept garden, in
which there grew all kinds of simple flowers that made the place gay
with their colours, and here he dismounted, while calling to a boy who
was raking the crushed shells on the path, he bade him take his horse
to the stable in the rear.

"For you see, Armand," he said with a pleasant smile, "here I am back
again, after a long while--yet still back."

The boy smiled a greeting and said all would be glad to welcome him,
then did as he was bid and led the animal away, while Martin, going up
to the door, knocked lightly on it and asked, as he threw his voice
into the passage, if the _pasteur_ was within.

To which, in answer, there came down toward the door an elderly
gray-haired man, who held out both his hands and shook those of the
younger one cordially.

"Back! Back!" he exclaimed joyously. "Ah! this is good. Come in. Come
in. The room is always ready, the bed kept aired, the lavender in the
drawers. Welcome! Welcome!" Then, after looking at him and saying that
his journey had not harmed him, he exclaimed: "Well, what news? Or--is
it disappointment again?"

"But little news; scarcely, in truth, more than before. Yet something.
I met a man at Geneva who had known Cyprien de Beauvilliers, but he
was very old and, alas! it is forty years and more since he set eyes
on him."

"Forty years! A lifetime!"

"Ay, a lifetime--long enough for him to have disappeared from all
human knowledge, to have died. That, I fear, is what has happened.
Otherwise, this man says, they of the reformed faith would almost
surely have heard of him."

"Not of necessity," the pastor answered. "If he so hated his kin and
their religion that he was determined to break off forever from them
and their customs, he may have resolved to obliterate every clew. He
told the princess's husband that he renounced his name, his
birthright. Other men have resolved on that, and kept their
resolution."

While they had been speaking the pastor had led Martin Ashurst into
his little salon, and he called now to an elderly woman to prepare the
evening meal.

"And a good one to-night, Margot; a good one to-night to welcome back
the wanderer."

Whereon the old servant smiled upon that wanderer and murmured also
some words of greeting, while she said it should be a good one.
_Fichtre_, but it should!

"_Soit!_ Let us see," went on her master. "First for the solids. Now,
there is a trout, caught this morning and brought me by Leroux--oh,
such a trout! Two kilos if an ounce, and with the true deep speckles.
_Ma foi!_ he was a fool, he clung too much to the neighbourhood of the
lower bridge, derided Leroux with his wicked eye; yet, observe, Leroux
has got him. _Si! Si!_ Half an hour hence he will be _truite au vin
blanc_, a thing not half so wholesome for him as the stream and the
rushes. _Hein!_"

Martin smiled to himself, yet gravely, as always now since his aunt's
dying revelation. How far off seemed to him the merry days, or nights,
at Locket's and Pontac's, and the jokes and jeers and flashes of wit
of Betterton and Nokes, Vanburgh and gentle Farquhar!--while still the
good old pastor prattled on, happy at preparing his little feast.

"_Truite au vin blanc_. Ha! And the right wine, too, to wash it down.
Ha! The _Crépi_, in the long, tapering glasses that the Chevalier de
Fleuville brought me from Villefranche. Poor de Fleuville! Poor, poor
de Fleuville! Then, Margot, the _ragoût_ and the white chipped bread,
and, forget not these, clean _serviettes_ to-night, if we never have
others, and the cheese from Joyeuse. Oh! we will _faire la noce_
to-night, _mon brave_. God forgive me," he broke off suddenly, his
voice changing, "that even your return should make me think of feasts
and _noces_ at such a time as this--a time of blood and horror and
cruelty!"

Over the meal, the trout being all that was expected of him, and the
_Crépi_ a fitting accompaniment thereto, they talked on what had been
the object of "Monsieur Martin's" journey into Switzerland, then
neutral in both religion and politics, and offering, consequently, a
home for refugees of all classes and denominations; talked also of
what results that journey had had, or had failed to have. But all
ended, or was comprised, in what the young man had already told the
other--namely, that it seemed certain that Cyprien de Beauvilliers had
at first gone to Geneva and Lausanne after he renounced his family and
his religion, and that from there he had come to Languedoc, meaning to
settle in the one spot in France where Protestantism was in its
strongest force.

"He would thereby," the pastor said, as now they reached the _fromage
de Joyeuse_, nestling white and creamy in the vine leaves, "be able to
enjoy his religion in peace for many years, until--until the unhappy
events of '85. Alas! that revocation! That revocation, born of that
fearful woman! What--what will be the outcome of all, for even now it
is but beginning to bear its worst fruits. Martin," he continued,
"Martin, _mon ami_, we are but at the commencement. I fear for what
will happen here ere long. I fear, I fear, I fear."

"Here! Is it as bad as that?"

"It is dreadful, appalling. My friend, they will suffer no longer.
They can support neither Baville's tyranny, which extends over all the
district, nor--here, in this little village once so happy--the
monstrous cruelties of the abbé."

"The abbé! Du Chaila! What is he doing now?"

"Tongue scarce dare tell for fear of not being believed. In after
years, in centuries to come, when religion is free and tolerant, as
some day it must be--it must! it must!--those who read of what we have
suffered will deem the story false. O Martin! there, in that house by
the bridge, are done things that would almost excite the envy of the
Inquisition, ay! of Torquemada himself, were he still in existence.
And he, this abbé, is the man who will light the flame in this
tranquil spot. I pray God it may be extinguished almost ere lit." And
Martin Ashurst saw that even as he spoke his hands were folded under
the table, as though in prayer, and that his lips moved.

"But what," he said, "what do you fear? Also to what extremes does he
now proceed?"

"'Proceed!' Ah, Martin, listen. There in that house by the bridge,
once Fleuville's, who was hung by De Genne upon the bridge itself, so
that his wife might see the thing each morning when she rose, he
tortures us, the Protestants. Keeps prisoners confined, too, in the
cellars deeper than the river itself. In stocks some, naked some, some
with food only twice a week. He boasts he is God's appointed, then
jeers and says, 'Appointed, too, by Baville under Louis.'"

"And Louis knows this?"

"Some say not, some say yes. For myself, I do not know. But things are
near the end." And again the good pastor murmured, "I fear, I fear, I
fear." Then went on, his voice lowered now and his eyes glancing
through the windows, opened to let in the soft autumn air, cool and
luscious as though it had passed over countless groves of flowers:
"Listen. Masip--you have heard of him, Masip, the guide, he who shows
the way to Switzerland and freedom--he is now there, in the cellars,
in the stocks, bent double, his hands through two holes above the two
where his feet are."

"For what?"

"He showed the Demoiselles Sexti the road to Chambery--they went
dressed as boys. The girls escaped into the mountains. Masip is
doomed. He dies to-morrow."

"God help him!"

"Him! God help all, Martin. He hunts us everywhere. Some of my brother
preachers have been executed; I myself am suspended, my hour may
come--to-night--to-morrow. Sooner or later it must come. Then for me
the wheel or the flames or the gibbet--there." And he pointed down the
street toward where the bridge was on which Fleuville's body had been
hanged.

"Never! Never!" Martin exclaimed, touching the old man's arm. "Never,
while I have a sword by my side." Then added, a moment later:

"My friend, I must declare myself. While all are so brave, all going
to, or risking, their doom, I am but a craven hound to wear a mask.
To-morrow I announce--or rather denounce--myself as a Protestant. My
aunt died ere I could tell the secret which would have caused her to
curse me instead of leaving me her heir. Here, I will shelter myself
under that secret no more. To-morrow I see this abbé in his own house,
to-morrow I defy him to do his worst on me as on others. I proclaim
myself."

"No, no, no!" the old pastor cried, springing at him, placing his hand
upon his lips to prevent further words from being heard or from
penetrating outside. "No, no! In God's name, no! I forbid you. If you
do that, how will you ever find de Beauvilliers--de Rochebazon, as he
is if alive--or, he being dead, find his children? I forbid you," he
reiterated again and again in his agitation. "I forbid you."

"Forbid me? Force me to live a coward in my own esteem? To see those
of my own faith slaughtered like oxen in the shambles and stand by, a
poltroon, afraid to declare myself?"

"I forbid you. Not yet, at least. Remember, too, you are an
Englishman, of France's deepest, most hated foes; your doom is doubly
threatening. Yet, oh, oh, my son," he exclaimed in a broken voice,
"how I love, how I reverence you! Brave man, brave, honest Protestant,
I love--my God!" he exclaimed, changing his tone suddenly, desisting
in his speech, "My God! what is that?"

Desisted, turning a stricken, blanched face upon the younger man, who
had reached for his sword and sash and was already donning them, while
he whispered through white lips, "It has come! It has come! The storm
has burst," while even as he spoke he fell on his knees by the table,
and sinking his head into his hands, commenced to pray long and
silently.

Prayed long and silently, while from outside the bourg--yet advancing,
approaching nearer every moment--there came a deep sound. At first a
hum, then, next, a clearer, more definite noise, and next, they being
distinguishable, the words of a hymn sung by many voices.

Upon the soft night air, so calm and peaceful a moment earlier, those
words rolled, the cadence falling and rising until it seemed as though
it must reach the mountain tops o'erhanging the village. Rolled up and
swelled, and sunk and rose again, telling how the Lord set ambushments
against the children of Ammon, Moab, and Mount Seir, who came against
Judah; telling how, when they had made an end of one of their
particular foes, each helped to destroy another.

Again the pastor moaned: "They have risen. They have risen. God help
us all!"

"Who?" asked Martin. "Who? Our own faith? The Protestants? The
Camisards? Risen at last."

"At last! At last!" the old man said, glancing up from his prayers.
And he began to pray aloud to God to avert the horrors of battle and
murder and sudden death.

The tramp of many men came nearer. Past the foot of the garden those
men went, a compact mass; in their hands and belts, and borne also
upon their shoulders, swords, old halberds, musketoons and pistols, in
some cases scythes and reaping hooks. And ahead of all marched three
gaunt, weird men, the inspired ones, the prophets of the Cevennes, of
the Camisards.

"Keep all within doors," a deep-toned voice exclaimed from out the
throng, "on pain of death. Disturb not the children of God, his
persecuted ones. No harm is meant to those who interfere not. Keep
within doors, also appear not at the windows. All will thereby be
well."

And again the psalm uprose, though now there were some who shouted:
"To the vile abbé's! To the murderer's! To the house on the bridge!
On! On! The soldiers first, the abbé next! On! On! To avenge the
Lord!"

Then from farther ahead there rang the report of musketry, and one man
fell dead pell-mell among the moving crowd, and was left lying in the
white dust of the roadway, as from the window Martin could well see.
But still the others shouted: "On! On! God's will be done!"

And again the pastor lifted his hands from where he knelt and cried
aloud, "From battle, murder, and sudden death, good Lord deliver us."




CHAPTER V.

'TWIXT THEN AND NOW.


When Martin Ashurst bent over her who had borne for over forty years
the title of Princesse de Rochebazon, and saw that, at last, the light
had gone out of her eyes forever, he recognised how her dying words
had changed his whole existence. Not only was he no more the heir to
the wealth she had put by for him--his honour never halted for one
moment in telling him that, or in dictating the renouncement of every
sol that was hers--but also there had arisen before him a task which,
his honour again speaking clear and trumpet-tongued, he must devote
his life to fulfilling. He had to find the true Prince de Rochebazon,
or, which was more likely, if he ever succeeded in his search at all,
to find that man's children and put before them a plain account of all
the wealth which was theirs, even though they should not be induced to
accept it.

That if he could discover the missing de Rochebazon, even though he
were still alive, he would find him willing to reclaim what was his,
he doubted. A man who could for more than forty years renounce one of
the most brilliant positions in France because of his religious
convictions was not very likely now to alter those convictions, he
knew. Also Martin Ashurst's acquaintance with the land over which the
Grand Monarque reigned was amply sufficient to tell him that here, and
under the all-powerful domination of the self-righteous De Maintenon,
Louis would never allow a hated Protestant to step into the wealth and
titles of so Romish a family as that of the de Rochebazons. Between
these two stumbling blocks, therefore--the Protestantism of the lost
man on one side, and the bigotry of the arbiter of France on the
other--it was scarcely to be hoped that even though he should find him
whom he sought, he should succeed in his endeavour to restore to that
man what was his.

Yet, because he was honest and straightforward, he swore to at least
make the attempt.

Regaining his own room, in which the lights had been placed--even with
the mistress and last ruler of the great house lying dead in it, the
major domo had deemed it fit that waxen candles should blaze from
girandoles in every passage and room of the hotel, and that naught
should be omitted which testified to its sumptuousness and
magnificence--he recollected that he was still grasping in his hand
the packet which the dying woman had directed that hand to, for he had
forgotten almost that he had received it from her, so agitated was he
during her last moments; now that it recalled its presence to him, he
determined that he would as soon as might be discover what it
contained.

But first he knew that there were other things to be done: Orders to
be given that due proclamation of her death should be made; that,
above all, the heads of her Church should at once be communicated
with, since the monk now praying by her side would not, he was aware,
quit the house, even though he had to leave the body while it was
prepared for the grave; that a courier should be sent to Marly, where
the king was; that the seals should be put on everything.

There was much to do still ere he could open that packet which might
tell him all--or nothing.

Yet by midnight, before the great bell struck the hour from St.
Eustache, as much was done as possible. Aurora, Princesse de
Rochebazon, lay, not in her coffin; that, with its emblazonments
and silver feet and coronets at its corners, as well as the great
silver plaque telling of all the rank and honours and titles she had
borne--unrighteously, if her own dying words were true--could not be
prepared hurriedly. Instead, upon her bed, now transformed into a
temporary bier, as the great room in which she had died had been
transformed into a _Chapelle Ardente_. Also the courier was gone, the
Church apprised of the death of its open-handed benefactress; already
the Abbé Le Tellier (confessor to the king and all the royal family,
and titulary bishop and coadjutor of Reims) was here, he having
arrived from St. Cloud as fast as his _chaise roulante_ could bring
him; also the place swarmed with priests--Theatines, Dominicans,
Benedictines, and Augustines; the seals, too, were on doors and
coffers and bureaux.

Likewise, Samuel Bernard, _traitant_ and banker to the _haut monde_,
had paid a visit and been closeted for an hour with the clergy. For
the Church was the principal inheritor of the de Rochebazon wealth,
and the time had come for it to grasp its heritage.

Yet now, at midnight, the great house was at last quiet; the monks
prayed in silence in the room where the dead woman lay; the Suisse sat
behind the high closed gates refreshing himself with the flask of
yellow muscadine which the butler had brought him, and discussing with
that functionary what _legs_ each were like to get; some women
servants who had loved their dead mistress wept in their beds.

All was still at last.

Martin opened the packet in that silence--he had dismissed his own
servant an hour before--and inspected its contents.

They were not numerous--half a dozen letters and a lock of hair,
golden, fair as the ripening cornfield, long, and with a curl to it.
But, except that and the letters, nothing else. Whose hair it was that
had thus been preserved in a piece of satin Martin never knew, yet
perhaps could guess.

The letters lay one above the other in the order they had been
written. The first and uppermost had the upper portion of it torn
away, possibly by accident, or perhaps, instead, by the recipient who,
it may be, was not desirous that the place whence it was dated should
be known. At least such, Martin Ashurst fancied, might be the case.
The paper it was written on was yellow with age, the ink faded, yet
the words still clear and distinct, the writing firm. Because the top
of the sheet was torn away some of the first lines of the
communication were themselves missing, therefore the letter ran thus:


"... her fault upon me. _Soit!_ I bow to what you say. Yet, if
disinheritance of all that should be mine is your determination, my
place in the world you can never disinherit me from; I myself alone
can renounce that. The pity is great that you have it not also in your
power to deprive me of the qualities of mind and heart which you have
transmitted to me. Yet I pray God that I may find in myself the
strength to do so, to cast away from me the pride of race, the fierce
cruelty of heart, the intolerance of all that is not within my own
circle of vision. Also your power of hating another for the fault
committed, not by himself, but an unhappy mother--a mother driven to
sin by coldness from him who should have reverenced her; the victim of
a gloomy, morose nature, of a self-esteem that would be absurd even in
the king himself, of a pride that might rival the pride of Lucifer.

"To reproach you, however, for sins which I may myself have inherited
from you--since even you do not deny me as your son--would be useless.
Therefore it is better for me to write at once that I do not oppose
the disinheritance with which you threaten me. Nay, rather, I go hand
in hand with you, only, also, I go to a greater extent. You tell me
that if I embrace the Reformed Faith no sol or denier of the de
Rochebazon wealth shall ever be mine, that I shall enjoy a barren
title. This you can not force me to do. I will support no title
whatever. Henceforth, neither de Rochebazon, nor d'Ançilly, nor
Montrachet, nor Beauvilliers have aught to do with me. I cast them
off. I forget that the house which bears those titles is one with
which I have any connection. I go forth into the world alone, under a
lowly name. The roof that covers me, the food for my mouth, the
clothes to cover my nakedness, will be earned by my own hands.
Moreover, so do I steel my heart that henceforth even my brother,
Henri, will be lost to me forever. He becomes, therefore, your heir;
may he find in you a better father than I have ever done.
Consequently, for the last time on this earth, I sign myself,

"CYPRIEN DE BEAUVILLIERS."


Martin laid the paper down on the table before him and sat back musing
in his chair. "A stern, fierce determination that," he muttered to
himself, "arrived at by a man who would keep his word. Let us see for
the next."

As he read this next one it was easy to perceive what course the
rupture between the father and son had taken; how the iron will of the
one had beaten down that of the other. Already the elder had sued for
reconciliation--and had failed.


"What you now desire," the man wrote, who had once been Cyprien de
Beauvilliers, "is impossible. First, on the ground of religion, and
secondly, because of yourself. I am now of the Protestant faith, have
embraced that faith in Holland, to which country you appear to have
tracked my steps, I know not how. Yet that you shall never be able to
do so in the future, I leave it at once, and from the time when I quit
it I defy you to ever discover my whereabouts. Let me remind you that
this change of faith alone is a bar to my ever reassuming my position
as your successor; if it were not such bar I would proceed to even
other extremes to deprive myself of the succession; would draw my
sword against France if by doing so I could more utterly sever myself
from you and all connected with you.

"You ask me if I hate you? I reply that I hate the man who drove my
mother to evil by his intolerant and contemptible pride, and, fallen
as she became, I love and adore her memory. But my heart is not large
enough to find space in it for aught else. Not large enough----"


There was no more. The sheet of paper turned over at the word
"enough," and no other succeeded to it.

Again Martin lay back musing.

"He was firm," he murmured. "Firm. The years which have rolled by and
become forgotten since he wrote these lines, now so faded, prove that;
otherwise _she_ would have known of his existence, his whereabouts.
And--and--she was a just woman in spite of the deception of her life.
If she had known that he was still alive she would never have
consented to usurp all his rights. Nay, not though every priest in
France bade her do so."

As the word "priest" rose to his mind he started with a new thought.

"Who were the others," he whispered, "she said who knew of it? Louis,
the king! Almost it seems impossible. Then, next, the woman--his
wife--Madame! Also La Chaise and Chamillart. La Chaise, a
bigot--Chamillart, the man they speak of as _une fine lame!_ They all
know it, and will keep the secret well. What was it she said? 'They
will never tell.'"

Once more from St. Eustache close at hand the hour rolled forth;
almost it seemed as if the deep boom of the great bell echoed in his
ears the words he had repeated to himself, "They will never tell."

"Will they not?" he mused again. "Will they not? Neither Louis, nor
his wife, nor the priest, nor the scheming politicians. Will never
tell! Therefore all search must be unavailing. Yet--yet---we will see.
Only, even though I should find him, even though I forced from one of
them the acknowledgment that he still lived, was the true heir, would
he himself consent to take what is his? The man who wrote that letter
in bygone years will not have grown softer, more easily persuaded by
now. Yet I will make some attempt."

He sought his bed now, and once there, still lay awake for some time
longer, musing and meditating on the secret which had been confided to
him; wondering, too, if what he was doing was owing absolutely to a
determination to right a great wrong, or, instead, was only the
outcome of that strong, latterly-embraced Protestantism of his, which,
through this embrace, now caused him to desire to outwit these
scheming papists. Yet he might have found the answer by studying his
own feelings, his own resolves, arrived at the moment he learned of
the hidden secret of the great family to which he was allied. For if
he held his tongue now it was easily enough to be supposed that all
which he had inherited from the dead woman would at once be made over
to him. If he spoke on the subject of the lawful inheritor, not one
jot of the fortune that woman had left him would ever come his way.

Only he did not so reflect, did not remember, or, remembering, did not
hold that he was ruining himself in his determination not so much to
outwit the Romish Church and its principal adherents as to set right
the horrible wrong that had been committed--committed, in the first
place, by the real de Rochebazon himself toward his children by the
renunciation of all that he should have guarded for them; in the
second place, by those who were only too willing to assist in
depriving him, whom they doubtless termed the heretic, of what was
his.

He rose the next morning with his mind made up as to what should be
his future course, as to what, from this very day, he would set about
doing. Rose, calm and collected, knowing that he had undertaken a task
that must deprive him of that inheritance which by his silence alone
might easily be his; a task that might, in the state of autocratic
government which prevailed in France, lead him to a violent end.

Yet his mind was made up. He would not falter. Never. Even though he
should find the last de Rochebazon still as firmly set in his
determination as he had been in long-past years; even though when
found, if ever, he should spurn him from his threshold with curses for
having unearthed him, still he would do it. To right the wrong! To
repay in some way all that he had already received from this
family--his education, the luxury that had accompanied his earlier
days, the profusion of ease and comfort showered on him by one who, in
very truth, had no right to appropriate one crown or pistole of that
family's wealth. He would do it! To right the wrong!

"Where," he said, sending for the _maître d'hôtel_, who presented
himself at once before him, already clothed in decorous black, "where,
do you know, is Madame de Maintenon now?"

"I know not, monsieur, unless it be at St. Cyr. She is much there now;
almost altogether."

"Can you ascertain?"

"I will endeavour to do so, monsieur."

"If you will."

It was to her that, after the reflections of the night, he had
determined to address himself. To her, knowing full well even as he
did so, the little likelihood which existed of his obtaining any
information. Had not the woman now lying dead upstairs said that she,
among the others, would never tell?

Only it was not altogether with the desire to obtain information that
he was about to seek her. Instead, perhaps, to volunteer some, to tell
her that he knew the secret of the manner in which the existence of
Cyprien de Beauvilliers had been ignored for many years; to see if
there was no possibility of moving her to help in the deed of justice.

She was spoken of by some as God's chosen servant in France, as a
woman who was rapidly bringing a corrupt king, a corrupt court, a
corrupt land into a better path--a path that should lead to salvation.

Surely, surely she would not be a partner in this monstrous act of
injustice, a participator in this monstrous lie.




CHAPTER VI.

"LA FEMME, MALHEUREUSEMENT SI FAMEUSE, FUNESTE ET TERRIBLE."--ST.
SIMON.


Once past Versailles, and St. Cyr was almost reached, the horse which
Martin Ashurst had ordered to be made ready for him that morning
bearing its rider easily and pleasantly along. Almost reached, yet
still a league off, wherefore the young man once more set about
collecting his thoughts ere that distance should be compassed.
Arranged once more in his own mind the manner in which he would
approach "Madame," if she would consent to receive him.

After much consideration, after remembering, or perhaps it should
better be said never forgetting, that what he was about to do might so
envelop him in perils that his life would not be worth a day's--nay,
an hour's--purchase, he had decided that he would be frank and
truthful--that was it, frank and truthful--before this woman who was
now the king's wife, this woman who held the destinies of all in
France in the hollow of her hand almost as much as they were held in
the hand of Louis.

He would plainly tell what he knew, or thought he knew; would seek
confirmation of that knowledge from her into whose house, to whose
presence, he was determined, if possible, to penetrate.

If she would consent to receive him!

Only--would she?

He knew that, by all report, even by such gossip as penetrated as far
as London, where she was much discussed in not only political but also
general circles, an audience with her was as difficult to be obtained
as with Le Dieudonné himself; that, with few exceptions, none outside
the charmed circle of the royal children, her own creatures, and her
own ecclesiastics, were ever able to penetrate to her presence. Nay,
had he not even heard it said that those on whom she poured benefits
could never even obtain a sight of her? that her especial favourites,
the Duchesse du Maine, the brilliant Marshals Villars, Tallard, and
d'Harcourt, could get audience of her only with difficulty? And these
were her friends, and he was--she might well deem that he was--her
enemy.

All the same he was resolved to see her if it were possible.

His dead kinswoman had been her friend, surely his passport was
there--in that.

He reached the outer gate of St. Cyr even as the clock set high above
it struck one, and addressing himself to a soberly clad man servant,
who was standing by the half-open gateway which led into a courtyard,
he asked calmly if "Madame" was visible--if it was permissible for him
to see her?

Then, at first, he feared that he had indeed come upon a bootless
errand, for the grave and decorous servitor showed in his face so deep
an astonishment at the request, so blank an appearance of surprise,
that he thought the answer about to issue from the man's lips could be
none other than one of flat refusal.

"Madame," he answered, in, however, a most respectful tone, "sees no
one without an appointment. If monsieur has that she will doubtless
receive him, or if he bears a message either from his Majesty or the
Duc du Maine. Otherwise----" and he shrugged his shoulders
expressively.

"I have none such," Martin replied, "nor have I any appointment. Yet I
earnestly desire to see Madame. I am the nephew of--of--the Princesse
de Rochebazon, who died yesterday. She was Madame's friend. If I can
be received upon that score I shall be grateful."

At once he saw that, as it had been before--upon, for instance, his
journey from the coast toward Paris--so it was now. That name, his
connection with that great and illustrious family, opened barriers
which might otherwise have been closed firmly against him, removed
obstacle after obstacle as they presented themselves.

The look upon the man's face became not more respectful, since that
was impossible, but less hard, less inflexible; then he said:

"If monsieur will give himself the trouble to dismount and enter the
courtyard his name shall be forwarded to Madame. Whether she will
receive monsieur it is impossible for me to say. Madame is now about
to take her _déjeûner d'après midi_. But the name shall be sent."

Therefore Martin Ashurst, feeling that at least he was one step nearer
to what he desired, dismounted from his horse, and resigning it to a
stableman who was summoned, entered the courtyard of the château, or
institution, as it was more often termed, of St. Cyr. An institution
where the strange woman who ruled over it brought up and educated, and
sometimes dowered, the daughters of the nobility and gentry to whom
she considered something was due from her.

At first he thought this courtyard had been constructed in imitation
of some tropical garden or hothouse, so oppressive was the heat caused
in it by the total exclusion of all air--a heat so great that here
rich exotics grew in tubs as they might have grown in the soil of
those far distant lands, notably Siam, from which they had been
brought by missionaries as presents to their all-powerful mistress.
Then he remembered that among other things peculiar to this woman was
her love of warmth and her hatred of fresh air--perhaps the only
subject on which she was at variance with Louis. And sitting there in
the warm, sickly atmosphere, waiting to know what reception, if any,
might be accorded him, he wondered how the king, whose love of open
windows and of the cool breezes which blew across the woods and
forests of his various palaces and châteaux was proverbial, could ever
contrive to pass as much of his life as he did in the confined and
vaporous air which perpetually surrounded his wife.

As thus he reflected there came toward him an elderly lady, preceded
by the servitor who had received him--a woman dressed in total black,
whom at first he thought might be Madame de Maintenon herself, would
have felt sure that it was she had not the newcomer, bowed--nay,
courtesied to him--as she drew; near, while she spoke in a tone of
civil deference which he scarcely thought one so highly placed as the
king's unacknowledged wife would have used.

"Madame will receive monsieur," this lady said very quietly, in a
soft, almost toneless voice, "if he will follow me. Also she will be
pleased if he will join her at her _déjeûner_."

"It is Mademoiselle Balbien," the servitor said, by way of
introduction of this ancient dame, "Madame's most cherished
attendant." Whereon Martin bowed to the other with a grace which she,
"attendant" though she might be, returned with as much ease as though
her life had been passed in courts from the days of her long-forgotten
infancy.

"Monsieur may have heard of me," the old lady chirped pleasantly as
now she motioned Martin to follow her, smiling, too, while she spoke.
"The Princesse de Rochebazon knew me very well indeed--alas, poor
lady, and she is dead!"

Yes, Martin had heard of her, and from his aunt, too, as well as
others. Had heard of her deep devotion to the woman who now ruled not
only France but France's king--had heard, in truth, that the De
Maintenon might have been dead long years ago of starvation, of
bitter, pinching want, had it not been for this faithful creature. Had
heard his aunt tell, when inclined to gossip, of how Nanon Balbien had
taken Scarron's widow to her garret after the death of the bankrupt
and poverty-stricken poet; had shared her bed and her daily
meal--generally a salted herring and some bread--with the woman now
omnipotent in France; had preserved her life thereby and prevented her
succumbing to cold and destitution and starvation. Knew, too, that
there were those in France who said that in so doing Nanon Balbien had
unwittingly perpetrated the greatest sin, the greatest evil, against
the land that was possible. That it would have been better had she
left the object of her charity to die in the gutters of the street
than to preserve her life, and thereby raise up and nourish the snake
which sucked the life blood from France and all within it.

Still following this old woman, through corridors from which all air
was as equally excluded as from the glass-roofed courtyard they had
left--corridors, too, in which there stood in niches alabaster busts
of saints, and one, with above it a sacred light, of the Figure
itself--Martin Ashurst went on, until at last he and his conductor
neared a huge ebony door the handle of which was of massive silver and
representing an angel's head--a door outside which there stood four
ladies in waiting, all dressed in black, none of them young, and one
only passably good-looking, yet whom he divined to be women of the
oldest and best blood in France, and divined rightly, too. Three of
them were high-born noblemen's daughters, one the daughter of a
prince--De Rohan.

"Mademoiselle de Rochechouart," said Martin's guide, "this is the
gentleman. Will you conduct him to Madame?" and she drew back now,
resigning the visitor to the lady whom she addressed.

"Come, monsieur," that lady said, her voice soft and low, "follow me."

A moment later and he stood before the marvellous woman, the
Protestant woman born in a prison, now a bigoted papist and a king's
wife. Yet Martin remembered only at the moment the words of his dead
kinswoman, "Madame knows it." Remembered, too, how she had said of her
that she was one who would never tell.

Almost he thought that she had but just risen from the _prie Dieu_
which stood beneath another figure of the Saviour that was placed in a
niche here, as was its fellow in the corridor; that she had been
engaged in prayer while awaiting the moment when he should be
conducted to her presence. Thought so, yet doubted. For if she knew,
if she divined upon what errand he had come, would she, even she, this
reputed mask of duplicity, of self-righteous deceit, be praying on her
knees at such a moment? Or, for so also he thought in that swift
instant, was she seeking for guidance, beseeching her God to cleanse
and purify her heart, to give her grace to speak and to reveal the
truth?

But now she stood there calm, erect, notwithstanding her sixty-five
years of life, waiting for him to be brought to her, for his approach.
Yet not defiantly or arrogantly--only waiting.

The murmured words of Mademoiselle de Rochechouart served as
introduction; the courtly bow of Martin Ashurst made acknowledgment of
his presentation, then she spoke:

"My tears, my prayers, my supplications for Aurore de Rochebazon," she
said--and he marvelled that her voice was so low and sweet, he having
imagined, he knew not why, that it should be harsh and bitter--"have
been offered up many times since I have heard of her death. Monsieur,
I accept as a favour at your hands that you have ridden from Paris to
see me here. Doubtless you knew that I should be soothed to hear of
the end she made. Is it not so, monsieur?"

"It is so to some extent, madame. Yet, if you will be so gracious,
there are other matters on which I shall crave leave to address you,
if I have your permission."

"You shall have full permission to speak as it may please you. Yet,
first, you have ridden from Paris. Also it is my hour for the midday
repast. Monsieur," and she put out her silk mittened hand, "your arm."

And taking it she led him through a heavily-curtained door into an
adjoining room. Within that room, sombrely furnished, dark, too, and
somewhat dismal because of the ebony fittings and adornments, was a
table with covers for two. Also upon it a silver gong. And, alone to
relieve the gloom of all around, there stood upon it also a rich
_épergne_, filled almost to overflowing with rich luscious
fruit--peaches, choice grapes, and nectarines.

At first Madame said nothing, or little, to Martin Ashurst beyond the
ordinary speech of a courteous hostess to a stranger guest; also
Mademoiselle de Rochechouart and a waiting maid were always present,
the former standing behind the mistress's chair and directing the
latter by a glance. But at last the _déjeûner_ drew to a conclusion,
the meal of few but extremely choice _plats_ was finished, and two
little handleless cups of coffee (which Madame de Maintenon never
concluded any meal whatever without) were placed in front of hostess
and guest. Then they were alone.

"Now," she said, her deep eyes fixed upon Martin, "now tell me of the
end which Aurore de Rochebazon made. Tell me all--all--her last words.
They were those of one at peace, I pray."

Her voice was sweet and low as she spoke, yet not more calm than that
of the man who sat before her, as he answered:

"Madame, it is to tell you of her last words that I have sought your
presence. Yet, alas----"

"Alas!" she repeated quickly. "Alas! Why do you say that? Alas--what?"

"Her last words were scarce those of peace. Instead, the words of one
whose end was not peaceful; of one who wandered--was distraught--or
revealed in her dying moments a secret that should have been divulged
long, years ago."

The ivory of his listener's face did not become whiter as he spoke,
neither to her cheeks did any blood mantle. There was no sign that in
the mind of this, woman, marble alike in look and heart, was any
knowledge of what the revealed secret was, or only one such sign. A
duller glance from the deep sunken eyes, as though a film had risen
before them and hidden them from him who gazed at her. Then she said:

"Doubtless she wandered. Was distraught, as you say."

"Nay, madame. For she left behind her proofs--letters--testifying----"

"_What?_"

"That my aunt was not the Princesse de Rochebazon. That, instead, she
and her husband usurped a position which was never theirs. That a deep
wrong had been done which must, which shall be, righted."

"By whom?"

"By me, with God's grace."


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


The night was falling as he rode back to Paris and entered the city by
the western gate, making his way to the Rue Champfleury.

Yet neither the challenge of the _guet_ at the barrier nor the noise
inside it when once he was within the city, nor the crowd waiting
outside a theatre to witness a revival of L'Écolier de Salamanque,
which was the production of the poor decayed creature who had been the
first husband of the inscrutable woman he had visited that day, had
power to rouse him from his thoughts, nor to drive from out his memory
her last words:

"Even if all this were true you will never find him. Even though he
lives you will never succeed."




CHAPTER VII.

THE HOUSE BY THE BRIDGE.


"Come," said Martin to the trembling pastor, "come. We may do
something, avert some awful calamity. You are of their faith. They
will listen to you," and he arranged his _porte épée_ and motioned to
the old man to follow him.

"Not you! Not you!" the other whispered, shuddering. "Not you! You
know not what will befall you if you take part in this."

"Yes, I. I must go too. I am a Protestant as much as they. I tell you,
Pastor Buscarlet, I will wear the mask no longer. Come. Hark! There is
firing. Come. We can do nothing here. Help neither Huguenot nor
Papist."

"On my knees I beseech you to stop," the old man said, flinging
himself upon them before Martin, "on my knees. You know not what you
do. Think, think! If these men have risen it is at the worst but
Frenchmen against Frenchmen. But with you--you are English. And we are
at war again. Oh! I sicken with dread that it should be known."

"It can never be known. I have the French as well as you, or
they--better than they, for mine is the speech of Paris and theirs of
the mountains. Hark! they sing of Judah once more--also there is
firing. Come with me or let me go alone." And he tore himself from the
hands of the other.

Yet he did not go alone; even as he stepped into the garden the pastor
went with him, running by his side to keep pace with his eager
strides, whispering, entreating as he did so.

"Promise me, promise me, Martin," he said, "that you will take no part
in any fray that is happening, will not to-night proclaim yourself.
Oh, promise me! Remember," and he sunk his quavering voice even still
lower, "Cyprien de Beauvilliers."

Recalled to himself by that name, recollecting the atonement of many
years that had yet to be made, the wrong that had to be righted, as he
himself had said, he too sunk his own voice, saying: "I promise.
To-night I do nothing."

Down the street they went, therefore, together, Buscarlet's hand in
Martin's, both glancing at the closed windows of the thatched houses
and seeing the lights in them, with white faces against the mica panes
and dark eyes gleaming from behind curtains, yet with no head showing.
The orders to keep within doors were being followed.

In all the street (there was but one) no form was visible; if it had
not been for the uproar at the end of it, where Le Tarn rolled under
the three small bridges, and for the spits and tongues of flame that
belched forth out of musketoons and carabines from the windows of the
"house by the bridge," beneath the deeper, denser flames that rolled
from under the eaves of that house, they might have deemed it was a
deserted village or one peopled only with the dead.

Yet again the solemn chant uprose as they drew close to that house,
but mingled now with something deeper than itself--the hammering of
great trees, or tree trunks, on doors, the rumbling of flames escaping
from the burning house, the firing from the windows, the loud shrieks
from within the house itself.

"What are you?" cried a huge man as they entered the crowd, "Papist or
Protestant? Child of God or Devil? Answer, or----" then ceased, seeing
Buscarlet still holding Martin's hand; ceased and murmured, "Pardon,
reverend; I did not see or know in the darkness. Yet begone; seek a
safer place. The villain has his house full of De Broglie's fusileers
to fire on us and help him. Oh, Lord of Hosts, wilt thou let them help
such as he?"

"What will you--they--do?" Martin asked.

"Release the prisoners. If he resists, slay him. We have suffered too
long."

"Nay, nay," said Buscarlet, "that must not be. Murder must not be
done; or, if done, not by our side. Let the shedding of blood be
theirs----"

"It has been for too long," the Cévenole answered sternly, his eyes
glittering. "It has been. Now it is our turn. What saith the
Scriptures? 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' So be it! The
Papists have shed blood--our blood--like water; now let them look to
themselves. You know, father, that the downtrodden have risen. At
last!"

"God help us all!" Buscarlet exclaimed, wringing his hands.

"Ay, God help us all! Yet even he can not give us back our dead--those
who have hung in chains on the bridges of Montpellier, Nîmes, Anduse,
even here upon this bridge of Montvert. What balm is there for our
daughters whipped to death through the streets, our sons sent to the
galleys without trial, our pastors--your brethren--broken on the
wheel, burnt at the stake? We have risen; it will not end here. That
great evil king still sits in his great white palace, his reformed
wanton by his side; she is old now, yet she shall not es----"

He staggered as he spoke, flung out his arms, then fell heavily to the
ground to the sound of a fresh discharge of musketry. The fusileers of
De Broglie had fired another volley from the windows of the abbé's
house, and a bullet had found the man's heart.

"Come," said Martin, "come. We can do naught here. I may not draw my
sword. No use to be mowed down here. Let us gain the bridge; there are
no windows which give on that."

Half supporting, wholly leading the unhappy old man, he made his way
through the besiegers who remained outside the house, some still
singing their psalms and hymns of praise, while amid them moved the
inspired ones, the prophets--men who were crazed with religious
fervour and maddened with persecution until they did, in truth,
believe that they were appointed by Heaven to direct and guide the
others.

Also among this mass of infuriated peasants, some of whom fell or
staggered away as fresh discharges came from the house, were three
persons who had been brought from out of it. One, bent double from
long confinement in the stocks, was Masip, of whom Buscarlet had
spoken. The second was a girl not over sixteen, who screamed, "My
back, my back, O God, my back!" if any touched her. She had been
thrashed daily, because she would not be converted, by thongs steeped
in pitch which had been allowed to harden ere the abbé used the whip.
The third was an old man who could not stand, and with an arm broken.

Gaining the bridge, Martin and Buscarlet saw a fresh sight of horror.

The roof of the house was alight now. From between the walls and where
the eaves of thatch hung over, bubbles and puffs of flame burst out
and leaped toward the thatch itself, each tongue flickering higher
until at last the ends of straw glowed and sparkled, then caught and
began to burn. And on the sloping roof was a man crouching, his heels
dug tight into the dried straw and reeds to prevent him from slipping
down and over into the garden beneath, while with his hands he
frantically twisted round a chimney stack a coil of white rope which
another man, clinging himself to the roof, handed to him.

It was the abbé and his valet.

"Could we but save them," Buscarlet whispered, "but save them! Return
evil with good, repay his persecutions with Christian charity and
mercy. Oh, that we might!"

"Nothing can save them," Martin replied, watching the men's actions in
the gleam of the flames from below, and also in the light of the now
fast-rising moon. "Nothing. They are doomed. If they stay there they
must be burned to death; if they descend it is only to be caught; also
if seen now, those below will shoot them like sparrows on the roof.
All are lost who are in that house--all! The soldiers too!"

He had judged right. Both men were doomed.

Infuriated by still further fusillades from De Broglie's soldiers by
which two more men were killed, maddened, too, by the sight of the
abbé's victims, some of whom were lying on the ground from inability
to stand, the rioters determined to make an end of their first act of
revenge. From the chapel, therefore, in the vicinity--into which they
had also broken by now--they fetched the benches on which the
worshippers sat, as well as the altar-rails and the pulpit, and piled
them up in the old square hall of the house, thereby to add fuel to
the flames. And also from the living rooms in that house they took the
furniture and flung it on too, not even forgetting the straw
mattresses which the soldiers had brought with them when the abbé
applied to Nîmes for a guard, saying that he feared an attack, and on
which they slept nightly.

The house was doomed.

Paralyzed with fear, terror-stricken and horrified, Buscarlet could
bear the sight no longer. His white hair streaming in the night
breeze, he rushed into the midst of the Camisards, screaming to them
to show mercy, begging them to desist, imploring them to forget their
own sufferings in the past, and to save the abbé and all within the
house. Yet his appeal touched not one single heart.

"Away, old man," said one of the inspired prophets, "away to your bed
and out of this. The hour for mercy is gone; the servants of the Lord
have arisen. Go preach to women and babes; leave us, the priests of
men, to deal with men," and as he spoke he dragged Buscarlet out of
the crowd, telling Martin also to beware lest he interfered.

The latter was nigh doing so now. Protestant as he was, with, in his
heart, a hatred for the cruelties which he knew the Papists practised
here in Languedoc--cruelties condemned, indeed, by many of their
brother Roman Catholics, so terrible were they--he could yet scarce
keep his hand from his sword hilt, scarce forbear rushing into that
burning house and endeavouring to save Du Chaila's life.

For now the end was very near. If the man was not saved soon his
final hope was gone. The soldiers had fired their last shots, their
powder-horns and cartouches were empty, they were endeavouring to
escape, some leaping from the lower windows at which they, fortunately
for themselves, had been stationed, and plunging into the little river
and across it; some rushing out into the crowd of fierce Cévenoles,
only to be cut down to the earth by reaping hooks and scythes, or,
more happily, to escape with wounds alone. There were none left now in
the burning house but the abbé and his man-servant. On the former all
eyes were fixed, the crowd drawing farther back from the dwelling to
get a fairer view of the roof on which they could see him still
crouched, or moving on to the bridge, thereby the better to observe
his fate. And they gloated over it--these miserable peasants who had
turned at last, these human downtrodden worms who had not been allowed
to practise their religion in peace in their own land, nor permitted
to emigrate to others where they might do so; they fed themselves full
with revenge on this the first night of their uprising. One, a
marksman, raised his carabine and covered Du Chaila as he clung to the
roof--maybe his heart was not yet entirely warped nor turned to the
deepest tinge of cruelty, and he wished to end the wretch's
sufferings--but it was knocked up by half a dozen strong arms. A dozen
voices cried fiercely:

"Help him not, assist him to no easy death. Remember our brothers'
dooms, our fathers in the flames, our girls' backs raw and bleeding.
Observe Fleurette lying there at your feet; let him expiate all. Then,
after him, the others. There are more to suffer too. Baville--ho,
Baville!--_le Roi de Languedoc_, as he is termed--the prior of St.
Maurice--the priest of Frugéres--it is their turn to-morrow."

And above the roar of the flames these louder roars of threatened
vengeance rose; above all else their psalms were heard telling how
Jehoshaphat exhorted the people, how Jahaziel prophesied, and how the
God of Battles had delivered the enemy into their hands.

The end was near.

Du Chaila, the cruellest priest in the Cévennes--the man who, under
the office of Inspector of Roman Catholic Missions in Languedoc, had
for sixteen years perpetrated cruelties on the Protestants which, it
was said in the district, he could have only learned while a
missionary in Siam--was about to expiate his merciless rigour on
others.

Part of the eaves overhanging the garden had by now fallen away in
great masses of charred straw. One of two things alone could happen
soon: either he must perish in the flames when the roof fell in, as it
would do in a few moments, or he must escape from that roof. It was
the latter which he prepared to attempt, hoping perhaps that even now
he might do so without his intentions being known.

Slowly, therefore, he crept away from the spot where he had crouched
so long. They could see his hands and feet thrust deep into the thatch
at each move he made. He disappeared from their sight, yet for a
moment only; for as he left the side of the house where the rioters
were, so those rioters followed below in the road. Compactly, in a
mass, all went together, and silently. Their voices, their hymns had
ceased; but for their footfalls there was naught to tell of how they
were tracking the man from beneath as he himself moved above. Like
sleuth-hounds who make no noise as they follow their trail, yet follow
it unerringly, these human sleuth-hounds followed him.

They passed round the house, they stood upon the slope leading to the
bridge. Between them and the house itself there ran a thick-set privet
hedge, separating the latter from the road and shielding the lower
rooms on that side from the dusts of summer and the snows of winter.
Now, on this July night, convolvuli and roses and honeysuckle twined
about it, dotting the deep green with many a delicate blossom and
emitting sweet perfumes on the air. And above this hedge, between it
and the roof, the doomed man was hanging at this time, clinging to a
rope made of twisted bedclothes, wrenched, doubtless, from the beds of
the upper rooms.

None spoke in all that crowd, no hymn was sung. Save for the sobs of
Buscarlet and the moans of Fleurette, who lay in her sister's arms, no
sound broke the silence--none until, a second later, while all their
eyes were turned up to that frantic figure and while the moon's rays
glistened on their eyeballs, a piercing shriek broke the stillness and
the abbé fell headlong some thirty feet into the hedge, bounding off
from one of the stakes, that supported it at intervals, into the dusty
road; then lay there groaning. The roughly and hastily constructed
rope had given way, and in his fall, as was soon seen, his leg was
broken.

"Spare me!" he moaned--he who had never yet spared one, man, woman, or
child--"spare me!"

At first none answered him, none spoke. Then amid the silence, from
the lips of Pierre Esprit, the chief of the three prophets, the words
fell:

"You are lost--your body in this world, your soul in the next."

"Alas!" he wailed, "even though I have damned myself, will you too do
the same thing by murdering me?"

His words were the signal for his doom.

They rushed at him as he lay there and plunged their knives into his
body, one man exclaiming, "This for my mother, burned at Nîmes,"
another, "This for my father, broken at Anduse"; a third, "This for my
brother, sent to the galley, '_Le Réquin_'"; a fourth, "This for my
sister, Fleurette, lying here."

When his nephew, Le Marquis du Chaila, afterward recovered his body
from where they left it, it was pierced by fifty-two wounds, of which
twenty-four were mortal.

"The beginning has been made," Pierre Esprit exclaimed. "There must be
no backsliding. Henceforth each man's hand to guard each man's life.
Now for the prior of St. Maurice, next for the priest of Frugéres.
While for those who have been rescued from that man's clutches, away
with them to the mountains and safety. Come, let us sing unto the
Lord."

And up the slopes and pastures of the purple hills encircling the
little village rose once more the chant of the army of Jehoshaphat.

Soon none were left in the blood-stained road but the pastor,
Buscarlet, lying where he had fainted, and Martin Ashurst, white to
the lips and endeavouring to arrange the dead man's limbs into
something resembling humanity.




CHAPTER VIII.

AN EXODUS.


In the coming dawn, when the stars had paled and died away, and when
far off, where the Basses Alpes lifted their heads eastward, the gray
light turned into daffodil and told that the day was at hand, Martin
carried the pastor back into his little house.

"Rest," he said, "rest, and endeavour to sleep. I pray Heaven you may
do so, after this night of horror."

"Horror indeed!" Buscarlet said, sinking into the old leather-covered
_fauteuil_ that for years he had sat in so calmly and happily, though
solitary. "Horror undreamed of!" Then, a moment later, he went on: "I
thought--nay, I knew--that they would rise at last and throw off the
hideous yoke under which they bowed. Yet I deemed it would but be to
release those of our religion who suffered, to prevent others from
suffering too; to demand terms, even though only such terms as would
permit us to seek peace in far-away lands; but never dreamed of such
deeds as we have witnessed to-night. Where will it end? And how?"

"There were those who muttered in that crowd," Martin replied, his
face still of a deathly pallor, "that it might not end until they
stood outside Louis' gates--were within them. And there were some who
seemed to know of what they spoke. Some who have been long leagues
away from this lonely valley shut in by these mountains--men who know
that on all sides and on all her frontiers France is sore beset.
Crippled by her fresh war with Spain, the attacks made on her on the
Italian border, also by the Dutch on the Rhine. Fighting as well my
own countrymen in Bavaria and the whole length of the Danube, even to
the borders of Austria."

The mention of his own countrymen by Martin Ashurst seemed to bring
fresh trouble to the unhappy old man, to cause fresh terrors to spring
into his mind; for at those words he started in his chair and regarded
the younger one steadily, though with still upon his face the look of
misery that the events of the last few hours had brought forth.

"Your own countrymen!" he repeated, half-dazed. "Your own countrymen!
Ay, ay, _les Anglais!_ Thank God, it is not known, and never will be
known, that you are either English or Protestant. Baville would not
spare you."

"Baville need not perhaps know that I am an Englishman," Martin
replied calmly. "But one thing he will most assuredly know ere
long, when he begins to make inquiry into the doings of this past
night--namely, that I am a Protestant."

"Know it!" Buscarlet exclaimed, trembling even more than before,
clasping his hands frenziedly as though overcome by a fresh fear. "How
should he know it?"

"I shall announce it. For a certainty, shall not disguise it."

"Martin, Martin," the old man moaned, "are you mad? Do you value your
life so little, desire so much the horrors of the wheel, the flames,
to have your head upon this bridge as others' heads have been, that
you will acknowledge this? Martin, for the love of God, pause. Think
of what such an acknowledgment would mean to you."

"I have thought all through the night, even while I watched that man's
house burned beneath him as he hid on the roof; while I saw him done
to death. And, thus thinking, became resolved. Henceforth no power on
earth, no horror of awful death, of mutilation after death, can make
me disguise, keep back the acknowledgment of the form of faith I
belong to----"

"Alas, alas! it _will_ bring death."

"It may do so. If it does it must be borne. Yet, at the worst, I will
not think it can come to that. I am a Protestant; here, in your own
land, a Huguenot. Yet I am not one of those who slew the abbé. Shall
never imbrue my hands in blood. Ask only to be left in peace."

"Alas," Buscarlet exclaimed again, "that is all that we have
asked--all! Yet you see the end. The woman who dominates Louis allows
no free thought, no religion other than her own; has dragooned
Huguenots into Roman Catholicism since the day the Revocation was
pronounced, has hung and burned and broken those who refuse to change.
How, then, can you hope to escape--you who were among the crowd that
performed last night's work?"

"I took no part in his murder. Would have saved him if I could----"

"That will not save you. Martin, you must flee from here at once.
Escape out of France. Be gone while there is yet time."

"And de Rochebazon! His children's heritage! What of that?"

Even as he uttered the words his determination to remain here at all
costs and in deadly peril seemed to act upon the old man's mind, to
clear his brain so clouded with the awful events of the past night, to
bring back to him the power of speaking and reasoning clearly, for
slowly yet weightily he answered:

"As that heritage has done before, so it must do now. Must wait,
remain in abeyance. This is no time to prosecute your search. No sense
of justice on your part toward a distant kinsman can demand that you
should sacrifice your own life, at the least your liberty. Moreover,
remember, he or his descendants may not be here in Languedoc; may be
leagues away, in remote lands, for aught you know; even in your own
country, the home of the oppressed since James fell."

"They said at Geneva it was beyond all doubt that he who was rightly
the de Rochebazon came here."

"Grant that," the old man replied, calm now in face of the argument he
had to use, must use and drive home. "Grant that--that he came here.
Well, it is nigh half a century ago. Where may he not have gone to in
all that long passage of years? The Huguenots are everywhere--in
England, Germany, Scotland, the Americas, Switzerland, some even on
the far-off shores of the Cape of Good Hope. Why stay here seeking for
what is no better than a shadow, and at the risk of your own life?"

For a moment it seemed as if his argument was about to prevail.
Into Martin Ashurst's face there came a look telling of deep
reflection--reflection that brought with it an acknowledgment of the
force of the other's words. And, observing, Buscarlet pressed his
argument home.

"If alive, de Rochebazon never intends to claim what is his. If dead,
he has died and kept his secret well. While if living he knows not,
possibly, that those who were deemed the Prince and Princess de
Rochebazon have passed away, yet also he knew that for years they
usurped, although unwillingly, the place that was his, the vast
wealth. If you found him at last, even here, could you force him to
take back the heritage he renounced so long ago?"

Still the other answered not. What could he say? On his face was still
the look of perplexity that had been there since first the pastor
spoke. And again the latter went on:

"Moreover, granting even that--that--for his children's sake he would
return to the possession of his own, would emerge from the humble
position he has so long occupied--in France all Huguenots are humble
now, here in these mountains they are doubly so; few gentlemen of
France acknowledge themselves as such; all fear the court too much; if
you found him, if he consented, would he be allowed to return to what
is his proper place and position? You know the Romish Church which now
holds all in its hands that once was the de Rochebazon's. Will _that_
ever disgorge? Would De Maintenon allow it to do so? You have seen
her? Answer."

Even as Buscarlet mentioned that woman's name, Martin started. Yes, he
had seen her, and seeing, knew to what adamant he was opposed. Also he
recalled her words: "You may seek yet you will never find, or, finding
whom you seek, will never prevail." Remembered, too, the look of
confidence that had come into the livid face of the woman before him
and, as he remembered, wavered.

Was it imperative on him to do more than he had already done in
voluntarily renouncing all the wealth his aunt had put aside for him
during years of saving? Was he now to throw his life away in seeking
for a shadow, a chimera? For it was not beyond possibility, it was
indeed most probable, that to such a pass he might come.

At present he had committed no act which even the ruthless Baville, of
whom all in this portion of France spoke with bated breath--the
Intendant of the Province--could seize upon as a pretext for
hostilities to him. He had taken no part in the murder (or was it the
execution?) of the Abbé du Chaila; on the contrary, he had longed to
render help to the unfortunate wretch, though it had been beyond his
power to do so. But--but--if he should remain in the Cévennes, still
seeking for a man who, in sober truth, might for years have lain in
his grave or might be, if still alive, at the other end of the world,
was it certain that he would not perform some act which would place
him in Baville's grasp? And as a Protestant, even though it was never
known that he was an Englishman, and standing, consequently, in
hideous peril in France, what chance would there be of his salvation?

Almost, as he reflected thus, he began to think that, if only for a
time and until these troubles had blown over, he must abandon his
search for the last of the de Rochebazons. This tempest which had
arisen could not last long, he thought; Louis could soon quell these
turbulent mountaineers; then again he could take up his task.

"Come," he said to Buscarlet, sitting before him watching his eyes and
face to see what effect his words had on him, "come. At least I will
do nothing without due thought. Will not be foolhardy. Now eat, drink
something; it will restore you. Then after that some rest." Whereupon
he pointed to the table on which were still the remains of the last
night's little feast over which the poor old man had tried to make so
merry. "Here is some of your famous trout left," he said, struggling
to speak cheerfully, "and another bottle of the Crépi. Come, let us
refresh ourselves."

"I feel as though I shall never eat again," Buscarlet whispered.
"Never after the doings of the night--never! Oh, the horror of it, the
horror of it!"

"Still cheer up," the other said, uttering words of hope which he knew
could have but little likelihood of being verified, yet striving
thereby to soften the old man's mental agony. "This may be the end, as
it has been the beginning, on our--on the Protestant--side. When
Baville, the persecutor, hears that the harryings and the burnings and
the murders--for that was a murder we witnessed last night--are not to
be on his part alone, he may pause. Nay, even Louis, beset in every
way, at every frontier, his treasury drained, may himself give orders
to stop these persecutions."

But Buscarlet only shook his head significantly, doubtingly.

"With that woman at his side, by his elbow, never!" he exclaimed.
"Nay, nay, my son, he will not stop them. He is the Scourge of God;
sweeps before him all who love God. He will never stop them. If he
desired to do so, she would not let him."

By now it was full daylight. Over the pastor's little garden with its
quaint, old-time flowers, among them many a sweet Provence rose
opening to the morning sun, that sun's rays streamed down. Also they
knew that the villagers were awake, if they had slept at all. Already
they were calling to each other, while some of them gathered in small
groups and discussed the events of the past night. Also all asked what
would be the end of it.

"I can not sleep," Buscarlet said; "it is impossible. Let me go forth.
They are my people. I must be among them. Give them counsel. Oh, God
be thanked, there was not one of us in this hamlet who assisted in the
work."

And he went out feebly through the window, Martin making no attempt to
prevent him, since he knew any such attempt must be futile. Instead,
therefore, he walked by his side.

"Whence," he asked, "since none in the village took part in
the attack, did those men come? By their garb they are of the
mountains--goatherds, shepherds. Is it there the persecutions have
been most felt?"

"It is there," the other answered, "that those who have been most
persecuted have fled. We may not quit our unhappy country. Every port
is barred, every frontier road guarded. Where, therefore, should those
whose homes are desolate flee to, whose loved ones have been
slaughtered, where but to the mountains? There none can follow them
or, following, can not find. Those mountains are full of caverns made
by Nature, God-given as a last resort of the outcast and wretched."

They reached the open _place_ by the bridge as he finished speaking;
they stood outside the still burning remains of what had been Du
Chaila's house--the house seized by him from the man he had caused to
be hanged on the bridge, in front of the window from which the widow
and orphans looked daily until they too fled into the hills. Behind
the hedge over which grew the honeysuckle and convolvuli in such rich
profusion, the hedge on to which the doomed man had fallen, and on one
of the stakes of which his leg had been broken by the fall, they saw
his body lying. Near it also they observed other bodies which had been
dragged from the smouldering ruins, one being that of his valet,
another that of his man cook, a third that of an ecclesiastic named
Roux who had acted as his secretary. Also they learned that two
friends of the dead man, themselves missionaries back from Siam, had
been allowed to depart after being found hidden under a cartload of
straw.

"Are all of those others gone?" Buscarlet asked, turning his eyes away
from the sight behind the lodge.

"All are gone, _mon père_," a man answered from the crowd. "_Pardie!_
it is best we all go too. By to-night the dragoons who have escaped
will be back from Alais. It is but ten leagues, and he (Baville) is
there. Be sure more soldiers will come with them; we shall be put to
fire and sword. And for those who are not slain--that!" And the man
pointed to the post on the apex of the bridge on which the night lamp
hung still alight, since none had remembered this morning to put it
out; on which, too, other things of a more fearful nature had hung in
all their recollections.

"You hear?" Buscarlet whispered to Martin. "You hear?"

"Yes, I hear," the other replied, calmly as usual. Then asked, "Do you
flee with them?"

"Nay," the old man replied. "My place is here, by my church which I am
no longer permitted to enter--the church whose keys have been taken
from me after forty years. Yet I can not leave it."

"Nor I you. I stay too."

"God help us all!" the pastor said again, as he had said before, and
once more he wrung his hands. That his flock were going it was
impossible to doubt. They knew that henceforth Montvert was no abiding
place for them; that if they would not be ridden down or burned in
their beds, or hung as carrion on the bridge where when boys they had
played, or taken to the jails of Alais and Nîmes and Uzès, they must
go, and go at once. Later, perhaps, they might return, if it ever
pleased God to soften the hearts of their persecutors. But now, after
the doings of the night, this was no longer a home for them.

History repeats itself; also events in one part of the world resemble
those occurring in the other. Even as in the old times before them,
the people of God had fled into the deserts of the East to escape the
tyranny of Pharaoh and of Ahab, even as the Covenanters had fled into
the Pentland Hills, so now the Protestants of the Cévennes fled into
their mountains to escape the persecutions of him whom they called the
Scourge of God.

Peaceful, law-abiding men and women, asking only to be allowed to
worship their Maker in their own way, or, failing that, to depart for
other lands where they might do so unmolested, the refusal had turned
them at last into rebels, if not against the king, at least against
his local representatives--rebels who, having suffered long under the
cruelties of their persecutors, had now become cruel themselves.

For the torch of rebellion was lighted at last in all Languedoc, and
ere long it flamed fiercely. The "Holy War" had begun.




CHAPTER IX.

"BAVILLE! UN MAGISTRAT DONT LES EPOUVANTABLES RIGUEURS DOIVENT ÊTRE
SIGNALÉES À L'HORREUR DE LA POSTÉRITÉ."--SISMONDI.


Night was near at hand again and all were gone--all except Martin
Ashurst and the pastor, both of whom sat now upon the bridge of
Montvert, their eyes fixed always on the crest of the hill which rose
between the little town and the larger one of Alais. For it was from
that situation that they expected to see at last the flash of sabres
carried by the dragoons of de Broglie and the foot soldiers of de
Peyre, Lieutenant General of the Province, to observe the rays of the
setting sun flicker on their embrowned musketoon and fusil barrels,
and to hear the ring of bridle chain and stirrup iron. That they would
come on the instant that the intelligence reached Baville of what had
been done in Montvert over night it was impossible to doubt. And
then--well, then, possibly, since there were no human beings left to
be destroyed except these two men waiting there, the village would
itself be demolished, burned to the ground. Such vengeance had been
taken only a week ago on a similarly deserted bourg from which the
inhabitants had fled, though silently and without revolt. It might be
expected that the same would happen here.

All were gone, the men, the women and children; the old, the feeble,
and the babes being carried by the stronger ones, or conveyed on the
backs of mules and asses. Also the cattle were removed--they would be
priceless in the mountain fastnesses; even the dogs had followed at
their masters' heels; upon those masters' shoulders and upon the backs
of the animals the household gods, the little gifts that had come to
them on marriage days and feast days, on christenings and
anniversaries, had been transported.

The place was deserted except for those two men who sat there
wondering what would be their lot.

That vengeance would be taken on them neither deemed likely; but that
both would be haled before Baville they both felt sure. Buscarlet was
known to be one of the Protestant pastors who, from the day when the
Revocation of Nantes was promulgated seventeen years before, had
fought strongly against his congregation attending the Romish masses
as the Government had ordered them to do. He was a man in evil odour,
though against him until the present time no overt act could be
charged. But now--now after the events of the past night, with those
dead Things lying there behind the hedge, what might he not be accused
of?

"Yet," said Martin, as he leaned over the parapet of the bridge,
glancing sometimes up at the ridge which rose between Montvert and
Alais, expecting every moment to see the soldiers approaching, and
sometimes watching the long weeds in the river as they bent beneath
its swift flow, "yet of what can you be accused? You interceded for
him," and he directed his eyes in the direction of the dead abbé,
where he lay covered by a cloth, "besought them to show mercy, to
return evil for good. Also those men, those _attroupés_, were not of
this village nor of your flock. As well call you to account for the
invasion of a hostile army or foreign levy."

But again Buscarlet only shook his head, then answered:

"No, not of this village, nor of my congregation, but of the same
faith--Protestants! Therefore accursed in Baville's and his master's
eyes. That is enough."

As he spoke, from far up in the heights toward Alais they heard the
blare of a trumpet ring loudly and clearly on the soft evening air; a
moment later and, on the white road that ran like a thread through the
green slopes, they saw the scarlet coats of the horsemen gleaming;
saw, too, a _guidon_ blown out as its rider came forward against the
wind; caught the muffled sound of innumerable horses' hoofs. Then,
next, heard orders shouted, and a moment later saw a large body of
dragoons winding down the hillside slowly, while behind them on foot
came the _milices_ of the province.

"You see?" Martin said as he watched them. "Be calm. They can do you
no harm."

And he leaned over the bridge again and continued to observe the
oncomers.

Ahead of the main body, consisting of some hundred of cavalry and an
even larger number of Languedoc _milice_ or train bands, there rode
three men abreast. In the middle was one clad in a sober riding dress
of dark gray; the others on either side of him were rich in scarlet
coats much guarded with galloon, the evening sun flickering on the
lace and causing it to sparkle like burnished gold, and with large
laced three-cornered hats in which also their gold cockades shone,
while he on the left wore the rich _justaucorps à brevet_, a sure sign
not of a soldier of France alone, but of a soldier of high social rank
and standing.

"He in the middle," said Buscarlet, "is Baville, the Scourge of the
Scourge. Be sure that when he comes with the soldiery the worst is to
be dreaded. That he deems his presence is necessary to insure fitting
vengeance being taken."

"Fear not," said Martin. "They can not execute us here to-night;
afterward, inquiry will show that we have done nothing to deserve
their vengeance. Be calm."

Amid clouds of dust from the road on which no rain had fallen for many
days the cavalcade came onward, reaching at last the farther end of
the bridge from where these two men stood side by side; then the
officer on the right gave the orders for all following to halt, and
slowly he with the other two rode on to the bridge itself and up the
slope to where Buscarlet and Martin stood.

"It is the Lieutenant General, de Peyre," Buscarlet whispered. "The
other is the Marquis du Chaila, the dead man's nephew. O God! what a
sight for him to see!"

"What has been done here?" said Baville, looking down at the two men
on foot who stood close by where they had halted their horses, though
not until he and his companions had turned their eyes to the burned
house, from which little spiral wreaths of smoke rose vertically in
the calm evening air. "What? And who, messieurs, are you?"

The quiet tones of his full rich voice, the absence of all harshness
in it, almost startled Martin Ashurst. Was this the man, he
wondered--or could the pastor have been mistaken?--of whose cruelty to
the Protestants as well as his fierce and overbearing nature not only
all the province rang, but also other parts of the land far remote
from here? The man whose name was known and mentioned with loathing by
the refugees in Holland and Switzerland, in Canterbury and
Spitalfields?

"Who are you, messieurs?" he repeated quietly, "though I think I
should know you, at least," and he directed his glance to the pastor.
"Monsieur André Buscarlet, _prédicateur_ of the--the--so-called
Reformed Religion, if I am not mistaken."

"André Buscarlet," the old man replied, looking up at him; and now,
Martin observed, he trembled no more, but answered fearlessly,
"Protestant minister of Montvert and----"

"Where," exclaimed the young Marquis du Chaila, "my uncle has been
barbarously murdered by you and your brood. Oh, fear not, you shall
pay dearly for it. Where, vagabond, is his body?"

"Sir," said Martin, speaking for the first time, "your grief carries
you into violent extremes. This gentleman whom you term 'vagabond' has
had no part nor share in your uncle's murder. Neither has his flock.
The deed was done by the refugees from the mountains. Monsieur
Buscarlet attempted in vain to prevent it."

"Bah!" exclaimed the marquis. "You are another Protestant, I should
suppose. Valuable testimony! Who are you?"

"One who at least is not answerable to you. Suffice it that no person
in this village had any hand in the abbé's murder, that it was done by
the men of whom the pastor speaks."

"To me, monsieur, at least all persons are answerable," Baville
interposed. "I am the king's Intendant. I must demand your name and
standing."

"My name is----" he began, yet ere he could tell it a shout from the
foremost dragoons who had dismounted startled all on the bridge. Some
of these men had been engaged in tethering their horses close by the
hedge, several of the animals indeed had already begun to crop the
dusty grass that grew beneath it, and they had found the bodies.

"My God, my God!" the marquis almost shrieked as he bent over the
abbé's form, the soldiers having led him to where it lay after he had
hastily quitted the saddle. "Oh, my God! my father's brother
slaughtered thus. Devils!" he exclaimed, turning round and glancing up
the long street, imagining probably that the inhabitants were all
within their houses. "Devils! was not his death enough, that you must
glut your rage with such butchery as this? See, Baville--see, de
Peyre, the wounds in his body. Enough to kill twenty men."

Looking down from their saddles at the murdered man's form, which they
could observe very plainly over the hedge from the elevation at which
they were, the Intendant and the leader of the troops shuddered, the
former turning white beneath the clear olive of his complexion. Yet,
even as Martin observed him blench, he wondered why he should do so.
Countless men and feeble women and children had gone to the gibbet,
the fire, the wheel, and the rack, as well as to the galleys and the
lash, at this man's orders, unless all Languedoc and every Huguenot
tongue lied. Why should he pale now, except it was because this
retaliation, this shifting of murder from the one side to the other,
told of a day of reckoning that had begun, of a Nemesis that had been
awakened?

"Baville," the young man cried again, "Baville! Vengeance! Vengeance!
He has died slaughtered at his post, as he knew he would die. But last
week, at our house in Montpelier, he spoke of how he was doomed
because he served God. Baville!--de Peyre! give the orders to fall on,
to destroy all. Otherwise I make my way to the king of the north and
cry on my knees for vengeance on these accursed heretics, these
bloodthirsty _Protestants_, as they term themselves. Burn down their
hovels, I say; slaughter them, exterminate."

"Alas, unhappy man!" exclaimed Buscarlet, still firm in his speech
now, and undaunted before the distracted marquis, who had already torn
his sword from its scabbard and stood before them gesticulating like a
madman in his grief and rage. "What use to destroy empty houses,
barren walls? Besides ourselves there is no living soul left in all
Montvert."

"What!" the two other men exclaimed together in their surprise. "What!
All gone? None left?"

And now on the Intendant's face there came another look, also the
return of his dark colour, as he said:

"Gone, yet you proclaim their innocence. Tell us in one breath that
they are guiltless, in another that they have fled. Do the innocent
flee?"

"They feared your cruelty. They knew that your Church spares not the
innocent; that it punishes them alike with the guilty."

"Blasphemer!" Baville exclaimed, though still his voice was low and
calm, belying the terrible accusation which lay beneath this word.
Terrible anywhere in France--now pious by law!--but doubly so in the
Cévennes.

"I blaspheme not," Buscarlet said, waxing even bolder. "Pause. Look
back. Twenty-seven Protestants have been done to death by you in the
past month----"

"Silence!" the other ordered, still in his unruffled voice, yet
uttering words enough to affright the boldest, "or I will have you
gagged; if that suffices not, strung up there," and he pointed to the
lamp.

Then turning to the marquis, he said:

"Be sure your uncle shall be avenged. Let them flee to the mountains,
yet we will have them. Extirpate them like rats in a granary. Julien,
the field marshal, has left Paris to assist in the holy work.
Meanwhile, de Peyre, send your men into every house in the place; see
if this abandonment is true. If not, if you find any, bring them
before me. As for you, and you," directing a glance at the pastor and
Martin, "you will sleep to-night in Alais. To-morrow a court will be
held." Then he added, under his breath, as though talking to himself:

"You must be bold men. Otherwise you would have decamped too."

"Or innocent ones," Martin replied, hearing his words, low as they
were. "You yourself have said it. Asked but now, 'Do the innocent
flee?'"

The Intendant bit his lips; the _riposte_ had gone fairly home. Then,
while de Peyre gave his orders and told off some of the dragoons to
enter and search every house in the village, and the marquis, who was
in command of the _milices_, bade them take up the bodies carefully
and cover them decently with their capes, Baville glanced down at
Martin, saying:

"Monsieur, I do not know you. You are not, I think, of this locality.
Yet I observe you are of the better classes. Where is your property?"

"In La Somme, department of the Ile de France. I am a proprietor; the
property of Duplan La Rose is mine, such as it is."

Had he not in truth been the owner of this property he would have
scorned to shelter himself beneath a falsehood. Had he been asked his
faith it was his fixed resolve to declare it, as, had it been possible
for Baville to recognise that he was an Englishman--which, after his
earliest years being spent in France, was not so--he had determined to
avow his nationality, no matter what the consequences might be. But so
far the truth alone was necessary.

When his father waited long and eagerly for the time to come for the
Stuart Restoration--as no follower of the Stuarts ever doubted it
would come, sooner or later--he, hating Paris and all its garish
dissipations under the then young and immoral king (the king now so
old and self-righteous!), purchased this property from the Baron
Duplan La Rose, a man himself broken and ruined by his participation
in the outbreaks of the Fronde. Purchased it because all the Ile de
France and the Pas de Calais were full of English refugees waiting
like himself for happier days to come; also because, when the time did
come, it would be near to England. And he dying, it became Martin's
property.

Baville touched his hat as an acknowledgment of Martin's explanation,
perhaps also as an acknowledgment of his position, since he was a
great believer in _les propriétaires_ as men who were almost always
opposed to the murmurings and discontents of the _canaille_ and _les
ordres bas_, such as the wretches belonged to who had massacred the
abbé and the others. And as he did so he said:

"Monsieur is therefore a visitor here only--to--perhaps"--and his eyes
rested piercingly on Martin--"Monsieur Buscarlet?"

"Monsieur is," Martin replied, "a visitor here seeking for a lost
person. A connection by marriage. A man who has been wronged, has
partly wronged himself. Monsieur has lodged with Monsieur Buscarlet
before."

"May I demand the name of the lost man?"

"Alas, monsieur, I do not know it. He discarded his own over forty
years ago. That which he has adopted I can not tell you. Also he may
be dead and my quest in vain."

"Would he be," and again his eyes stared fixedly into the eyes of the
other man, "would he be, do you think, of--of--well--of Monsieur
Buscarlet's religious faith?"

"He would."

"I hope you will find him, sir. If you do so, use your utmost
endeavours to persuade him to abjure that faith. Otherwise the
province of Languedoc will be no pleasant refuge for him henceforth,
even though he has been here for the forty years you speak of. Now,
sir," and he left this subject to speak of that which had brought him
to Montvert, "I must beg you will accompany us to Alais. As a visitor
to the neighbourhood and, as I suppose, a person not interested in our
unhappy local troubles, you can give us much information as to how
last night's murder was perpetrated. You are, I presume, willing to do
so?"

"I am willing to speak as truthfully as I can on the matter. To speak
as I do now, when I tell you that neither Monsieur Buscarlet nor any
of the inhabitants of this place had any hand whatever in last night's
doings."

"I shall--the Court will be--glad to be assured of that," Baville
replied.




CHAPTER X.

THE LIGHTED TORCH.


The night had come, and, with the exception of one troop of dragoons
and one company of the _milices_, also with the exception of the
Marquis du Chaila, who had remained behind with the intention of
having his uncle's body properly interred, all were on their way to
Alais.

And behind Baville and de Peyre rode Martin and Buscarlet, the former
on his own horse, the pastor on one which had belonged to the dead
man.

It was a night such as those who dwell in the south--in Languedoc, or
Provence, or Dauphiné--in the height of its summer know well. A night
when, up from the Mediterranean, but a few leagues away, there come
the cool breezes that sunset invariably brings, and when, from the
caps of the purple mountains, the soft evening air descends, passing
over cornfields and meadows and woods after it has left the sterile
and basaltic summits until, when it reaches the valleys, its breath is
perfumed and odorous. Summer nights so calm and soft that here the
nightingale remains later than is its wont in other spots and sings
sometimes far into August and September, the throats of hundreds of
birds making the whole valley musical.

Now, however, their trills were drowned by the clank of sabres against
the flanks of the horses bestridden by the dragoons, by the rattle of
chain and bridle, the occasional neigh of the animals, and by various
orders given as all went forward. Also by the hum of conversation as
the men talked to one another.

Suddenly upon the night air, however, there came now another sound,
silencing and deadening all else--a sound that subdued and deadened
even the clatter of harness and accoutrements, the voices of the men,
the songs of the birds of night. The sound of the deep booming of a
bell not far off which swelled and rose in the summer calm, as
sometimes it rang violently and sometimes slowly and intermittently,
sometimes ceased, too, and then began again, with sharp, hurried
clangs, as though rung by some frightened, terror-stricken hand.

"It is the tocsin," one hoarse-throated dragoon called out, who rode
in the troop behind the leaders, "the tocsin from some village church.
Is more murder being done? Are more abbés being slaughtered?"

"The fellow speaks truly," de Peyre said, then roared himself at the
top of his voice: "Who among you knows the locality? What village is
near?"

From twenty mouths the answer came at once: "It is Frugéres. The place
is close at hand. The steeple is the highest for miles around."

Even as these men spoke, their voices were in their turn silenced or
drowned by still more numerous shouts from others in the cavalcade.

"See, see!" those other voices yelled. "There is a fire--a church that
burns. Behold!"

"My God!" Martin heard Baville whisper to himself, though not so low
but that the words were distinguishable. "The fanatics have attacked
another priest, another church. This is no riot, but a rebellion."

Then he turned at once to de Peyre and said hurriedly but
authoritatively:

"Order all forward. They are there. We may be in time to save some.
Also to trap these mountain wolves. Forward, I say! Give the word of
command."

From de Peyre that word went forth, harsh and raucous as bellowed from
the lips of the rough soldier who had fought at Senef and Ensisheim
and had himself taken orders from Turenne and Condé. A moment later
every man who was mounted was spurring toward the thin streak of flame
that rose in the night air half a mile ahead, while the _milice_
followed on foot as fast as they were able.

"Pray God, no more horrors are being perpetrated," Buscarlet muttered
as he rode by Martin's side down the dusty road. Then murmured: "God
forgive them. God forgive them. They are mad."

"_He_ may forgive them," said Baville, who had caught his words, and
paraphrasing unconsciously as he spoke the words of one by whose side
he would have been accounted obscure and humble. "He may. I never
will. Oh, that Julien arrives ere long! Then--then--then--they shall
know what it is to outrage Languedoc thus."

The flames grew more furious as all neared the tower whence they
issued. It was the tower of the church at Frugéres; behind those
flames rose the thick white smoke from the burning material below.
Also great pieces of the copings were falling from the summit, and
sometimes a pinnacle or gargoyle fell too. And once as they drew near
there came a smothered clang, followed a moment later by a deep
sonorous clash, and those approaching rapidly knew that the great bell
had fallen from its beam, probably by now burned through, and had been
hurled far down below.

Upon the air as this happened there rose a psalm, a hymn of praise,
telling how the false priests of Baal had been consumed by the flames
of God's wrath in ages long since past, also the shouts and cries of
many voices. Yet none of those shouts were derisive, none scornful or
contemptuous. Instead, the shouts and cries of avengers who testified
to justice being done on sinners; who approved of the justice, yet saw
no reason for adding rejoicing to that approval.

"See," cried Baville, "they are there. Behold! They move below the
tower. We have them. De Peyre, give the order to charge. At them,
among them, spare none."

The belief in witchcraft was not yet dead in the world. People still
believed in sorcery and enchantment. What wonder, then, that the
dragoons thought there was some necromancy in the fact that, as they
tore down the dusty road, their blades gleaming in the light cast by
the flames, all against whom they rode vanished suddenly? Were there
one moment, gone the next. It seemed incredible. Half a hundred men
had been before them when they were five minutes' distance off; now
that they had reached the burning church, not a living soul was to be
seen. Truly it savoured of the miraculous. Yet, ere many months had
passed--indeed, but a few weeks--these soldiers, and others too who
were soon to join them, learned that no foe against whom they had ever
been opposed possessed so thoroughly the art of sudden disappearance
as did these fanatics, known later as the Camisards. For, trained in
their mountain homes to every physical feat--to leaping great chasms,
climbing dizzy heights unaided by aught but their strong and agile
feet and hands, descending giddy precipices as easily as their own
goats--they could disappear, disperse, as quickly and as thoroughly as
the snow wreath under the spring sun. Could lure on bodies of their
enemies to sports fraught with danger to all but themselves, into
quagmires and morasses, lonely mountain passes and fatal hilltops,
then themselves vanish and be no more seen.

It was so now upon this second night of their uprising.

As the dragoons charged down upon the paved, open _place_ outside the
church of Frugéres they charged upon empty space alone, encountered
nothing that offered resistance either to their onrush or their
gleaming blades. Nothing but the dead body of a man, a priest, lying
on those stones beneath the tower, the head broken in, the limbs
twisted and contorted.

"_Grand Dieu!_ what are we dealing with?" exclaimed the Lieutenant
General, wiping the sweat from his face as his men pulled up around
him, while some rushed into the church on foot, their long swords in
their hands, ready to be thrust through any breast that they
encountered, and others to the presbytery, thinking the _attroupés_
might be hiding there. "With human beings or devils?"

"Nay," said Baville, "with the children of the desert and the
mountains. Yet also the children of the devil. They escape but for a
time, however. Even these jugglers can not disappear when they are
surrounded. And," he added, striking one white-gloved hand into the
palm of another, "they shall be surrounded by such a fast-closing
circle that ere long not one shall escape. I swear it here before this
murdered man."

Easy to swear such an oath. More difficult to keep it. As, at last,
Baville found.

"Who is he?" Martin asked. Then added in a whisper to Buscarlet: "This
is murder, not justice. Cruelty, not retribution. See, he is an old
man."

"You are right, sir," Baville replied, whose ears nothing ever
escaped. "Yet be sure their time will come." Then, looking down at the
dead priest, he also asked, "Who is he?"

"It is the reverend curé," one of the dragoons said, regarding the old
man and wiping from his face at the same time the beads of
perspiration, even as his leader had done a moment before. "I know him
well; am of the next parish. He has thrown himself from the tower. As
well have staid for the flames as perished thus, broken all to
pieces."

All gazed down also as the man uttered these words, and as they did
so, none speaking, they recognised that they were face to face with an
awakened fury, with a vengeance that had slumbered but which now awoke
even as the baited lion awakes and turns at last to rend its foes.

For more than sixteen years the _affectés_, the New Religionists, the
Heretics, had bowed their heads beneath the yoke of him whom they
called the Scourge of God, as well as of the priests and the De
Maintenon, the woman whom Louvois and La Chaise had once used as an
instrument to work on her lover's intolerance, but who, since she had
become that lover's wife, had herself carried on the system. Born a
Protestant, she had seen that the king's mind became more sunken in
superstition as he grew near his end, and that, to keep that mind
under her subjection, the surest way was to persecute those whom she
had deserted and whom she hated. Therefore she revelled in their
suppression, therefore she boasted to her sister bigot, the Princesse
des Ursins, that in twenty years, if Louis' life was spared, there
would be no more Huguenots in France.

Meanwhile her orders were carried out strenuously wherever Protestants
harboured, especially so in the Midi. "_Saccagez ces chiens des
Huguenots, saccagez les, c'est la volonté du roi_," her minister,
Louvois, wrote. "Drive out _ce monstre de l'hérésie, ces chaires de
pestilence, ces synagogues de Satan_," exclaimed the priest. And it
was done.

Swiftly to all the jails in the warm south, to the galleys waiting at
Marseilles for their victims, to the lamp-posts on the town and
village bridges, to the fuel in the market places, to the axe, the
wheel and the rope, the Protestants were hurried.

Also the dragonnades began. The dragoons, _les cravats_, were
quartered in houses, sometimes in Protestant churches. Wives and
daughters were so treated that, to hide the bitterness of their shame
and to escape the horror of ever meeting their father's or brother's
glances again, they took their own lives. They need not have feared
those glances, for, the jails being soon full to overflowing, hundreds
of male Protestants were huddled off in crazy brigs and tartans and
snows to the Mississippi and New France generally, where, if they were
not drowned on the way, they mostly perished from the effects of the
climate or by the hands of the Natchez.

For sixteen years it had gone on. By the end of that time the
Protestant churches were all closed and the Protestant ministers
forbidden to perform their services under pain of death; scores,
indeed, had been executed for doing to, while still scores more, at
the risk of death, performed those services and held Divine worship in
the mountains and woods. Also none were allowed to quit the land who
could be prevented from doing so, though a hundred thousand did manage
to escape to other countries, high-born women and girls being
disguised in most cases as muleteer's boys; high-born men of the
oldest blood in France--such men as Ruvigny and Duquesne--driving pigs
and asses toward the frontier, or disguised as pilgrim monks, or
pushing handcarts full of fruit and vegetables or Nîmes serges, which
they pretended they were desirous of selling. But these were people of
wealth, people who left behind them in their flight the châteaux in
which countless generations of their race had been born, left also
their rich furniture and equipages and costly plate and silks and
satins, and the woods and forests and vineyards to which they had been
born the heirs and to the enjoyment of which they had looked forward
for the rest of their lives. Or they were skilled mechanics and
artisans who could gain a livelihood wherever they found themselves.
But for the poorer sort there was no flight possible; if they left
France they must die of hunger in other lands. They had no money,
could speak no tongue but their own, often knew no trade by which they
could earn their bread; understood nothing beyond the breeding of
cattle and the arts of husbandry. Yet they, too, fled from
persecution, though in a different manner. High up in the gloomy and,
to strangers, inaccessible plateaux of the Cévennes--a region of
sterile mountains on which for six months in the year the snow
sometimes falls unceasingly, while for the other six the heat is
almost the heat of the tropics--they sought a refuge. Here in this
mountainous region, which covers an extent of one hundred and twenty
miles, they found a home, here worshipped God in their own fashion and
unmolested, which was all they asked, yet saw with horror, when
disguised they ventured down into the plains, the misery that was
still overwhelming those of their own faith. Also they knew that plans
were being formed for their extermination; that from Paris was coming
an army under Julien, a bloodthirsty soldier who had once been a
Protestant like themselves, but who was now a convert possessing all
the tigerish fury of the convert against those whom he had deserted;
knew that Du Chaila was the most brutal of all priests as Baville was
the most cruel of all rulers. No wonder that they groaned over the
ferocities inflicted on any of their number who were caught below in
the plains. The capture of the girl Fleurette and of the guide Masip
ignited the flame of revenge which had long been smouldering. But even
then, when they descended to Montvert, it was more with the desire of
rescuing the victims than aught else. In their hearts there had been
at first no intention of murdering either the abbé or the curé of
Frugéres. Moreover, it was not against Louis that they rebelled but
against his Church and the priests of that Church.

But Du Chaila had caused the dragoons to fire on them, and the first
shot from the soldiers' musketoons had roused their passion; also it
brought about a conflict of horrible cruelty and bloodshed which the
passage of years alone extinguished. For now that war of retaliation
had commenced which two of Louis' field marshals were successively
unable to quench, and which a third only succeeded in doing, more by
diplomacy and tolerance than by steel or ball.


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


"What has he on his breast?" asked Baville, leaning over the dead
priest and pointing to something white that gleamed in the light cast
by the flames from the burning church.

"A scrap of paper, Monsieur l'Intendant," the dragoon who had taken
the most prominent part among his fellows replied, "with writing upon
it. It is pinned to his vest."

"Give it to me."

Then he read aloud, not heeding, apparently, whether either Buscarlet
or Martin heard the words:

"This paper replaces another containing the names of a score of men to
be denounced to the monster, Baville. The man has gone before his God.
Baville will follow."

"Will he?" the Intendant said to himself in a low, clear voice,
which all heard. "Will he? Doubtless some day, but not now. For a
surety not before these wolves have been tracked to their caves and
exterminated--as they shall be--as they shall be."

And all watching him in the lurid light cast from the burning tower,
saw that the white-gloved hands were opened and clenched again twice,
as though he had the throats of those wolves he spoke of within them.




CHAPTER XI.

"CONSORTING WITH HERETICS."


It was midnight when all rode into Alais, and the iron shoes of the
horses clattering on the cobble-stones of the street woke from their
beds the few who were asleep.

There were, indeed, not many who slept that night at this hour, since
all knew that the fanatics, as they were invariably termed by those of
the vicinity who were not of the Protestant religion, had descended
from the mountains upon Montvert and had slain the abbé. Also all knew
that, two hours before sunset, the dreaded Baville had gone forth
escorted by de Peyre and his cavalry as well as by the _milice_ of the
province--gone forth to inflict a terrible vengeance on the murderers.
Had they done so? they asked each other feverishly now as the dragoons
rode in, the rattle of hoofs and scabbards and bridle chains deadening
the whispers they addressed to each other. Had they done so?

Perhaps it was not strange that here, in this little town nestling in
its rich valleys, the slopes of whose hills were covered with
cornfields and vineyards and chestnut woods, the beauty of which was
so extreme that in the language of the Cévenoles it was termed the
_Hort Dieu_, or, in purer French, _Le Jardin de Dieu_, all should have
whispered their imaginings, since it was in Alais particularly that
religious opinion was much divided, the Reformed faith numbering
nearly as many adherents as the Romish. Whispered their imaginings
because each feared the hostile ears to which their uttered thoughts
and ideas might penetrate, none knowing as yet which side was to
prevail in the great struggle. For if Baville had destroyed the
Camisards, retribution would be swift and strong on all who were
Huguenots; if, on the contrary, he had failed, those of the older
faith might expect to find themselves victims of an awful retaliation
before another night had come.

At first none could discover aught. The dragoons with their leaders
and the two men--one old, the other young, who seemed like
prisoners--swept onward to the Hôtel de Ville. Soon the streets became
quiet again and all within the houses sought their beds, though,
perhaps, with not much hope of obtaining any rest.

If, however, they did so hope, they were doomed to disappointment.

For scarce had the clatter of the men led by de Peyre died on their
ears, scarce had the horses' hoofs ceased to ring down the streets,
than another hubbub arose. More trampling of cavalry and the ringing
of iron shoes upon the cobble-paved road was heard, more jangling of
accoutrements and more shouts and calls; also the blare of trumpets
and the deep, heavy roll of artillery over the stony streets. Whereon
many who had but just laid down upon their beds sprang up again and,
huddling on their garments, ran to their windows and doors, the
Protestants asking if this were some fresh force arriving to add to
their persecutions, the Catholics wondering if the fanatics had
descended from the mountains again and were besieging the town? Yet
soon the latter were assured that such could not be the case, while,
to counterbalance the other's feeling of safety, the Protestants
trembled more and more, not knowing what fresh horrors were preparing
for them, for all saw at a glance these were no mountaineers clad in
their white sheepskins, nor Camisards, but, instead, regular troops
well equipped and armed and uniformed. Also all knew that the
_attroupés_ had no artillery or horses. With different feelings, each
watched, therefore, this new arrival of soldiers and saw go by the
fierce dragoons of Joyeuse, the fusileers of Montluçon, the regiments
of Saultz and Bearne, and one of light-horse from the far north--the
chevaux-légers of Bapaume; saw, too, the artillery organized by
St.-Hilaire, now dead.

"God help us!" the Protestants said, trembling behind their blinds,
"God help us! was this needed too?" while one old man, crouching
behind the fountain in the market place, whispered to another, "Those
great guns! those great guns! See! Are they to blow our houses down
above our heads?"

"Tush!" exclaimed a tall man standing by their side, a fellow bronzed
and black from the winds of many wintry storms as well as from the
scorching rays of the southern sun. "Tush! they are for the children
of God, up there," and he turned a dark gleaming eye toward the dusky
summits above the little town, over which by now there was stealing a
cold gray that told of the coming of the summer morning. "Fear not for
yourself, or them up there. Baville's roads are not yet made and never
will be. Let us see that artillery mount into the Cévennes," and he
laughed scornfully, some might have deemed cruelly.

Shrinking away from his great form, half in fear, half with dawning
intelligence, the old man said: "You speak thus, as though you were of
the persecuted--yet--yet--you wear the garments of--of--the valleys,
the clothes of townsmen."

But the swarthy stranger only muttered:

"Peace, old man, and be silent. Has not the quarry worn the garb of
the hunter before now?" Then he moved away and was lost in the crowd
which had gathered afresh.

Ahead of all--of artillery, dragoons, chevaux-légers--there rode one
who, but for the richness of his apparel his scarlet coat glistening
with stars and traversed by a great ribbon, his hat laced and cockaded
with galloon until none of the felt was visible, his gold-hilted and
long quilloned sword, might, judging from his fierce looks, himself
have been a refugee of the mountain plateaux and deserts above. A man
with a great face in which were set fierce rolling eyes, a man from
whose heavily moustached mouth there issued oaths whenever he opened
it.

This was Julien, one of Louis' field marshals, who, because of his
having left the Protestant faith to embrace that of the king, was
spoken of in all the lands where the Protestants sheltered themselves
as "Julien the Apostate." Also he was spoken of by them with hatred
and loathing since once no better soldier of Protestantism had ever
existed or, under William of Orange, had done better service. But
William, the great champion of Protestantism, was dead now, and
Julien, whose love for wealth was unquenchable, had learned that Roman
Catholicism was the most paying game. Thus it was that he came this
night into his own part of the country, since he was of old family in
the town of Orange itself, to lay waste and to slaughter all who held
the faith which he himself had once held. He was a true pervert!

With an oath he turned to the aide-de-camp who rode behind him and
asked where this accursed Baville was, bidding him ride forward at
once and see what preparations had been made for the reception of his
forces. Bade him also ask if every Protestant house had been put under
orders to accommodate them.

"For," he said to himself, "they must pay for their contumacy _fasse
Dieu!_ We should have good feeding here. The vagabonds are rich in all
good things in this town. We must have our share."


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


The next day dawned bright and fair with still no speck in the blue
sky toward which the great mountains lifted their heads, and with the
bright sun over all--over vineyards full of their ripening grapes,
over meadows in which the cattle stood under the shadows of the
chestnut trees that dotted them at intervals--lighting up, too, the
cool dark woods that clothed the slopes. Also it peered into old and
dusty houses, shining in on the ancient furniture and vessels that
generation after generation had prized and polished regularly and been
proud of.

It shone, too, into another spot--the principal chamber of the Hôtel
de Ville, where on this bright July morning were assembled all the
representatives of law and order in the province, Baville at their
head.

He was seated now in the presidential chair of this apartment, which
served as the debating room for all things connected with the
municipal affairs of the town; on either side of him sat his
colleagues, the field marshal being on his left hand, the bishop of
the diocese, which was a newly created one, on his right. Also the
mayor was there and de Peyre, several Catholic priests, and half a
dozen monks of various orders who had followed in Julien's train, they
being sent down by the De Maintenon because of their gifts of
preaching. For, true to her colours, the unproclaimed queen pretended
on all occasions that the cruelties which were practised in the south
were repugnant to her, and that it was by listening to the word of God
alone, as expounded by eminent churchmen chosen by herself, that she
trusted to witness the conversion of the heretics. Yet, if all written
records on the subject are true, it was she who had first spurred on
Louvois to give the order to "_saccagez les hérétiques_," and had,
after his death, persuaded Chamillart, Bossuet, and Le Dieudonné
himself to continue the Holy Crusade in the same manner.

Whether it was because Baville meant upon this occasion that there
should be no doubt in Julien's mind as to who was the absolute chief
here and representative of the king, the field marshal having already
on their meeting overnight uttered some very decided opinions upon
what steps should at once be taken in Languedoc for the stamping out
of heresy, or whether it was from his determination to make an
altogether splendid figure among the ecclesiastics and handsomely
apparelled officers, he himself presented a dazzling appearance on the
occasion. His costume was now entirely of white satin, the gold lilies
being stamped upon it at various intervals and in squares; his hat,
which he wore upon his head as the king's Intendant, was also white
and fringed with gold; his sword was gold-handled and sheathed. Also
his satin gloves were tasselled with gold thread, while, above all, he
wore the _justaucorps à brevet_, or nobles' close coat. Upon his
face--a handsome one, showing no traces of the fierce determination of
his character--there sat this morning an easy look such as he might
have worn had he been assisting at the _fiançailles_ of some grand
siegneur of Languedoc, instead of at a council of war, bloodshed, and
extermination. He had long since learned that not only the face, but
also the whole deportment of a diplomatist should be a mask and not a
glass in which men could read.

"Here," he said, taking up a paper as he spoke, and glancing his eye
around upon all who sat near him, "is a report of what has been done
of late by these _attroupés_ from the hills, dating from their first
murmurings. It is best I recite them. You," and he looked at Julien,
"will then know against what you have to contend."

"_Splendeur de Dieu!_" the great swashbuckler exclaimed, using one of
his most magnificent oaths, "let me but get at them and will make them
sing something else than their accursed Calvinistic canticles, I
warrant you. Read, your Excellency, read."

The fringed glove of his Excellency flattened out the paper, the
gloved finger was placed upon a line, and Baville began.

"Three months ago Adolphe Canivet was hung upon the bridge at Florac.
His crime was, that he, a heretic, has blasphemed the king, also
Madame De Maintenon." Baville raised his hat as he mentioned these
august personages. Then, having replaced it, he continued: "Four
nights afterward, Canivet's body was removed from the lamp; the next
morning in its place was found the body of a dog, hung by the neck.
Around that dog's neck was a label, and on it written, 'Thus will the
dog Baville hang.' You laugh, monseigneur," the Intendant said,
glancing at Julien and looking, for him, a little ruffled. "You
forget, perhaps, that the 'dog Baville' represents the king here."

"I forget nothing," said Julien, "neither do I laugh. Go on. Later, I
promise you, I will even remember the dog."

"From that time the so-called Protestants braved us in every way,"
Baville continued. "In spite of all our care, they have left the
country in great numbers, some getting across to Savoy, some escaping
by the sea, many fleeing into the mountains. Also they refuse to enter
the churches to hear Mass, preferring to hold meetings in the
mountains and woods."

At this the bishop groaned, but Baville, pretending not to hear him,
went on:

"Many have descended from the mountains at night and demanded alms and
ammunition, having none themselves, from those who possessed them. The
prior of St. Gervais had his house broken into and several musketoons
taken, they having been left in his charge by some of De Broglie's
soldiers."

"_Malédiction!_" exclaimed Julien, "why left they their arms with a
priest?"

"They were scaling the mountains to find the outcasts," Baville
answered. "Being good soldiers," and he looked severely at the other
as he spoke, "they depended on their swords and pistols."

"Humph!" muttered the marshal, "a soldier who parts with his weapons
is a fool. He who leaves them with a priest is a double fool."

"Treachery, too, is rife," the Intendant continued, still with his
finger on the paper. "Some of these heretics who have refused
conversion, yet were willing to swear fidelity to the king, were put
on guard on the town walls here in Alais. Also at Nîmes and Anduse. In
the morning their muskets were empty. They had not been fired,
consequently the charges had been drawn. Needless to suggest where
those charges went."

"Also," put in the bishop, "many murders have been committed. Du
Chaila and the curé of Frugéres within the last two days. What next?
What next?"

"Du Chaila," exclaimed Baville, "was my right hand. He feared naught,
punished with justice, though with severity; would have assisted me to
stamp out these rebels, I do believe, had he lived. Now he has been
brutally murdered. Both he and the curé must be avenged." After which
he proceeded to tell the whole story of the abbé's murder; from the
beginning as it had been told to him; at the end, as he himself knew
it. And he told them, too, how he had brought back with him to Alais
the only person left in the village of Montvert when he reached it
with de Peyre and the marquis.

"At present," he went on, "I know not what to do with them. One is
Buscarlet, who was the Protestant curé, but who has been suspended
from his heretical worship for some years and has lived upon some
small means he has, supplemented by gifts from those of his crew who
are well to do. He is of the best among them, at least openly.
Preaches submission openly to law and the Government; what he may do
in secret I know not. But, unlike so many of his brethren, he has
never fled. The other is a stranger to these parts and a gentleman. A
proprietor in the north. Speaks too, I think, truthfully. If it
pleases you they can be examined."

"It would be best," the bishop said.

Baville made a sign to the _greffier_ of the court who advanced toward
him; then, after giving the man his instructions, he turned to the
bishop and said: "Monsiegneur, they have been sent for. In a moment
they will be before you. They are close at hand."

They were so close at hand that they entered the court almost at once,
escorted by the _greffier_, the pastor walking by the side of Martin
and both returning the salutation of Baville, who, true to the outward
bearing to which he had trained himself, bowed with civility. In his
heart he had long since determined that Buscarlet was one of the most
dangerous of the Protestant ministers with whom he would have to deal,
for the simple reason that it was impossible to find any flaw in his
conduct which would justify him in transporting him to the galleys or
New France; and therefore, until that flaw was discovered, until the
opening was given him, he did not betray his determination by outward
rudeness.

As for the stranger who was before him, he scarcely knew what his
course of action should be. The story he told of himself might be
true, in which case he had no possible authority for molesting him,
while, even though it were false, he would have great difficulty in
proving it to be so.

Also, as happens frequently to those of the most astute minds, he had
forgotten to put one leading question to this stranger: To ask him if
he--who had been the lodger of this pestilential heretic, and who, by
a strange chain of circumstances, was the only other witness of the
abbé's murder who had remained behind in Montvert--was himself a
heretic.

Had forgotten it; though now it seemed to Martin, as he stood there
looking round the room filled with men all bitterly hostile to the
Protestant faith, that the question could no longer remain unasked.
Would that bishop, sitting there calm and impassive, also omit to ask
it? That field marshal omit it too, whose apostasy and fierce
vindictive hatred of those he had deserted was known and talked of
wherever half a dozen of the Reformed faith gathered together to
discuss their persecutions and their persecutors? Also those priests
and those six hooded monks who had followed in the soldiers' train?
Scarcely could he deem it possible!

Well, he was prepared with his answer. No denial would issue from his
lips, no lie be told. Therefore he took the place to which the
Intendant motioned him, and, sitting, down by Buscarlet's side,
prepared calmly to await whatever might happen.

Had he been able to see behind him he would have observed that which,
even though it had carried him no consternation, must have astonished
him; for on the face of one of those cowled monks, the man even
throwing back the hood from off his forehead to stare more intently at
him as he endeavoured to catch a second glance of Martin's features,
he would have noticed a look of profound astonishment--the look of one
who sees another in the last place of all where he would have expected
so to see him, and who, while thus seeing, can scarcely force himself
to believe his own eyes.

"Monsieur Buscarlet," said Baville, quietly and with no accent either
of impoliteness or reproof in his tones, "what happened at Montvert
the other night amid some who were once your flock must be clearly
told to all assembled here. From you I must demand an account, as I
have the right to do. Later I shall ask this gentleman, Monsieur
Martin, if he agrees with that account."

As he said the words "Monsieur Martin" the _cordelier_ started. Then
over his shaven face--a face unrelieved by either eyebrows or
eyelashes, so that those who looked at him might doubt if indeed his
cheeks were ever touched by razor and if their lack of hair was not
due to a defect in Nature--there came that look of new-born
recognition which all have seen spring into the countenances of
others.

"Martin!" he uttered, "Martin! Ay, that was the name. The name he was
called by. It is he. What does he here? He of the house of de
Rochebazon, and consorting with heretics!"




CHAPTER XII.

"I AM A PROTESTANT."


An hour later the meeting in the Hôtel de Ville had broken up, yet not
before Buscarlet had said words such as he had better have bitten out
his tongue than have uttered; for, after he had told his tale
truthfully (as nothing would have prevented him from telling it) and
had described all that had taken place from the moment when, singing
their psalms, the men of the mountains had passed down the village
street, bidding all the inhabitants keep within doors--narrating, too,
how he had besought them to spare the abbé and return good for
evil--the Intendant had remarked almost angrily to him:

"Yet, in spite of all you say, the rebellion against the king's
authority, the murder, and all other violence has happened, as it
always happens, in a place of strong heretical leanings. Oh, you
Protestants, as you term yourselves; oh, you of the Reformed faith, as
you blasphemously name yourselves--ever are you at the root of all
rebellion, of all eruption, all attacks upon those who are God's
anointed. Yet you can never triumph. Never--here in France."

As he spoke he revealed to those around him what were his true
feelings in regard to all that had taken place, though indeed some of
them knew or suspected those feelings; revealed that it was the
resistance to the king's power, the constituted authority, which he
was determined to crush more than the resistance to the ancient and,
in this place at least, cruel faith of the land. These were indeed his
feelings, this his guiding motive. He was above all things a courtier,
a king's man; and though for thirty-three years he never quitted
Languedoc for a single day, he becoming its Intendant in 1685 and
retiring from it in 1718, Versailles with its powerful master was the
star on which his eyes were ever fixed. Nay, he himself had said that
_Le roi était son Dieu_, and that to do him service was all he lived
for. As for the outraged Romish faith, let Rome repay that outrage.
His duty was to crush rebellion, and he did it well. When he finally
left the province, he had caused twelve thousand Protestants to suffer
either death, imprisonment, or transportation to the galleys.

But now from Buscarlet there came a denial of Baville's charges
against his creed. Rising from his seat by Martin's side he spoke,
while all in the room gazed in astonishment at the old man, never
expecting to hear the words he uttered.

"Your Excellency," he said, "have you weighed well your words ere you
uttered them? Scarcely, I think. All rebellion comes from us, the
Protestants, you have said, all attack upon those who are God's
anointed. Is this so? Pause, sir, and reflect. Who was it who first
uttered the maxim that bad kings should be deposed? Who were those
whom Henri of Valois saw force their way into his palace of the
Louvre, carry off his furniture, reverse his arms, destroy his
portrait, break his great seal, style him _Lâche_, _Hérétique_,
_Tyran?_ Was it not the Sorbonne who declared the people absolved from
their vow to him, erased his name from the prayers of the Romish
Church? Who slew him at St. Cloud? Jacques Clement, the monk--was he a
Protestant?"

"Henri de Valois was himself a murderer," the bishop made answer.
"Himself slew the Guises at Blois."

"How many Protestants have been murdered by orders of our present
king? Yet there is not one in France who would raise his hand against
him," the pastor continued. Then, as though carried away by one of
those ecstasies which caused men, especially men among the refugees of
the mountains, to seem almost inspired, he continued:

"Your Excellency has said we attack those who are God's anointed. Do
we so? Who formed the rebel league to exclude Henry of Navarre from
the succession? Who was it struck that great king to the heart in the
Rue de la Ferronnerie? Ravillac! Was he of the Reformed faith? Who
would have turned Louis off the throne he now sits securely on, have
set up the Prince of Condé in his place? Who? Who? Not Protestants for
sure! Name one who has slain a king or attempted to slay one in all
our land."

"Monsieur Buscarlet," Baville replied, still containing himself,
"there is no accusation against those of your faith as to their
desiring to slay King Louis. But they have revolted against all
constituted authority, against all who here rule for the king, against
his priests. Your statement as to what misguided men of our own faith
have done helps you not. Two wrongs do not make one right. And because
it is by the Protestants that the sacred soil of France is threatened,
the Protestants must go. Nay, more: those who rebel must pay the
penalty."


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


"Monsieur," said Baville, coming in two hours later to another room in
which Martin sat, he and Buscarlet having been requested to leave the
apartment in which the council were, after they had both testified to
all that had happened at Montvert on the night when the abbé was
slain, "Monsieur, I have heard strange news of you. I wonder you did
not see fit to tell me with whom I had the honour of conversing."

"With whom you had the honour of conversing!" Martin replied, looking
at him in astonishment. "I think, sir, you forget. I told you my name,
also where my property is--in France."

"Pardon me, you did so tell me." And, even as he spoke, Martin
observed, to his still further astonishment, that the Intendant's
manner had become one of almost deference, certainly of increased
courtesy, though he had never been in any way impolite to him since
they had met at Montvert. "You did tell me that. What you omitted to
inform me of, quite within your perfect right, doubtless, was that you
were of the de Rochebazon family. Sir, permit me to congratulate you.
There is no nobler house in all France, in Europe."

"Your Excellency, I have not the honour to be of the house of de
Rochebazon----"

"Not?"

"But, instead, a relative of the late Princesse de Rochebazon."

And as he spoke he did not doubt, nay, he felt sure, that he had given
himself into this man's power. If he knew so much of the de
Rochebazons as he seemed to do, he must know that the late princess
had been an Englishwoman. Baville would also be aware, therefore, what
his nationality was. Yet, still strong in the honour which lay deep
within his heart; strong, too, in his determination to profit by no
evasion of the truth when the telling of it was absolutely necessary,
he announced his kinsmanship with her, looking straight into the
Intendant's eyes as he did so.

In an instant he recognised that he stood in no peril at present.
Whatever Baville might know of the family of de Rochebazon, it was
evident he did not know that the princess was not a Frenchwoman.

"Monsieur," Baville replied, "it is the same thing. And, sir, I
welcome you to Languedoc, you, a member of a great family which has
stood ever by the throne, the Church. I hope you will make my
house--it is at Montpellier--your resting place while you remain in
the Midi. You will be very welcome."

"I thank your Excellency, but it is impossible I should accept. You
will remember I told you I have a mission here--one that I can not put
aside even amid the troublous times which have now arisen in the
neighbourhood. I must prosecute my mission to the end."

"To find the lost man you spoke of?"

"To find him."

"Is he a de Rochebazon? If so, he should be very near to a great
inheritance--an inheritance which, the Franciscan tells me (the monk
who recognised you as the gentleman who attended the last moments of
Madame la Princesse), the Church has fallen heir to."

"The monk! What monk? Yet--I remember. There were two at her bedside:
one who watched continuously, another who came at the last moment.
Which is he?"

"I can not say. Yet I will bring you into intercourse with him if you
desire it. He is here to assist in stamping out this accursed
Protestantism, in helping to convert them to the true faith."

"Your Excellency hates bitterly these Protestants."

"I hate the king's enemies. And all Protestants are such."

As the Intendant uttered these words Martin told himself the time had
come. He must speak now or be henceforth a coward in his own esteem.
It was for nothing that his father had cast off forever his allegiance
to James, had openly acknowledged that henceforth he abjured the
religion to which James belonged. Not for nothing, since by so doing
he had stood his trial before Sir Francis Wytham and Sir Creswell
Levinz, narrowly escaping Jeffreys himself. Not for nothing, since he
had been fined and imprisoned, he who had followed the Stuarts into
exile, almost ruined.

Yet all would be for nothing--his father's tribulations, his own
repudiation of the wealth his aunt had amassed for him--all would be
worth nothing if now he stood here before this man and, hearing the
cause reviled for which both father and son had sacrificed so much,
held his peace like a coward.

The time had come.

"Your Excellency," he said quietly, "stigmatizes Protestants as
accursed; also as the king's enemies. Well, as to being accursed I
know not; it may be even as you say. But I do know that I am no enemy
of King Louis. Yet--I am a Protestant."

"You!" Baville exclaimed, taking a step back in sheer astonishment.
"You! Yet a kinsman by marriage of the de Rochebazons. It is
impossible."

"Nevertheless it is true."

Baville shrugged his shoulders, then suddenly turning round on him, he
said:

"Your sympathies, then, are with these rebels here. You approve,
perhaps, of what you saw on the bridge at Montvert two nights ago. Are
here, it may be, to foment further troubles."

"You mistake. I utterly disapprove of what I saw. Would indeed have
saved the priest had it been in my power. It is not by cruelty that
wrongs are righted."

"In Heaven's name, then, if these are your sentiments what makes you a
Protestant?"

"Conviction. As conviction made that de Rochebazon a Protestant whom I
am here to find some traces of, alive or dead."

They had remained standing face to face with one another since the
Intendant had come into the room; they were face to face still as
Martin told how the missing heir to the de Rochebazon name and wealth
had himself changed his religion, and, being face to face, he saw a
strange look, a shade of startled perplexity, come into the
countenance of Baville. Also he noticed that he paled perceptibly.
Then the latter said:

"De Rochebazon, _the_ de Rochebazon, turned a Protestant! turned
Protestant!--_c'est incroyable!_--and came here to Languedoc.
When--how long ago?"

"I do not know. Possibly forty years ago. Your Excellency," and now
the clear blue eyes of the young man looked into the equally clear
dark eyes of the ruler of the province, "do you know aught of him? Can
you put me in the way of finding him?"

"I--no. Why do you ask? I came not here till '85. And--and--alas! that
it should be so. It is their own doing. The Protestants and I have
been at enmity ever since. They have made my rule a bitter one. It is
their own doing, I repeat. Their own fault."

"They have not risen until now. Done no overt act!" Martin exclaimed.

"Unfortunately, they have done many. You do not know. And they have
resisted the king's ordinances." Then changing the subject swiftly, he
said:

"Monsieur Martin, you tell me you are here to seek this missing man;
that you have no intention of aiding these rebels. I am glad to hear
it. Yet, remember, if you remain here you do so at dire peril to
yourself. If you take part in any act of rebellion, if you join in any
way in their uprisings, proclaim yourself in the least as an opponent
of the law and order which must be re-established at all costs here,
then you too must be responsible for whatever may befall you. Do you
think you can stay here and also remain neutral?"

"Are there not others in France who, being of my faith, are doing so?
Are there not still De Colignys, De Rohans, De la Trémoilles, De
Sullys in France, surrounding the king's person? Yet they are loyal to
him and he molests them not; accept their service; lets them worship
God in their own way."

"They are not in Languedoc," Baville said briefly yet very
pertinently. "And the day will come when they will all return to their
own faith. Otherwise France is not for them.[1] Nor will it be for you
or yours."

Martin shrugged his shoulders at the latter part of this speech, since
no answer was possible. France was not for him under any circumstances
when he had once carried out his dead kinswoman's request, had found
and done justice to Cyprien de Beauvilliers or his children, if he had
left any, or, failing to find them, had at last discontinued his
search.

"Meanwhile," continued Baville, "I would counsel you to reside at
Montpellier. There, for the present at least, your co-religionists are
not troublesome, and up to now I have not had to exercise the strong
hand. Also," and now he bowed with the easy grace which had never
forsaken him though he had been absent from Versailles for seventeen
years, "if you will permit me, if you will accept of any courtesy at
my hands--at the hands of Baville, the hated Intendant--I shall be
pleased to be of service to you. As a connection of the house of de
Rochebazon I may do that, while as a private gentleman, who does not
obtrude his religious belief upon me, I shall be happy to assist you
in your quest. Though I warn you I do not think you will succeed."

"You think the man I seek for never came here, or, coming, is dead?"

For a moment the other paused ere answering, his handsome face
indicating that he was lost in thought, his clear eyes gazing
searchingly into the eyes of the other. "I do not know. I can not say.
It is most probable that if he ever came he is dead."

"Leaving no children?"

"How can I say? At least--if--if he is dead he must have died and left
no trace or sign. Died without divulging who he was."

Then Baville turned to the door as though to go; yet ere he did so he
spoke again, repeating his words:

"I should counsel you to make Montpellier your resting place. If aught
is to be learned I may help you to learn it there."

"I thank you. Doubtless it would be best. Yet there is one request I
must make to you; it is to--to deal gently with Buscarlet. On my word
of honour as a gentleman, he has had no hand in these recent troubles.
He besought those mountaineers who descended on Montvert to spare the
abbé."

"There is nothing against Monsieur Buscarlet at present which calls
for severity. Yet if he does not change his faith I know not what may
be the end. If these Cévenoles do not desist, or are not stamped out,
the retribution will be terrible."

"On all?"

"I fear on all. The Church never forgives. The Church will cry for
vengeance against the Huguenots, and I, the ruler, must hear that
cry."

"And answer it?"

"And answer it; for their resistance is rebellion, and rebellion must
be crushed. Warn him, therefore, to be on his guard. To preach, above
all, obedience to the king. Otherwise there is no hope. The prisons
are already full of his brethren. Bid him beware, I say. They term
Louis the 'Scourge of God,' and they speak truly. He will scourge the
land of all who oppose him. And if not he--then his wife."




CHAPTER XIII.

URBAINE.


From the Mediterranean the warm, luscious breezes of the south sweep
up to where Montpellier stands ere they pass the city and waft to the
summits of the Cévennes the perfume of the flowers and the odours of
the rich fruits which grow upon the shores of the beauteous sea. And
from Montpellier itself, from the old _Place de Peyrou_, may be
obtained a view that is unsurpassed both in its beauty and in its
power of recalling to the memory the loathsome cruelties which,
perpetrated in the days of Louis the Great King, have smirched forever
that beauty. Far away, too, where rise the tips of the mountains of
Ventoux on the confines of fair Provence, the Alps begin to
show--those Alps over which the weary feet of escaping Protestants had
been dragged as their owners sought the sanctuary of a more free land.
Below lies a beautiful valley watered on one side by the Loire and on
another by the Rhône, watered once also by the blood and the tears of
the heartbroken dwellers therein. A valley teeming once again with the
fruits of the earth, and with now all signs erased of the devastation
which he, whose statue stands in that _Place de Peyrou_, caused to be
spread around; erased from human sight, but not from human
recollection.

Upon the other side lies Cette, of scant importance in these times as
seacoast towns and harbours are reckoned, and dead and done with--lies
there basking and smiling beneath the warm sun that shines alike in
winter as in summer. Cette, the place which, in the minds of the
forefathers of those who now dwell there, bore the blackest, most
hated name of all the villages bordering the blue sea. For here the
galleys harboured, here fathers and husbands, brothers and sons, were
flung to horrors and miseries and the life of an earthly hell--a hell
whose pangs knew no assuagement till death, most welcome, brought
release.

From where Baville sat in his open window Cette could be seen; the
harbour in which half a dozen of those galleys lay waiting for their
victims. On a table before him were papers for the sending of other
victims to the prisons of the surrounding towns; also the sentences of
death allotted to many rebels, death in hideous forms. Some to be hung
upon the bridges of their own town, some to be broken on the wheel,
some to be burned in market places, some to have their forefingers
struck off (a form of punishment peculiar to the neighbourhood and to
those who had been captured in the present uprisings), and afterward
to be hanged.

Also on tables at either side of him were orders to the colonels of
local regiments to place themselves under direction of Julien; orders
to others to provide forage and stabling for so many horses and
accommodation for so many men; orders, too, for provisions and forage
to be sent in to Montpellier and Nîmes for the victualling of the
forces quartered there. And to all and every one of these he had
already affixed his signature, "Baville"--a signature which here
carried as much authority as if, instead, it had been "Louis."

Yet it was not about these papers that Nicholas de Lamoignon de
Baville, Comte de Launai-Courson, Seigneur de Bris, Vaugrigneuse,
Chavagne, Lamothe-Chaudemier, Beuxes and other places, as well as
Conseiller d'Etat, Intendant de Justice, polices et finances--to give
him his full names and titles--was thinking on this bright morning,
nor on them that his eyes rested. Instead, upon a far smaller thing--a
thing on which one would scarcely have thought he would have wasted a
moment's attention--a little plain cornelian seal which he was turning
over and over in his hands and regarding carefully through a small
magnifying glass.

"Strange," he muttered to himself, "strange if, after all, after years
of meditation and inquiry, I should thus have lit upon the clew!
Strange, strange!"

He struck, as thus he mused, upon a little bronze gong that stood by
his side and ready to his hand, and a moment later the door was opened
and a man of about his own age came into the room in answer to the
summons; a man whose plain garb, made of the local Nîmes serge, and
wig _à trois marteaux_, proclaimed almost with certainty that he was a
clerk or secretary.

"Casalis," the Intendant said, he having put the seal beneath some
papers ere the other entered, "there is in the library a book
entitled, _Devises et blasons de la Noblesse Française_, is there
not?"

"There is, your Excellency. Prepared a year ago by Monsieur le
Comte----"

"Precisely. Fetch it, if you please."

The man retired, and, after being absent some few moments, came back,
bearing in his hand a large, handsome volume bound in pale brown
morocco, the back and sides covered with fine gold tooling and with
Baville's crest stamped also on each side--a splendid book, if its
contents corresponded with its exterior.

"Shall I find any particular entry for your Excellency?" the man
asked, pausing with the volume in his hand.

"No, leave it. I may desire to look into it presently."

Left alone, however, Baville looked into it at once, pausing at the
names under "B" to regard with some complacency his own crest and arms
beautifully reproduced in colours on vellum.

Then he turned over a vast number of leaves in a mass, arriving at the
letter "T," and re-turning back to "R," finding thereby the page which
was headed "De Rochebazon." And emblazoned in the middle of the vellum
in red, gold, and blue was the coat of arms of that great family;
above it was the crest of the house, on a rock proper a hawk with
wings elevated--the motto "Gare."

"So," said Baville to himself, "he was of noble family, was a de
Rochebazon. Had I looked at this book when the Comte de Paysac sent it
to me, compared it with the seal, I should have known such was the
case a year ago. Yet what use even if I had done so? What use? One can
not recall--undo the past."

And Baville--even Baville, the "tiger of Languedoc," as he had been
termed--sighed.

He took next the seal from the papers where he had pushed it and
compared it with the Comte de Paysac's book, though even as he did so
he knew there was no need for such comparison; the crest upon it was
as familiar to him as his own. Then he muttered:

"It is pity Monsieur le Comte did not make his work even more
complete. Some information would be useful. As to whom he married, to
wit, as to whom this young man may be, who is related to the late
princess. Also as to the family of the princess--I should know that. I
would the count were still alive."

As thus he mused a shadow fell across the path that wound before his
open window. From behind the orange tubs which formed a grove in front
of that window there stepped out a girl who, seeing him there, smiled
and said, "_Bon jour, mon père_." Then came on to the window and,
leaning against the open frame, asked if she might come in, might
bring him some flowers she had plucked to decorate his cabinet.

"Always, Urbaine," he said, "always," and he put out his hand as
though to draw her to him. "Come in, come in."

Had this been a darkened room, a sombre cabinet into which no ray of
sunlight ever stole, instead of being, in truth, a bright, gay
apartment, the presence of the girl whom he addressed as Urbaine would
have made it cheerful, have seemed to bring the needed sunlight to it;
for, as she stood there, her long white dress giving fresh radiance to
the room, her fair hair irradiated by the beams of light that glinted
in through the dark-green leaves of the orange trees, she seemed to
cast even more lustre around, making even the grave, serious face of
the Intendant look less severe. In her hands she carried a mass of
roses and ferns on which the dew sparkled, also some large white
lilies.

"Come, Urbaine," he said to her, "come, sit on your accustomed seat.
When you are at Versailles you will have no father's knee to sit
upon," and, caressingly, he drew her toward him, while she, sitting
there, arranged the flowers into bunches.

As he mentioned Versailles she sighed and turned her eyes on him, then
said:

"Why send me away, father? I do not wish to go. I desire to stay here
by your side. By my mother's, too. Let me remain," and she bent
forward and kissed his forehead.

"Nay," he answered, "nay, Montpellier is no place for you now. You are
best away from it. At present all is not well. Urbaine, these rebels
are stronger than we thought. Julien has been here a month, and what
has he done? Nothing, except sustain defeat. Now we must have more
troops from Paris. Montrevel, they say, will come; yet ere he does so
much may happen. Nîmes, even Montpellier, may fall into their hands.
Urbaine, I will not have you here to--to--fall into their hands also."

"Surely they will not hurt women. They say they attack none but
soldiers--and--and priests; that, rough and fierce as they are, no
woman has ever suffered at their hands. We of our side," and she
sighed, "can scarcely say as much."

"Who has told you this, child? Perhaps your new friend, Monsieur
Martin. Nay, I see by your blush it is so. Urbaine, you must not
believe all he says. Remember, he is a Huguenot too."

"He has never spoken to me on such themes, or, speaking, has said
nothing you could disapprove of. He says this uprising is wicked,
unlawful; is not the way to gain their ends. Also he has told me that
the murder of the Abbé Du Chaila was revolting to him; that he would
have saved him had he not been powerless."

"Where is he now?" Baville asked, without making any remark on what
she told him as to Martin Ashurst's sentiments. "I have not seen him
for some days."

"I do not know," the girl said; "neither have I seen him. Yet he spoke
of going to Alais to see his friend the pastor."

"Urbaine," Baville said, "you must speak to him before you set out for
Paris. He may listen to words from you which he will not hear from me.
You must warn him to leave Languedoc, to return to the north."

"To leave Languedoc! Return to the north!" she repeated. And it seemed
to the sharp eyes of the Intendant as though her colour changed again.

"Ay, child, he is in deadly peril here. Can you not understand?"

"No," Urbaine replied, "no. What has he done?"

"Actively, he has done nothing. Yet he is a doomed man, because of his
religion. My dear one, ere long the king will be roused to awful fury
by this rebellion; there will not be a _réformé_ left in France. And
those who are passive will suffer the same as those who take up
arms--in the Midi--here--at least. Even I shall not be able to shield
him. Nay, more, how can I shield one and destroy all the rest?"

"Can there be no peace?"

"None! Peace! How can there be peace when none will make it? These
Protestant rebels are the aggressors this time. Ask for no peace. It
is war, a war which means extermination. A month ago I should have
said extermination of them alone; now God knows who, which side, is to
be exterminated. Louis is weakened by these attacks from without, from
every side; all over Europe there is a coalition against France. And
half her enemies are of the Reformed faith, as they term it. It is
said that the old religion is to be destroyed, abolished. Yet Louis,
France, will not fail without one effort; dying, we shall drag to
destruction numberless foes. Urbaine, if we do not suppress these
Camisards we have an internal foe to deal with as well. Do you think
one Protestant will be spared?"

"I may not see him again ere I set out for Versailles," the girl
whispered, terrified at his words.

"Then he must take his chance. At best he is but a quixotic fool."

"Let me remain here; if there is danger let me share it."

"Never!" Baville said. "The nobility are threatened, the 'Intendant'
above all. Your place must be in safety. Oh, that your mother would go
too! Yet," he added reflectively, "her place is by my side."

"And mine is not? Do you say that?" And she touched his face
caressingly with her hand.

"Your place is where I can best shield you from the least threat of
danger, my loved one; where danger can never come near you." And
beneath his breath he added the word "again."

Speaking thus to the girl upon his knee, a girl scarce better than a
child, seeing she was now but seventeen years old, Baville--of whom
the greatest of French diarists has said that _il en étoit la terreur
er l'horreur de Languedoc_--was at his best. For if he loved any
creature more than another on this earth--more than Madame
l'Intendante, more even than his own son--that creature was Urbaine.

She was not in truth his daughter, was of no blood relationship to
him, yet he cared for her dearly and fondly and the love was returned.
As the history of this girl was known to many in the province, so it
shall be told here.

Early in his Intendancy, when Baville (already known as an _esprit
fort_ by the ministers round Louis) had been appointed to this distant
Government, with, to console him, an absolute authority, he had
returned one winter night from a raid that he had been making on a
village in the Cévennes which, to use his own words, "reeked of
Calvinism" and was full of persons who refused to comply with the new
orders that were brought into force by the Revocation of the Edict of
Nantes. He was then but newly married to a sister of Gourville, the
colonel of a local regiment of dragoons, and his wife's welcome to him
was somewhat cooled by the announcement which he made to her that an
intimate friend of his had perished in the raid, leaving behind a
motherless child of whom he proposed to constitute himself the
guardian.

Apprised of the fact that Ducaire was the name of the intimate friend,
Madame l'Intendante shrugged her shoulders and contented herself with
saying that it was the first time she had ever heard of him.

Later, after reflection, she laughed a little, quoted some words of M.
de Voiture as to _les secrets de la comédie_ which were no secrets
either to actors or audience, and, in the course of the next two or
three days, uttered pointed remarks to the effect that if politics
failed at any future time, doubtless M. l'Intendant might earn a
pleasant livelihood as a weaver of romances and of plots for plays.

"_En vérité_" she said, with her little laugh, "Jean de la Fontaine is
old, also _Racine; profitez vous de l'occasion, mon ami. Profitez
vous_."

Then, because they were alone in Madame's boudoir, Baville rose and
stood before his wife and, speaking seriously, bade her cease her
badinage forever.

And after the conversation which ensued, after, also, the story which
Baville told her, Madame did cease her flippancy, and henceforth had
no further qualms of jealousy.

In truth, as the child grew up, she too came to love it, to pet it as
much as her husband did, to--because she was an honest, tender-hearted
woman who, beneath all her pride for Baville's great position, had
still many feminine qualities in her breast--weep over it.

"_Pauvrette!_" she would sometimes whisper to little Urbaine, long ere
the child had come to understanding, "_pauvre petite_. Neither mother
nor father either. Ah, well! Ah, well! they shall never be wanting
while we live--say, Baville, shall they?"

And the Intendant, the man of "horror and terror" to all around,
looking down upon the babe as she slept in her little bed, would
answer before God that they should never be wanting.

Both kept their word. Urbaine Ducaire grew up, petted, caressed,
beloved, the light of the Intendant's home, the flower, as he told her
sometimes, of his life; a thing far, far more precious to him than the
son, who, instead of being any comfort to them, was revelling in the
impurities of Paris.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE ATTACK.


Between where the mountains of the Cévennes rise in tumultuous
confusion, with, towering above them all, the gigantic Lozère and La
Manzerre whence springs the beauteous Loire; between this vast
mountainous region, which gives to the mind of him who beholds it the
idea of a world falling to ruin and perishing of its own worn-out
antiquity, and the Rhône, the road to the north winds through a
fertile valley--a valley where the meadows and the orchards and the
vineyards run down to the river on which the rafts and boats float
along until the stream empties itself into the Mediterranean at last;
boats from which are wafted the perfume of the new-mown hay, or the
fruits which they are conveying. A valley this in which are little
houses set in among the pear trees and the chestnuts, and covered with
bird-swarming ivy wherein the southern oriole builds its nest and
rears its young; houses in front of which the fair roses of Provence
grow in great clusters as they have grown there for centuries, and
over which the pigeons whirl in their flight.

Once, not twenty years before the period of this narrative, and before
a reformed wanton had urged a superstitious king (already then growing
old and shuddering at the phantoms that arose from his evil and
unclean past, as well as from the fear of what his enemies--the whole
world!--might wreak upon him in the shape of human vengeance) to wage
what he termed a holy war, this valley had been one of a thousand in
France where peace and contentment had reigned. Peace and contentment
coupled, it is true, with, in most cases, a simple humble life, yet
still a life free from care. An existence scarce disturbed by aught
more serious than some trifling ailments of the children who ran about
barefooted in the long lush grass, or plunged into the cool stream
that watered the land, or by the sound of the passing bell telling at
solemn intervals how one who had lived there all his days was going to
his rest. A life spent in the open air all through the summer time, or
by the blazing chestnut logs when the snows of winter kept all shut up
in their cottages, carding, weaving, combing, earning their living
thus as in the golden prime of July they earned it by gathering fruit,
or cutting the corn and sheaving it, or rearing the cattle.

Now all was changed, all but the beauty of the land. The red-roofed
houses on whose tiles the topmost boughs of the pear trees rested,
borne down with fruit, were closed; the wicker basket in which the
thrushes and blackbirds had sung so joyously, not deeming their lives
captivity, were empty; so, too, were the stalls where once the kine
had lowed and the horses trampled as daybreak stole over the mountain
tops. All were gone now. The old grandam who had looked after the
children; the children themselves; the stalwart fathers; the
dark-eyed, brown-bosomed women whose black tresses hung down their
backs and served as ropes for their babes to tug at.

Gone--but where?

Half of the men to the galleys, to toil until their hearts burst and
they died, worn to skeletons by belabourings and thrashings,
starvation and ill usage; the other half to the mountains, there to
meditate upon, and afterward to take, a hideous, black revenge on
those who had driven them from their homes. The old women gone also,
some to fester in the prison cellars of Nîmes, Uzès, Alais, Niort, and
Montpellier. The black-haired mothers to do the same, to groan in the
dungeons for water, even though it were but one drop to cool their
tongues; to shriek to God to take their lives, even though they were
sacrificed in the flames of the market place; to pray to their Creator
to let them die and join their slaughtered babes once more; see again
the husbands from whom the gibbet and the wheel had torn them forever
in this world.

Because they were Protestants, Reformés, Huguenots! That was their
crime! The crime that had roused the woman in Paris--_la femme célèbre
et fatale_--to urge on her husband the devastation of the Garden of
France.

Down this road now, which wound between the base of the Cévennes
and the banks of the rapid Rhône, upon a sunny afternoon in
September--when all the uncut corn (there being no one to gather it)
was bending on its stalks upon which, later, it would rot, past a
burned and ruined church, past, too, a wheel on which a dried,
half-mummified body was bound and left to shrivel--there came a
cortége. A cortége consisting first of a troop of dragoons of the
regiment of Hérault, their sabres drawn and flashing in the sun, their
musketoons slung ready at their backs, their glances wary and eager.
Ahead of them rode their captain, a man tall and muscular, burned
black almost from constant exposure to the sun and by taking part in
many campaigns from his youth, commencing in Germany and Austria. This
was Poul, a Carcassonnais, who, since the outbreak of the Cévennes
rising, had been distinguished as one of the most determined opponents
of the _attroupés_. Also he was a marked man, doomed to death by them,
and he knew it. But over his midnight draughts of Hermitage he had
sworn often that, ere his fate overtook him, many of the _canaille_
should also meet theirs.

Behind his troop of dragoons, numbering thirty-five men, there came a
travelling carriage, large, roomy, and much ornamented, and drawn by
four horses. In it there sat Urbaine Ducaire on her way to Langogne,
the first stage on the road to Paris. By her side was seated a
middle-aged _gouvernante_ or companion, whom Baville had told off to
accompany her until she reached Avignon, where she would be safe
outside the troubles of Languedoc and where she was to continue her
journey under the protection of the Duchess d'Uzès. Above the carriage
was piled up her valises and portmanteaux; also upon it were three
footmen armed with fusils, all of which were ready to their hands;
also a waiting maid who was always in attendance upon Urbaine. To
complete her guard, behind the great carriage marched a company of the
fusileers of Barre and Pompidon, headed by a mounted officer.

Passing the broken and mutilated corpse upon the wheel, Poul pointed
to it with his glove and laughed; then, reining back his horse until
the dragoons had gone by, he looked in at the great window and
remarked to Urbaine:

"Mademoiselle perceives the _canaille_ are not always triumphant. As
it is with that crushed rat there, so it will be with all. Time! Time!
Our vengeance will come."

But the girl, after casting one horrified glance at the thing which
was shrivelling in the broiling September sun, had shrunk back
affrighted into the depths of the great travelling carriage and thrown
up her hands before her eyes while the _gouvernante_, addressing Poul,
said:

"Monsieur le Capitaine, why call our attention to that? It is no
pleasing sight even to a devout Catholic, moreover a bitter one when
we remember the fearful retaliation that has been exacted. Have you
forgotten the Abbé du Chaila, the curé of Frugéres?"

"Forgotten!" exclaimed the rough Carcassonnais, "forgotten! _Ventre
bleu!_ I have forgotten nothing. Else why am I here? Beautiful as is
the freight of this carriage," and he made a rough bow "it needs no
Capitaine Poul to command the dragoons who escort it in safety. Any
_porte drapeau_, or unfledged lieutenant, could do that. Nay, it is in
hopes that we may meet some of these singing, snivel-nosed Calvinists
that I ride with you to-day. Oh, for the chance!"

"Send him away," whispered Urbaine; "he terrifies me. Would that my
father had chosen some other officer."

Ere, however, her companion could do as she requested, Poul had turned
his wrist and ridden again to the head of his troops, a fierce look of
eagerness on his face, a gleam in his coal-black eyes. For from ahead
of where the cavalcade had now arrived--a shady part of the road, on
one side of which there rose precipitously some rocks crowned with
bushes, while on the other was a meadow--he heard a sound which told
him his wish was very likely to be granted.

A sound of singing, of many voices in unison. Voices uttering words
which reached the ears of all, causing the dragoons and fusileers to
look to their arms and the women and footmen to turn white with
apprehension.

A sound of singing that rose and fell upon the soft afternoon air as
though somewhere a conventicle was being held. And these the words
they sung:


     Dieu! que Juda connait: Dieu! qu' Israel adore
     Salem est ta demeure et Sion ton autel!
     Ton bras de nos tyrans a rompu Tare sonore,
            La glaive qui dévore
            Et le combat mortel.


"Ha!" called out Poul, his dark face now more suffused with rage than
before, "they are near at hand. Swords out, _mes dragons, avancez--en
double ligne de Colonne_; here is more garbage for the wheel. _En
avance les fusiliers_--the carriage behind. _Tambours battants. En
avant!_"

And while the women screamed, Urbaine burying her fair head for a
moment on the _gouvernante's_ shoulder, the dragoons fell into double
line, and the fusileers of Barre and Pompidon, passing swiftly on on
either side of the great carriage formed up behind them, their drums
beating scornfully.

At first they saw no enemy, scarce expected to see any, since all knew
by now that these mountaineers fought on the system of those dreaded
Indians whom some of this force had already encountered on the shores
of the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi--namely, by sheltering
themselves behind every available tree or rock, or even shrub, from
which they fired on their foes with deadly effect. But they heard
them. Heard again the solemn hymn they sang in the hour of battle, of
death, and of vengeance:


     Aux éclairs de ta foudre, à sa fumante trombe
     Le c[oe]ur manque an vaillant, le bras échappé au fort
     Le char d'airain se brise, et le coursier succombe,
             Et le guerrier qui tombe
             S'assoupit dans la mort!


Then a moment later they saw their foes, or some of them.

Upon the summit of the rock sixty feet above their heads, amid the
stunted trees and bushes that grew thereon, they saw appear a strange
crowd. Men, tall and swarthy, some old, some almost boys, while there
was one of the latter whose fantastic attire--a vest of bleached
Holland garnished with silver buttons, _culottes_ of chamois leather,
gold-gallooned, ivory-hilted sword, scarlet mantle and black felt hat,
with long white ostrich feather--would better have become one of
Luxembourg's dandy cavaliers than an _attroupé_ of the mountains. Also
three men, venerable-looking, yet fierce and stern, two having beards
that flowed over their chests, all of whom joined in the hymn that was
being sung by a larger body that was ahead of the place where the
Royalist troops were--ahead, yet advancing toward those who had been
caught in the snare, advancing singing and firing. And by the side of
these three, who were Prophets--_Inspirés_--there stood a girl, black
and swarthy, too, a bracelet on her arm and in her hands a musketoon,
which she raised and, aiming at the carriage below, fired.

With a shriek the _gouvernante_ fell back on to the cushions dead;
with another, Urbaine flung her arms about her, moaning, while now,
from all around, the sound of firing was heard, and, pealing high,
above all else, the voice of Poul, howling orders, yelling curses,
laughing defiantly. Yet why he laughed none knew, for already the
saddles of the dragoons were being emptied rapidly; the ground was
strewn, too, with the bodies of the fusileers of Barre and Pompidon,
those who still lived being driven back.

Fear paralyzes sometimes; sometimes also inspires with a terrible and
desperate courage. It was thus with Urbaine Ducaire at this moment.
She screamed and moaned no more, let the poor dead woman's body lie
back in the carriage, put out her hand to the door that was farthest
away from the rock on which the visible portion of the enemy was, and
endeavoured to turn the handle.

Yet, ere she did so, she saw a sight that might well have unnerved
her, have struck her dead with horror.

Upon the rock-side of the vehicle she saw Poul fighting like a demon
possessed, or, better, like a doomed brave man. She saw his sabre dart
through one fanatic's throat, then through another's breast; she heard
his hoarse, triumphant shouts and terrible oaths, also his words of
bitter scorn and hatred of the _canaille_ as he thrust at them, then
nearly fainted at what she saw next: A lad standing by the side of the
girl armed with the musketoon, while still she fired as fast as she
could load it--a lad who adjusted a huge stone in a sling, and then,
watching his opportunity and whirling the latter round his head,
discharged the missile, which crashed with fatal effect full on Poul's
forehead. And as the brave, rough soldier, with a cry of hideous,
awful agony, fell to the earth, the youth, shouting in his rough
_patois_ that the soul of David had descended through countless ages
to enter his body, leaped down the crags of the rock, fell upon the
unhappy man, and, seizing his sword, began to hack his head off.

"I can bear no more," Urbaine murmured, "no more! Pray God the next
bullet fired enters my heart! Otherwise I must die of horror." And she
sank to the bottom of the carriage, her head on the dead woman's
knees, sank back and lay there in a stupor.

Whereby she knew not that, even as she did so, across the meadow a man
had ridden on a rawboned horse as fast as he could urge it, had gained
the road, and, swiftly dismounting amid the rain of bullets and stones
from above, had wrenched open the carriage door and lifted her out in
his arms. Knew not that in his strength he had tossed her on to the
neck of the horse and quickly remounted, having but one hand to use in
doing so, and that, amid a storm of more bullets, he had carried her
off from where the carnage still raged, while in his ears he heard
more than once the cry--

"_Voilà ton Poul!_ He is well trussed. Eat him!"




CHAPTER XV.

SHELTER AND REFUGE.


That night as darkness fell upon the earth, and while, high up in the
heavens, the bonfires burned which the _attroupés_ lit regularly on
the tops of the Cévennes in the hopes of thereby luring their enemies
into their strongholds and fastnesses, Martin spoke to Urbaine,
saying:

"Mademoiselle, I know not what is to be done. Had the unfortunate
horse not been slain by that last bullet we might have got back to
safety. To Montpellier or, failing that, to Lunel at least. Now it
seems hopeless. You can go no farther and--and I can not leave you
alone while I seek assistance, which, even if I did, I should not
obtain. There is no assistance for--for those who are not on their
side."

"I can not understand you, monsieur," Urbaine said quietly. "You are
yourself a Protestant, my father told me--nay, did you not so inform
me that morning in our garden at Montpellier--yet you trouble to save
me from your fr----, those of your faith. I am deeply grateful to you,
only I do not comprehend."

For a moment his clear eyes rested on her. In the dusk that was now
almost night she saw them plainly. Then he answered very quietly:

"Is it not enough, mademoiselle, that you are a woman? Must I, because
I am a Protestant, have no right to the attributes of a man?"

"I--I ask your pardon; forgive me. I would not wound you--you who have
saved me. And I thank you. Only, here, in Languedoc, we have learned
in the last few weeks to expect no mercy from the Protestants."

"Like all who have turned against injustice and cruelty, they are now
themselves unjust and cruel. One may respect their turning, even their
uprising, yet not their methods."

Then for some moments there was silence between them.

They were seated, on this warm September night--for six weeks had
passed since the murder of the abbé--upon a bank outside a deserted
cottage a league or so from where the ambuscade and slaughter of Poul
and the soldiers under him had taken place. Above them, all around
them, in the little garden, there grew the sweet flowering acacias
which are at their best in the valleys that lie between the Loire and
the Rhône; the air was thick with their perfume. Also the gourds lay
golden on the ground, uncut and ripening to decay. The scarlet beans
trailed in rich profusion of colour on their sticks, illuminated, too,
by the fireflies that danced around. And from the distance of a
pistol-shot off there came the murmur of the arrowy river as it dashed
down between its banks to reach the sea.

Yet all was desolation here, and death. Death typified by the poor
merle that lay forgotten and starved in its wicker cage, left behind
when those who once dwelt here had fled a fortnight ago to the
mountains at the report that De Broglie's _chevaux-légers_ were
devastating the land. They fled leaving behind them, too, the
three-months-old calf, and the fowls, and all the simple household
creatures, having no time to do aught but shift for themselves and
bear away to safety those other harmless living things, the children.

"What is to be done I know not," Martin went on. "At any moment they
may come this way; they know we have escaped so far. Then--then--it
may mean instant death; at best, captivity in the mountains."

"For me," she answered, speaking low, "for me? I am Baville's adopted
child--the child of his dear friend. But for you--you are of
their----"

Then she paused, leaving the last word unsaid as she saw again his
calm, sad eyes fixed on her. Once more she pleaded for pardon.

"Forgive, forgive me," she said. "I am vile, ungenerous to speak thus.
Yet we must part at last. They have no charge against you."

"We part," he replied, "when you--when both--are safe."

They knew not why at such a time as this, when action should have been
everything and no moment wasted, in spite of the girl's fatigue and
prostration, silence should fall upon them; why they should sit there
as though courting a fate that might come at any moment, for at any
moment, above the hum of the near river, there might be heard the
voices of the revolted Cévenoles. Beneath the branches of the acacias
that o'erhung the dusty white road would perhaps be seen the unbrowned
barrels of their guns or the scythes with which, since many of them
had as yet no weapons, they were armed.

A silence between these two broken only by the twitter of birds in the
branches, or by a sigh that rose unchecked from the girl's breast as,
in the starlit dark, she turned her eyes on the features of the man by
her side.

"Come," he said at last, rousing himself, "come. It is madness to
remain here. We must move on even though we encounter death by doing
so. It is not likely that all have returned to the mountains after
their victory; they may pass by here at any moment. Can you proceed at
all, mademoiselle?"

"I can at least try. Yet to where? To where?"

"I do not know the land very well," he answered, speaking in the slow,
calm voice which had impressed her so much a month ago when the
Intendant had, with strange indifference (as it seemed to both of
them), presented Martin to Urbaine and left them to pass some hours in
the orange garden of the Intendancy, he contenting himself with
telling the girl that her new acquaintance was from the north and was
not of their faith. "I do not know the land very well. Yet is there
not a garrison near here? I think so. Called the--the château of--the
fortress of--Servas."

"Ah, yes!" Urbaine cried, clasping her hands, "the Château de Servas.
Between Alais and Uzès; not far from here. If we could reach that we
should be safe. The commandant is known to my father--to De Broglie.
He would protect us."

"We must attempt it," Martin replied. "It is our chance,
mademoiselle," he exclaimed, breaking off as he heard a gasp from her
lips, "What is it? What! What new terror?"

"I forgot," she whispered, her voice unsteady, "I forgot. In
this instance the case is reversed. They are all of my
faith--you--you--would be sacrificed. They are infuriated with these
rebels. Alas!" she almost wailed, "they would not spare you. It is not
to be dreamed on. Anywhere but there."

"Nay," he said, "nay. It must in truth be there. And for me fear not.
I have saved the daughter of his Excellency for them. Even though they
know I am this accursed thing in their eyes, a Protestant, they would
scarcely repay me cruelly for that."

"They must never know it. By silence you are safe. Oh, let us attempt
to reach it. It is but two or, at most, three leagues. I have been
there with my father. He will bless you, worship you for saving me."

"Three leagues! three leagues!" he repeated, "three leagues! For me,
nothing. Yet for you, a delicate woman!"

"The very thought, the hope of safety, inspires me. I am strong again.
Come, monsieur, come, I beseech you, for both our sakes. For yours,
for you who have saved me, above all."

"Not so," he said. "I am a man who has ventured into the tiger's jaws
and must take my chance. I am of poor account."

And now they prepared to set forth to reach this place of refuge, yet
both knew what dangers might well be expected ere they got there, if
ever. For during the time which had elapsed since the Camisards, as at
this time they began to be called, had risen and commenced their
resistance by the slaughter of the Abbé Du Chaila, all Languedoc had
been overrun with them and was in a state of terror. Also the flight
of the inhabitants had become entirely reversed. It was the Catholics
and the Catholic priests who were rushing out of the province as fast
as they could go, while from their mountain homes the revolted
Protestants who had taken up arms were pouring down in hundreds.
Already, too, the cities were in a state of siege and the inhabitants
fortifying themselves within the walls. That very night, although
neither Martin nor Urbaine knew of it, the ancient city of Nîmes, the
Rome of France, expected to be besieged, put to sword ere dawn; for by
the time that they were hoping to accomplish their night journey to
the Château de Servas the few dragoons who had escaped the slaughter
which had fallen on Poul's detachment, as well as the fusileers and
another band of cavalry and infantry who had been routed close by
while under the command of De Broglie, had ridden pell-mell into
Nîmes, their weapons broken or lost, their heads covered with blood,
themselves and their horses wounded. Rode in the bearers of awful
tidings as to how the fanatics were led by two persons, one a lad of
sixteen named Cavalier, the other a man a few years older named
Roland; rode in and told how women fought on their side as the Amazons
of old had fought; how men preached and encouraged them and sang
canticles as they did so; of how they spared none; had beheaded Poul;
had captured Baville's daughter and slain her, if not worse. Described
also, with white quivering lips, how the tocsins were ringing from
half a hundred churches in flames; told of priests flung across their
own altars and done to death, of soldiers mutilated ere slain--all by
bands of men who seemed to vanish into the air the moment after their
deeds were accomplished.

Meantime Baville's daughter and her rescuer were threading their
course through the meadows and pastures that fringed the wayside,
because thus her feet were more eased by the long, cool grass on
which now the dews of night had fallen, or slowly finding a path
through chestnut woods. Sometimes, too--leaving the river behind them
and knowing they were going aright since its distant hum became
fainter and fainter, and since, ever before them, yet afar off, the
summits of _La Lozère_ and _Bouquet_ stood out more clear against the
heavens--they passed vineyards on which the black grapes hung in
clusters, when, pausing, they moistened their lips with the soft,
luscious fruit. Yet went on and on, resting at intervals, and then
forward again, the girl leaning on the arm of her companion--the arm
of the man whose faith she had been taught to despise and execrate.

But once they had to stop for another reason than her fatigue, to
pause in a great chestnut wood where the grass which grew at the feet
of the trees was as soft and silky as thistle-down, and where the deer
stared at them with wide-open, startled eyes; to pause because they
heard a hundred yards away the voices of a band of men which passed
along the wide road.

"It is they," she whispered, trembling. "It is they. Whom do they
seek?"

"Fear not," he replied, soothing her, while at the same time he drew
her within the decayed trunk of an enormous chestnut tree over whose
head more than one century must have rolled. "They proceed too rapidly
along the road, too swiftly on their way, to be in search of us. More
like they go to midnight murder, the destruction of some harmless
village, the pillage of some helpless town."

"Murder! Destruction! you deem it that? You!" she whispered, her soft,
pure eyes glancing up at his.

"I deem it that," he replied gravely, "retaliation though it be."

The band went on, their voices coming back to them on the still night
air, the refrain of one of their hymns borne back also--a hymn still
breathing of revenge blessed by God, of vengeance ordained by him.

"If you are rested again," he whispered, "we may proceed."

Still helping her, assisting her as gently as though he had been her
brother, he led her on until at last they left the shelter of the
woods and stood upon a little knoll of ground, a spot from which they
looked across a plain bordered on the farther side by slopes and hills
that, rising one behind the other, lifted themselves finally to
mountains whose ridges and summits stood out sharply against the
starry sky. Yet saw, too, that now the stars grew whiter and began to
pale, that all the heavens were turning to a soft primrose hue, while,
far away to the east, was the warm suffusing of scarlet which told of
the coming day. Afar off, also, observed other crimson streaks over
which there hung dun-coloured palls of smoke that proceeded from
burning towns and hamlets.

Shuddering, Urbaine directed her glance to the latter, then said,
looking toward the north:

"There ahead of us is the Château de Servas. You see?" and as she
spoke she pointed to where, above a low purple-crested hill, a white
building hung.

"I see," he answered. "Pray God we reach it. You can still go on?"

"I must go on," she replied. "Once there we are safe. The château is
well garrisoned."

Even through this plain, vineyards ran along the side of the road
which led to where the fortress stood; therefore they were not so open
to observation as if it had been a flat, uncultivated expanse; and
across this they passed, sheltered by the vines on either side. And
now there arose a chance unhoped for--one which, had it happened
earlier in their journey, might have brought them to the harbour of
refuge they sought before the night had gone. Grazing at the side of
the road was an old mule, a creature rough-coated and long neglected
and uncared for, its hide thick and coarse. Perhaps its being so poor
a thing was the reason why it had not been carried off into the
mountains either by those who owned it or by those who would have
appropriated it if owned by their foes. Yet it served now to ease
Urbaine from further toil, since Martin, catching it and placing his
coat across its back as a saddle-cloth, lifted the girl on to it at
once. Then instantly they set off again, he walking by the patient
creature's side and directing it.

An hour later, when now the light had come and when the mountain tops
were all gilded with the rays of the sun, while below on the plain the
coolness of dawn was already receding before the genial warmth of a
new day, they had reached their journey's end and were mounting the
slope beneath the castle. And seeing the two cannon that stood on
their cumbersome old carriages upon the walls, and the men-at-arms who
were already regarding them curiously from those walls, Martin knew
that he had saved the girl for a second time.

Also she knew it well, yet such was her emotion, such her agitation at
recognising that she had escaped an awful fate, that she was powerless
to express herself in words; but not too powerless to testify her
gratitude by her looks and by the touch which she laid upon his hand.
A touch which he understood and answered also by a glance, and by the
muttered words, "Thank God!"

A moment later the wicket in the great iron-barred and studded gate
opened, and a soldier came out and stood regarding them; then called
down the slope:

"Who are you and what do you seek?"

"Shelter and refuge," Martin answered back, his voice clear and
distinct in the morning air. "This lady is his Excellency's daughter."

"His Excellency's daughter!" the man repeated, his whole tone one of
astonishment. "His Excellency's daughter, and travelling thus on such
a sorry beast!"

"And travelling thus. Fortunate, indeed, to be travelling at all,"
while, as he spoke, he extended his hands and caught Urbaine as she
swerved on the mule's back and fell fainting into his arms.




CHAPTER XVI.

SUCCOUR.


Once more the day was drawing to a close. Already across the plain the
sun's rays were slanting horizontally. Soon the sun itself would have
dipped behind the mountains and be gone. Another night was at hand,
and Martin, gazing on the country around from the castle walls on
which he stood, thanked God that it would bring no terrors to the girl
whom he had saved, such as the past one had brought.

Since they had been received into the castle in the morning by the
commandant, a man who had once fought in countless campaigns but who
now passed his latter years as governor of this place, he had seen
nothing of Urbaine. She had been escorted to a room in the west wing
immediately on their admission, where, after having been given
restoratives in the shape of wine and food, and after being attended
to by two or three of the few women in the place--soldiers' wives--she
had begged that she might be allowed to be alone and thus obtain some
rest. In was sorely needed, Martin said, speaking to the old
chatelaine, sorely needed.

"And can be procured," the other replied, twisting up his great
moustachios. "_Bon Dieu!_ we have a room here fit for the reception of
a duchess. Madame de Servas--a pretty thing---_une femme de la vieille
souche_ also--loves a soft nest; yet not one perched in an eyrie
around which such storms blow as those that are now devastating
Languedoc, the pest seize them and those who brew them!"

"Is the lady here?" Martin asked, thinking that, if so, she would be a
comfort to the girl until she could escape back to Montpellier under
his care.

"_Pouf! pouf! pouf!_" the old soldier said, "not she indeed. I tell
you the tempest is too rough for her; she fears too much the vagabonds
up there," whereupon he nodded toward where by now all the mountain
tops of the Cévennes were gleaming in the morning sun. "Thereupon she
is fled to Paris, the paradise of women; to Versailles--Marly. Well,
she is safe there from these men," and again he nodded toward the
mountains. "From other men, ho! ho!--of the court, _figurez
vous_--danger may come, drawn by her bright eyes. However, there is
the nest for mademoiselle. _Tant mieux!_"

But by now, as the evening drew on, those mountains were suffused by
the soft _couleur de rose_ that, in a near and less troubled land, was
known as the Alpine glow. And Martin, himself refreshed after some
hours' sleep during the day, was leaning over the castle wall looking
down into the valley and the plain all flushed with the burning sunset
of the golden autumn, with, far off and running through the latter,
the silver thread that was the river Gardon hurrying on to join the
Rhône. He was thinking now of many things, even as his eyes took in
the beauties of all the fair department that lay around him--the
distant woods whose leaves were scarce yet browned by the touch of
autumn's fingers; the mill house on the Gardon's bank whose wheel was
now still, since its owner had fled, perhaps forever; the gray convent
that lay farther off and had been half destroyed by fire two nights
ago; the crumbled ivy-clad tower a mile away, in which the king's
father, Louis "The Just," had caused a score of Protestants to be
burned alive--was thinking of many things as he regarded the fair
scene. Whether he would ever see his own land once more, ever escape
out of France, ever meet again in future years the pure fair girl
whose life he had saved but a few hours ago--the girl whose faith and
convictions were so bitterly hostile to his own, as every word she
spoke, every thought she allowed utterance to, testified. Also he
was wondering if the search he had undertaken for the lost de
Rochebazon--the search he now deemed a foolish, Quixotic one--could
result in aught but failure here in such a tempest-tossed spot as
this.

"Never," he muttered to himself, "never shall I find him. France's
empty coffers must swallow up all the wealth that is his, the Church
he renounced must profit by my own renunciation. Find him! How? Where?
Hanging to some gibbet if he has lived till these days, or learn that
years ago he perished on the wheel or at the stake; that his ashes
were cast to the winds. I shall never find him." Then he turned,
hearing a step upon the leads behind him, and observed the commandant
approaching the spot where he stood.

Already, when the old soldier had been by his side a few moments
before, he had been made acquainted with all that had happened on the
previous day, and of how it was only by God's mercy that Martin had
arrived at the fortunate moment he did.

"I was," he said, "on my way to Valence, to which some affairs led me,
where I heard the sound of firing and the shouts of men engaged in
fierce conflict. And I should have stood outside the fray, have taken
no part in it, but that I saw the travelling coach and observed a
serving woman screaming on the top of it; saw a face at the coach
window--that of mademoiselle. I could not refrain from attempting her
rescue. She was a helpless, defenceless girl. It was no place for her
among those men fighting like tigers. Also we had met before at her
father's residency."

"_Ponz! ponz!_" said the commandant, "you did well. _Nonc d'un chien_,
you did well for yourself and her. Baville will not forget. She is the
apple of his eye, although no blood relation, yet the child of a loved
friend, confided to him in death. Also his own child is a trouble to
him. The Intendant spends all his heart on this girl. They say he
worships her tenderly, fondly, because of her father. Ask Baville for
aught you desire when you return to Montpellier and you will get it.
He will repay you as fully as if--well!--as if, had you injured her,
he would have cut you into twenty thousand atoms."

"I shall ask him for nothing. One does not save a woman's life for a
reward."

"That I know," the commandant replied, a little ruffled by the rebuke.
"Yet, having saved her life, as well let Baville show his gratitude.
He is all-powerful here in the province; his interest, too, is great
at Versailles." Then, changing the subject, the old man said:

"If we had but enough men you and she should be sent to Montpellier
to-morrow. Yet 'tis impossible. We have but sufficient here to
garrison the place and to rush out and hurry any of those _scélérats_
whom we can catch in small bodies. I can not spare any men to form a
guard. Meanwhile the Intendant probably deems her dead by this time.
God help all who fall into his hands after this!"

"How is it with her to-night?" Martin asked now, thinking that since
the sun was set she must surely by this time have slept off much of
her fatigue.

"She is refreshed and rested, the woman tells me who has been placed
in attendance on her. Yet, too, she is very sad. She thinks much on
her father's and mother's grief if they knew, as they must, what has
befallen her, which they doubtless deem death. Oh, that I could
communicate with Baville! Yet 'tis impossible. I can not spare a man."

"You can spare me," Martin answered gravely and with a seriousness
that told he meant what he said. "Give me a horse better than the poor
thing on which mademoiselle finished her journey here, and I will go;
will undertake to reach Montpellier."

"You?" the commandant exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the
suggestion. "You? So! 'tis well. Who better than he who saved her to
carry the good news to her father? Yet, yet," he said in his next
breath, his face falling, "'tis impossible. You would never reach the
city. They are everywhere, _on dit_ two thousand strong already. And
they spare none; above all, they will not spare the man who saved the
Intendant's loved one."

"I may avoid them. Even if I do not there may still be a chance of my
escape," Martin added, remembering that he was of the same faith as
these rash unhappy rebels, although not in sympathy with them.
Certainly not in sympathy with their cruelties.

"Escape? Yes, you may, even as by God's grace you escaped so far as to
reach here. But such chances come not more than once together--who
throws the ace twice! Moreover, if they know 'twas she who has slid
out of their claws they will be over all the land, 'neath every bush,
behind every stone, like painted snakes. There is no chance. You must
remain here till some of Julien's or De Broglie's troops come to
assist. Yet if you could have done it, have repeated your last night's
valour, Baville would have worshipped you. Still, still you have done
well. _Bon Dieu!_"--and the old man slapped the young one on the
shoulder--"_vous êtes un homme fort_."

Looking away toward where now the purple shadows of the September
evening were resting over all the plain, glancing over to where the
white dusty road that followed the course of the Gardon stood out
plain and distinct in the clear pure air, Martin saw that which told
him that no further opportunity for a repetition of last night's
valour, as the commandant had termed it, was like to come to him.

Already it seemed as if assistance was at hand.

"See," he said, "see! Even now the succour you pray for is near.
Behold some of the troops of those whom you name--De Broglie's or
Julien's! Look! the last rays sparkle on gorget and fusil-barrel.
Thank God! She will be restored to her father. Perhaps to-night.
To-morrow at latest."

It was as he said. Along that white dusty road which twined beside the
river there came a body of cavalry, plain enough to be seen even by
the age-worn eyes of the elder man. A troop numbering about thirty
soldiers, on whose rich galloon, sword hilts, and bridle chains the
last beams of the fast-sinking sun sparkled, it lighting up, too, the
rich _bleu du roi_ worn by some and the gallant scarlet of the others.

"_Pardie!_" exclaimed the commandant, "the slaughter could not have
been as great as you imagined, my friend. Those men have at least
escaped. Observe, the blue are the dragoons of De Broglie, the red are
those of Hérault. Surely they were in the attack of yesterday," and he
turned his eyes on Martin almost questioningly, as though wondering
whether, for his own self-glorification, he had exaggerated his
service to Urbaine.

"'Tis strange," the other answered, "strange. None escaped, I do
believe, who were escorting mademoiselle's carriage. There must have
been another party of the king's troops who were set upon, and these
have belonged to them."

"May be," the commandant said, willing enough not to believe that this
man (who had at least placed the existence of one of the most precious
women in the province beyond danger) was a braggart. "May be, yet they
have done more than escape, too. See, they bring prisoners. Fanatics.
In chains, observe."

Looking again, Martin did observe that he spoke truly. Ahead of the
cloud of dust which the horses raised on the chalk-white road he saw a
band of men on foot; could count six of them, all shackled together by
the wrists and shambling along, one or another falling now and again
and causing the cavalry thereby to halt until they were once more on
their feet. No doubt Camisard prisoners.

"Ha!" exclaimed the old man, leaning on the buttress by his side, his
knotty hands placed above his eyes to shield them from the sun's last
rays, and perhaps, also, to focus the advancing cavalcade, "they turn
by the mill. Therefore they approach to succour us. Good! To-morrow
mademoiselle will rejoin her father."

Then they bade the sentry on the walls fire a salute from the old
saker which had stood them since Ru de Servas had held the castle for
Henry of Navarre.

It was answered by a blast from a trumpet far down in the valley,
after which the two men standing there, watching the oncoming relief,
traced its progress until at last the band were on the slopes beneath
the castle gateway.

"You are welcome," the commandant called out to one who rode ahead of
all the others, richly apparelled in the _bleu du roi_ coat, and
wearing a well-powdered, deep wig _à la brigadier_ which hid all of
his head except his features beneath the great felt hat that he wore
above the peruke; "welcome in the name of the king for whom I stand
here. Are you sent, monsieur, to increase our garrison or to escort
mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety?"

"Mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety!" the young
officer exclaimed, repeating the other's words in evident
astonishment--an astonishment equally testified by all at his back.
"His Excellency's daughter! Is she here?"

"She is here. Did you not know it?"

"Not I! or be very sure we would have been here before. Her safety is
indeed precious." Then at once he commenced an explanation of their
appearance at the château.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am the nephew of M. de Broglie, and with these
others have escaped the fate which has fallen on his followers. Also,
by good chance, we have taken these six villainous _attroupés_
prisoners. Yet, since they delay our progress to Alais, we have come
here to ask your permission to imprison them in your château. They
will be safe with you."

"Ha!" laughed the old commandant, "_mort de ma vie_ they will. Safe!
Yes, till they stand with their backs against the wall of the
courtyard and with a platoon of musketeers _en face_. Oh, yes, very
safe! Bring them in, monsieur, the gates shall be open; also to
yourselves. You must not proceed to-night ere you have supped and
slept----"

"It is impossible," the nephew of M. de Broglie answered. "It is
impossible; we must journey on to Alais."

"And I say it is impossible you can do so. What! refuse a bite and a
sup, a bed with a comrade, also the acquaintance of Monsieur
l'Intendant's daughter? Fie! Nay, more, you must turn back at dawn and
escort the lady to Montpellier. Ho! 'twill not be long ere you find
yourself brigadier after that service."

Again the young officer protested, again said it was impossible. They
must proceed even though they missed a sight of _les beaux yeux de
mademoiselle_. Yet, even as he so protested, the commandant saw signs
of his yielding and urged his plea still more.

At last, however, he won upon the other. After still more refusals, M.
de Broglie's nephew, having consulted with a second officer of the
troop, yielded by degrees, saying finally that they would remain until
daybreak; would so far forego their duty as to sup and sleep in the
castle.

And now the great gate of the château opened and all the dragoons of
De Broglie and Hérault came in, the horses being tethered in the
courtyard, while the wretched prisoners were told roughly by the
second in command that they could throw themselves down there. Soon,
he said, they would sleep well enough. Need neither pillow nor
bolster!

"Yet give us bread," one whispered, "bread and to drink, though only
water. Kill us not before our time."

"You shall have both," the commandant replied. "We do not starve those
to death who are reserved for other things."

They all turned away after this, leaving the prisoners amid the
troopers and the horses, the commandant inviting the two officers to
accompany him and Martin to the platform of the castle, there to await
the supper and the pleasure of being presented to his Excellency's
daughter, while, as they went, Martin, who had been regarding M. de
Broglie's nephew from the first moment when the troop had appeared
under the castle, could not resist saying to him:

"Monsieur, I can not but think we have met before. Your face is
familiar to me."

"Possibly, monsieur," the other replied with a courteous bow, though
one that, Martin thought, scarcely savoured of that ease and grace
which a member of the De Broglie family should possess, a great house
whose scions were almost always of a certainty trained to all the
courtlinesses of Versailles and St. Germain. "Possibly, monsieur. I am
much about in various places. Can monsieur, _par hazard_, recall where
we may have met?"

"Nay, nay," Martin said, "nay. And 'tis but a light fancy. Doubtless I
am mistaken."




CHAPTER XVII.

THE RUSE.


Nevertheless he was convinced that he was not mistaken. Yet
where--where had he seen this nephew of De Broglie before?

As one racks his brain to call up some circumstance or surrounding in
connection with a face that puzzles him, to recollect some action
associated with that face which shall assist the struggle of memory to
assert itself, he racked his brain now. Yet all was of no avail, even
though he brought before his mind every scene he could recollect since
first he had returned to France.

Of no avail!

The full deep wig _à la brigadier_, the laced blue coat, the
ivory-hilted sword of the young aristocrat, helped him not in the
least; refused rather to assimilate themselves in his memory with the
features which teased his recollection so. Yet, even as he meditated
thus, while these four men--himself, the commandant, the man who
perplexed him, and the officer under him--sat at supper in the old
banqueting room used by generations of the De Servas, he found himself
repeating those very words which had risen to his mind, "the young
aristocrat."

Young aristocrat! Well, if so, a strange one, and surely not
possessing the marks of breeding which a De Broglie should be the
owner of! He ate roughly, coarsely, almost it seemed greedily; also he
drank as a peasant drinks, in great copious draughts; laughed noisily
and loudly. Moreover, from out of the ruffles of Valenciennes there
protruded hands that scarcely proclaimed him a member of a well-born
family. Hands broad and with ill-shapen fingers, the nails of which
were flat and broken and none too clean; not the hands of one in whose
veins ran the blood of countless well-born men and women!

"Pity 'tis," this scion of _la vieille roche_ muttered to the
commandant, "that mademoiselle does not honour us to-night. Tired, you
say, after the fatigue of her escape from those base fanatics? Ha,
_sans doute!_ May she always escape as easily! 'Twill be well for
her."

As he spoke, Martin, removing his eyes from his face, saw a sight that
startled him--a sight that told him something terrible was in the air.

Far down, at the end of the old room, there was a small door, it not
being the main one; and at that door, which was open about half a
foot, he saw the face of Urbaine Ducaire, with, on it, an awful look
of horror--a horror which had brought to her face a whiteness such as
that which is upon the countenance of a corpse within its shroud; in
her eyes a glare such as is in the eyes of those who have seen a sight
to blast them. A glare, a look of agony, piteous to see.

At first he knew not what to do, yet even as he hesitated, undecided,
he felt sure he must not draw the attention of those at the table to
her, unless indeed he could attract the attention of the commandant
alone, for it dawned on him, though he could not have explained why,
that she, standing there behind the door, showing only that white face
and those terror-haunted eyes, had been endeavouring to make the old
man see her without being observed by the others.

What did it mean? What portend?

The conversation was eager between the remaining three at the table,
the commandant advancing a plan for trapping the Camisards in their
mountain fastnesses which Julien had a week or so before propounded,
the nephew of De Broglie and his companion listening, it seemed
scornfully, certainly deriding such plan.

"It will never succeed," the first of these two said; "never, never,"
and he laughed. "We, we of the king's forces, shall be driven back by
these vile fanatics, or led into a snare, or _guet-apens_ up in the
mountains. And then woe, woe to all! Not one will return to the
valleys, to the towns, to tell the tale."

Yet as he spoke, uttered such predictions of disaster, it seemed
almost as though he gloated over the picture he drew.

And still Martin saw ever before him the terrified face of Urbaine
Ducaire peering from behind the far-off door, the eyes glaring into
the room like the eyes of one who knows that behind her comes some
awful thing. With, in them, too, as it seemed to him, a piteous
glance, a glance of agony that she could not attract the gaze of the
man she sought--the commandant.

He could bear it no longer. Somehow he must reach her, communicate
with her, know what it was that has struck such fear into her soul.

An excuse for him to leave the table seemed easy. The room had grown
very hot. Already the nephew of De Broglie had protested he must
remove his great wig. The commandant had said they must have air.

"I will go and open the door," Martin said, rising from his place. To
open the windows would have been impossible since they were set high
up in the walls, as was the case in most châteaux of the day, and
could not be reached without a ladder. "The one at the farther end."
And as he went toward it he prayed Heaven none would follow him. Also
he saw that the girl's face was withdrawn as he rose from his chair,
the door closed-to gently. Then, a moment later, he reached it.

Setting it open, he glanced into the narrow passage that ran outside,
the farthest wall of this corridor having several low windows in it
which gave on to the courtyard; and, turning his eyes into its
dimness, he perceived Urbaine standing there, her back against the
wall, her arms extended droopingly against it too, as though thereby
to prevent herself from falling.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, advancing toward her,
"mademoiselle, what has distressed, terrified you thus? I fear
that----"

Was she gone mad, he wondered! As he spoke she put both her hands out
in front of her, removing them from the wall and extending them from
her body as though to ward him off, to defend herself from him. Also
she pressed her body back against that wall as if thereby she might
shrink into it--away from him.

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Mademoiselle----" but paused
again, for still she drew herself away from him as from some unclean,
loathsome thing. Then her white lips moved; he heard the words that
issued from them.

"Traitor!" she said. "Perfidious traitor! Come not near me!" and with
her hands she drew her travelling robe close round her as though to
prevent even that from being contaminated by him.

"Are you distraught, mademoiselle?" he asked. "Are----?" yet stopped
once more in his speech, for now, in the dusk of the night, he saw
those staring eyes, which he had deemed so lovely but a few hours ago,
glancing out through the passage window to the courtyard below; saw
them rivetted upon something beneath in that courtyard; saw, too, that
she shuddered as she gazed.

Then he too looked forth into it.

Upon the stones where the six _attroupés_ had been flung down in their
chains he saw those men standing now, free and unbound, in their hands
naked weapons. The light of a newly lit flambeau flickering on one of
their blades showed that it was deeply stained red. Also he saw that
they too were now clad in scarlet and blue, their own rude mountain
clothes discarded, flung in a heap in a corner.

And more he saw! Some were lying dead, or dying, in that courtyard;
men who had but a few hours ago formed part of the garrison; the men
whose clothes the others had already donned.

Like the lightning's flash there came to his mind what had happened;
he understood all. The ruse was successful. The Camisards, disguised
in the uniforms and trappings of the defeated soldiers of the day
before, had surprised and captured the château; the trick of
transporting those false prisoners had been a perfect one. Also he
knew now where he had seen M. de Broglie's nephew. The deep powdered
wig, the rich costume, served as disguises no longer. He recalled him!
Recalled him as one who, young as he was, had taken a leading part in
the massacre of the Abbé du Chaila, in the attack on Poul's convoy.

He understood, too, Urbaine's bitter words now. He was of these men's
faith; she deemed him one of them! Also that he had brought her here
only to betray her later into their hands. Bitter words that had sunk
into his heart perhaps forever, yet she should see.

He drew his sword, advanced a step nearer to her, then retreated.

"I ask your pardon," he said, speaking very low, "that I have come
near to you again. That I must address you. Yet, 'traitor' as I am, my
place is still by your side. I interfered to save you yesterday.
I must go on with what I have begun. One moment to warn the
commandant--if--they have not slain him--then--then--mademoiselle--to
save you from these men of my own faith."

But now she spoke no more, only--her eyes were fixed upon him with a
strange look--he could have sworn that in the almost absolute darkness
of the night which was upon them he saw her bosom heave pitiably. Then
from her lips he heard beyond all doubt a gasp come.

"Fear not," he said, "they will not murder a woman. Can not, at least,
murder you while I still live. Remain behind the door while I re-enter
the room."

Whereon, leaving her, he pushed open the door and advanced within, his
sword in his hand. As he did so he saw he had no chance; believed that
he was doomed.

The room was full of men, of the mock soldiers--the Camisards
disguised in the uniforms of De Broglie and of Hérault; doubtless they
had entered by the main door while he had been in the passage. Also
there were lights in it--two flambeaus placed in old sockets in the
walls, and white-wax candles in a great lustre on the table.

In front of him was the "nephew of M. de Broglie," his powdered wig
off now and his head showing a mass of long fair hair, while in his
hand he too held his drawn sword. At the table, his face fallen
forward upon it and his arms outstretched, was the old man, the
commandant, done to death.

"You craven hound!" hissed Martin, and as he spoke his rapier darted
full at the other. "You craven hound, you eat of that old man's dish,
drink of his cup, and murder him! Defend yourself, assassin!"

And, forgetful of any wrong that this man's (his own) faith might have
suffered at the hands of those of the commandant's creed, remembering
only that he was a gentleman face to face with one whom in his heart
he deemed the _canaille_, remembering, too, that he was a murderer, he
lunged full at him.

"_Malédiction!_" the Camisard exclaimed, driven back by the skill of
the other (skill acquired in many a _cours d'escrime_ in Paris, and
the fence school of the Guards at Kensington gravel-pits), and knowing
too, himself, but little of sword play except the rough cut-and-thrust
which he had practised in the mountains. "_Malédiction!_ You shall pay
dearly for this! _Au sécours mes frères_."

He called for succour none too soon. In another moment Martin's blade
would have been through his breast. None too soon! Fortunately for him
it was at hand. Like tigers rushing on their prey, half a dozen of the
disguised Camisards hurled themselves upon Martin; two threw
themselves on him behind, one knocked up his sword arm, two more
secured him. He was disarmed, captured, at their mercy.

"Shall we knock him on the head or cut his throat, brother Cavalier?"
one asked, while as he did so Martin knew that he stood before one of
the two chiefs of the Cévenoles, a man whose name was a terror by now
to all Languedoc, and, two centuries afterward, is still remembered.

"No," Jean Cavalier replied, "he is a bold man, of the tyrants' side
though he be. Most of them will be ours now we have risen. We will
spare him, for the present at least."

Then he turned to Martin, who stood there calm and contemptuous
(remembering that the fellow before him had been a baker's apprentice
a year or two back, as he had heard--the latter almost felt degraded
at having his life spared by such a man as this), and said with an
attempt at ease which he invariably adopted, and with, also, the fury
he had shown gone:

"Monsieur, it is the fortune of war which puts you in our power. You
must abide by it. What parish do you belong to?"

"None you ever heard of. One in the north of France. I am a stranger
here."

"A stranger!" Cavalier repeated incredulously, "a stranger!" And as he
did so Martin saw all the followers of the Camisards' chief gazing
astonishedly at him. "A stranger! If so, what are you doing here? What
have the affairs of this unhappy province to do with you? Also, why in
this château?"

What answer Martin might have made to his questions, if any, was not
given, since at this moment three of the men who had left the room
returned, bringing with them Urbaine Ducaire. They had found her
outside the door listening tremblingly to all that had happened
within, rooted to the spot, almost insensible.

Yet now, as she advanced between those men, something had given her
courage, had nerved her to strength. She trembled no more and,
although very white and with still a strange gleam in her eyes, she
walked erect; almost, to Martin observing her, it seemed defiantly.
What, he wondered, had stung her to this courage? Perhaps the contempt
that she too felt for her captors.

With a bow, Cavalier welcomed her, then asked:

"Have I the honour to stand face to face with the daughter of his
Excellency the Intendant?"

"I am the adopted daughter of the Comte de Baville," she answered
calmly. "When do you intend to slay me, as you have slain the others?"
and her eyes stole to where the commandant's body lay stretched over
the table.

For a moment Cavalier looked at her with a strange glance, surprised,
perhaps, at her calmness; it may be, stung by her absolute
indifference to his power. Then he said:

"Mademoiselle mistakes those whom she addresses. Doubtless, in these
surroundings, thinks she has fallen into the hands of papists or those
of similar faith. People who slay women burn them on the _grandes
places_, belabour their bare backs. I would not be discourteous, yet
mademoiselle will pardon me if I remind her that we are not of the
same religion as herself, or monsieur by her side."

Or monsieur by her side! Unanswering her captor, scarcely regarding
him, she stood there, a look impenetrable to Cavalier upon her face,
yet with her mind full of wonderment.

Or monsieur by her side! They did not know then that he was one of
them, in faith and belief at least--that--that----

"God!" she whispered to herself, still gazing beyond--through--the
Camisard chief, yet with no thought of him in her mind. "God! what
awful wrong have I done him again to-night, how misjudged him? To be
by my side as a protection still, to share my fate, he does not avow
himself a Protestant; consents to be deemed their enemy--a Catholic.
And he is not a woman. There is naught to save him."

Even as she so thought her eyes stole round and rested on him standing
there calmly near her side, avowing, denying nothing.




CHAPTER XVIII.

LA DIVINÉRESSE.


The violets and the primroses grow in the chestnut woods that fringe
the base of La Lozère, yet disappear as the roads wind up to the
summit, giving place to the wild foxglove and heather which, in their
turn, disappear as still the ascent continues. Also, the chestnuts
themselves become more sparse and infrequent, until at last the woods
cease altogether, and the mountaineer trends only on the soft, crisp
brown grass that, lying warm beneath the winter's snows, springs but
into existence to be consumed later by the fierce southern sun that
beats on it.

Finally, with far beneath his feet the valleys basking in the warm
sun, the wanderer stands upon a dreary upland with, around him, the
mountain tops of the Cévennes huddled in wild confusion, as though
thrown down from the palm of some great giant. A confusion of barren
crags in some places, of, in others, great hills clothed with forests
or upland pasturages, or, in a few cases, plots of cereals--a
confusion over which in summer sweeps, without warning, a torrent of
hail, or amidst which rise fogs that envelope all; that in winter is
buried in snow over which the tempests howl. Here, too, wherever the
eye turns, torrents are seen that, when Spring unlocks their floods
and turns the frozen snow to water, leap down and hurl themselves over
boulders and, in some cases, precipices until at last they reach the
rivers beneath. Here also are bare walls of rock in which are the
caverns that sheltered the Camisards whom Louis and Louvois,
Chamillart and De Maintenon had driven forth into the mountain
deserts. Yet not only Louis, le Dieudonné and his myrmidons, but,
before him, that other Louis, his father, surnamed "The Just," who
had, under the sword of the brutal Marshal de Thémines, also driven
countless Huguenots to take refuge in these wild, stony citadels, and
had forced them to fortify their mountains against their persecutors.
To close their caverns with bronze doors secretly conveyed to them by
Jeanne d'Albret, Protestant Queen of Navarre.

It was in one of these vast caves, a week after the Château de Servas
had been burnt to the ground by the orders of Jean Cavalier (of how
the garrison was put to death, none being spared, the peasants still
tell nightly to all who care to hear), that there was gathered a vast
company of men and women. A company assembled to sit in judgment on
another man and woman who were in their power, to say whether the hour
had come for the death of those captives or was still to be postponed.
Postponed, not abandoned! For they were Catholics, persecutors. And,
therefore, doomed, sooner or later. But first the prophets and the
prophetesses had to speak. On them depended much; a swift doom that
night or one that might be reserved for another day.

"You understand, mademoiselle?" the man said to his companion, seated
by his side; "you understand? Our sentence depends on those gathered
together round Cavalier. After they have spoken we shall know whether
'tis now or later."

"I understand," Urbaine Ducaire answered, the cold tone in which he
spoke causing more grief to her heart than the awful import of his
words. "I understand." Then her eyes sought his, met them, and were
swiftly withdrawn.

They had been here a week, being treated well, allowed to roam about
the vast caverns unmolested, yet never once allowed to form the most
illusory hopes that there could be but one end to their captivity. The
knowledge had been conveyed to them by now and then a word from one or
from another, by a look from a third, by even a glance from Cavalier
himself or from Roland, that for some of the Protestant men and women
slaughtered by the Papists they were to furnish an expiation--a
retaliation--as many other Catholics had already done who had fallen
into their captors' hands.

Yet it was not the crowds of fierce Camisards who now surrounded them
in this great cavern, lit by torches at its farthest end, and by the
rays of the October sun which streamed in from where the great antique
bronze doors, placed there a hundred years ago, stood at the hither
end; nor the unpitying, cruel glances cast by the prophetesses at the
girl, which caused the grief she felt. That came from another cause;
from the cold disdain of the man by her side--the man to whom she owed
it that she had not been slain in the attack made upon her escort.
Disdain for the words she had uttered against him that night in the
passage outside the banqueting hall of the Château St. Servas, for the
manner in which she had misjudged him. Misjudged him as she had
recognised well from that night itself, from the moment when, being
himself a Protestant, he had refused to profit by the fact, but,
instead, had remained silent when accused of being one of their
captors' enemies. And his reason for doing so was certain; not to be
doubted. So that he might still be by her side, still near to protect
her, still near, if any chance should arise, to aid her escape. And
now the time was at hand when their doom was to be determined, and yet
he continued to hold his peace, would be ready to share her fate, and,
she told herself, to despise her to the end.

"You are very noble," she had said to him that morning when they had
been brought into the great cavern from the cells which each had had
assigned to them, "and I, oh, God, how base! I wish the world had
ended on that night, ere I uttered the words I did."

"It matters not," he said; "is worth no thought. You misjudged me,
that is all."

She bowed her head before him, meaning thereby to acknowledge how
utterly she had indeed misjudged him. Then she said, her eyes fixed on
his:

"Yet--yet you will not let them continue in their ignorance of what
you are? If--if they decide to slay, you will announce your fellowship
with them? Is it not so?"

But to this he would make no answer, turning away his head from her.

"It needs but one word," she continued, "and you are free--free to go
in peace."

He knew as well as she that it needed but one word; nay, he knew
more. It needed but another word--the statement that he was an
Englishman--to make him something more than free, to cause him to be
received with acclamation by their captors, welcomed as a friend. For
England was Louis' bitterest foe and the most powerful; a force slowly
crushing the life out of France and her king, as she had been doing
since first she shattered his great fleet at Barfleur and La Hogue.
Also she was the home of every outlawed refugee and Huguenot; her
people supplied them with help and succour; even to this remote spot
money and arms were often secretly sent. And, further, 'twas whispered
among the Protestants that an attack was to be made ere long on
France's Mediterranean coast by one of England's admirals, after which
there would not remain one frontier or border of the land that did not
bristle with Protestant enemies.

It did indeed need but the words "I am an Englishman" for his safety
to be assured. Yet he had sworn to himself that he would die at his
captors' hands ere he uttered them or made the statement that he was
of their faith, ere he would go forth and leave this girl here, alone
and doomed.

"I do not desire," he said, "to earn my release by proclaiming myself
a Protestant. I pity them for what they have suffered; yet--yet I am
not in sympathy with their retaliation. I shall not proclaim myself."

But now the hum of voices from the crowd near them became hushed; from
their midst one of the prophets, or, as they called them, "_Les
Extasés_," was speaking. "Mes Frères," they heard him say, "the God of
Battles fights on our side, even as once he fought upon the side of
Joshua. Also he has inspired me to read the future. I see," he went
on, extending his hands, "the time approaching when over all the land
of France the Huguenots shall worship in peace in the way that most
befits them; when no longer a tyrannous king, his married mistress by
his side, shall send forth armies to crush them. Nay, more, I see the
time at hand, ay, even in that king's lifetime, when he, reaping the
fruits of his errors, shall find us the allies of his bitterest foes.
I see our brother, Cavalier, leading his troops to victory against
France, against France's own children in a distant land. I see a plain
strewed with their bodies, crimson with their blood shed against
France. But not yet, not yet."[2]

"Ay! not yet. And, my brother, tell us what of the present your holy
visions disclose," Cavalier exclaimed. "I too can forecast the future
when inspired by God. Speak, therefore, my brother; let us see if God
has revealed to both of us alike."

Whereupon, again, the seer took up his strain.

"Languedoc shall be free at last," he said. "I see in the far distant
future the altars overturned at which the children of the Devil
worship, the priests of Baal slain, the gibbets empty, the flames
burned out. Yet blood must be shed--the blood of all who bow to false
gods, idols of wood and stone, cruel gods who have spared none of our
faith, as now we will spare none of theirs. 'An eye for an eye, a
tooth for tooth.' It is the Mosaic law; let it be carried out. Spare
none." And even as he spoke his own eyes lighted on the man and woman
sitting there awaiting their doom. Then, lifting up his voice, he
sang, all joining in his song who stood around him, all holding up
their hands to heaven:

     Seigneur, entend ma plainte, écoute ma prière,
     Ne detourne pas ta paupière
     De ma détresse, Ô Dieu vivant.
     Je pleure, je gémis, j'erre dans les ténebras
     Comme aux fentes des tours les hulottes funèbres
     Et les oiseaux du Désert.


And as he spoke, in truth he wept, then flung himself upon his knees
and prayed in silence. Yet looked up at last, and, pointing to Urbaine
and Martin, while down his cheeks the tears rolled, exclaimed: "They
are of Baal. They must die."

"You hear?" Martin whispered to his companion, "you hear? There is no
hope; be brave."

"Save yourself," she whispered back. "Save yourself, or," and now her
eyes sought his boldly, "I proclaim you--save you."

"You dare not, I forbid you: command you to hold your peace. If you
proclaim me one of them, I will deny it. Be silent."

It seemed as if there would be no time for her to do as she
threatened; their doom was at hand.

Down the long cavern the Camisards advanced slowly. Ahead of them
strode Cavalier; yet even as he came he turned to those behind him and
said some words as though endeavouring to calm them, to at least
retard the hour of their vengeance; yet also, as it seemed by his
face, with little hope of being able to do so.

Ahead of all came the women. One, who limped as she walked, Martin
recognised as the girl Fleurette who had been dragged moaning from the
Abbé du Chaila's house; another was the girl whom Urbaine had seen
fire the shot which slew her companion, the _gouvernante_. Also there
were others, some old, some middle-aged, some almost children. And,
perhaps to nerve themselves to what they were about to do, one told of
how her babe had been cast into the flames at Nîmes "by order of
Baville--her father," pointing as she spoke to Urbaine; another of how
her boy had hung upon a lamp post at Anduse "by order of Baville--her
father"; a third of how her old mother, gray and infirm, had also been
consigned to the flames "by order of Baville--her father."

She, standing there, did not flinch as they approached; stood, indeed,
calmly awaiting whatever they might be about to do to her--she who had
shrieked as the shot was fired at Poul's escort, who had seemed as one
blasted to death by what she had discovered in the Château de Servas.
Neither flinched nor blanched, indeed smiled once into Martin's eyes
as he, close by her side, took her hand gently in his; glanced swiftly
up into his eyes as though asking if, at this supreme moment, he
forgave.

"We die together," he said. "Remember, be brave."

"Thus," she whispered, "I fear nothing." Then murmured, even lower,
"My God! how great, how noble you are!"

Suddenly, while now the Camisards were all around them and while
Cavalier's voice rang out through the vaulted cavern, bidding them
halt until they had decided what form of death should be meted out to
the prisoners, a woman's voice rose high above all the others,
commanding them to harken to her words, listen to the spirit of
prophecy that was upon her.

"It is the Grande Marie," they said, "La Grande Marie. Hear her, hear
her!" and stood still as they spoke, glancing at her.

_Grande_ she was in stature, big and gaunt, with wild, misty eyes that
seemed to glare into vacancy; her hair iron-gray and dishevelled, her
voice rich and full as it rang down the cavern, silencing all other
voices.

"The skies whirl round in starry circles," she said. "The voices of
whispering angels are in my ears, the heavenly host are telling me
strange things. Also the voice of God speaks to me; asks me a
question. Asks me who it is we are about to slay? My brethren, answer
for me."

"Who?" they shouted, "who?" Cavalier alone standing silent, his eyes
upon the Grande Marie in wonderment. "Who? A stranger, who is of the
persecutors' faith. A woman also of the devil--the child of
Baville--the persecutor--the murderer."

The misty eyes roamed over all around her as they spoke. Then suddenly
she moved toward them, her hand extended, one finger pointing. And
with that finger she touched Cavalier on the arm, then the Camisard
next to him, then another; then a woman, and another woman.

"All," she whispered, while a great hush was now upon those in the
cavern, "all are God's children, all servitors of the Cross--all, all,
all."

Again she went on, passing slowly by those in the cave, her finger
touching each and every one, missing none. Peering, too, into their
faces with those wild clouded eyes, penetrating them with her glances.

And now the silence was extreme. She had touched, had looked into the
face of every one there except Martin and Urbaine.

Again she moved and approached him, standing tall, erect and calm, yet
not defiantly, before his captor.

Her fingers advanced and touched his breast beneath where the lace of
his cravat fell. With every eye upon them, she brought her face close
to his, and for one minute seemed as if through her own eyes she would
see deep into his brain. Then moved a step farther and stood before
Urbaine Ducaire.

The girl, standing herself motionless, her hand clasped in Martin's,
divined rather than felt that the finger of the prophetess was on her
breast; saw that, as she opened her lids which she had closed when
that wild form drew near her, the eyes of the seer were looking into
hers. Then shuddered as they were removed.

"Away!" La Grande Marie exclaimed, as now there were no more to touch,
no more to penetrate with those terrible glances, "away to your work
in the valleys and the towns, to devastate, to destroy, when the moon
which is the sun of the outcast is on high. Away, I say, to destroy,
to devastate. Your work is not here. Our God has blinded you, led you
astray. In this, our refuge, there is no child of the devil, no
Papist. You are deceived. Those whom you would slay are of our faith!"




CHAPTER XIX.

LEX TALIONIS.


Over all Languedoc there was an awful terror at this time--the terror
that is born of successful rebellion, and that rebellion the outcome
of a religious strife.

An awful terror which filled now the breasts of those who had
erstwhile been the persecutors, even as, not long before, it had
filled the breasts of those whom they had persecuted.

In truth there were none in all that fair province, none--from those
who dwelt on its southern borders washed by the sapphire-hued waters
of the Mediterranean, to those who, on its northern boundary, gazed
toward the fertile provinces of Linois and Auvergne, or, looking west,
saw the rich rolling lands of golden Guienne stretched out before
them--but felt, and feeling, dreaded, the threatening horror that at
any moment might engulf them. For now no longer were the dungeons of
the cities filled with Protestants moaning for water, food, or air; no
longer did Huguenot women offer their jailers the few miserable coins
they had about them so that their babes might taste a drop of milk; no
longer did men of the Reformed Faith offer their little bags of
secreted livres and tournois to their warders, so that thereby they
might be allowed to sleep one hour--only one little hour!--without
disturbance; without horns being blown at their dungeon doors to
awaken them, or blank charges fired from musketoons and fusils with a
like intent; without their bodies being pricked and stirred up by
point of lance or sword at the moment that a heartbroken slumber fell
upon them.

A change had come! Some of the jails were emptied now; in the smaller
towns and villages they existed no longer. Some of those towns and
villages were themselves erased from off the face of the earth. Down
from their mountain homes the Camisards had stolen, creeping like
phantoms through the night, like panthers on the trail of those whom
they track to their doom, like adders gliding through the grass. One
by one these men of vengeance mustered outside doomed bourgs or
hamlets till all were assembled in a compact mass, sometimes to lay
violent and open siege to the places, sometimes to be admitted
silently at dead of night, or in early dawn, by those who, disguised,
had already stolen in. Then the massacre took place, the jails gave up
their victims who were not already dead, the hateful gibbets and the
iron-bound wheels helped to light the fires that consumed the
villages, and in the morning there was no sign left either of avenger
or of victim. Of the former, all had stolen back into their
impenetrable fastnesses; of the latter, nothing remained but burning
houses and crumbling walls, a church destroyed, an altar shattered,
and at its base a slaughtered priest.

Even in the greater cities--in Montpellier and Nîmes, Alais and
Uzès--the haunting fear, the terror, the horror was there, even though
those cities were fortified and garrisoned, full of soldiers and
_milices_. Yet of what use were these? Of what use dragoons who had
fought in close ranks and knee to knee against William of Orange's own
English and Dutch troopers? Of what use infantry who had stood a solid
phalanx of steel under Bouflers and Luxembourg? Of what use a homely
militia, when the enemy was unseen and intangible--an enemy which
crept in man by man through gates and barriers, disguised as peasant
and farmer bringing in produce, or sometimes, in bitter mockery of
their foes, as Catholic priest or Catholic seigneur? It was not
strange that against such a foe as this all Baville's plans were
unavailing, all Julien's military knowledge helpless. And the question
which every man asked his neighbour was, Would Montrevel, the new
field marshal now on his way from Paris with an enormous army, be able
to succeed against such crafty and resolute enemies any better than
his predecessors had done?

Baville asked himself the same question now, as he sat where he had
sat a month or two before, on that morning when across the room had
fallen the shadow of Urbaine as she came in from the garden, her hands
full of freshly gathered, dew-sprinkled flowers--his loved Urbaine.
Yet he told himself, even as thus he meditated and doubted, that if
force could do it, it should be done.

Upon his face as he sat alone in his cabinet there was a look which
none could perhaps have interpreted, yet which none could have failed
to observe; a look that had brought an appearance of age to his face
which his fifty years of life should not have placed there; also a
look of deep, fierce determination which, cruel as he had ever been,
had not hitherto been perceptible upon his handsome features. On the
table before him there lay a great chart of the whole Cévennes
district; attached to the chart by a silken string was a paper
referring to it; on the back of that chart was written in a bold,
sprawling hand, the words, "Mon plan pour la grande battue des
attroupés que je projete," and signed "Julien."

"Bah," Baville exclaimed, after throwing down these papers angrily,
"_sa grande battue! Son plan!_ What will come of it? What? Nothing.
These dogs are as slippery as snakes. No battue will surround, entrap
them. And--and--even though they, though this swashbuckler, who thinks
more of the bouquet of his Celestin or the aroma of his white
Frontignan than of our province's safety, should prevail, it will not
bring her back to me."

And Baville, on whose soul there lay heavy the slaughter of countless
innocent women--their only fault their faith--buried his face in his
hands and moaned. "Urbaine, Urbaine," he whispered, "_Ma mignonne, ma
petite rose blanche_, to think of you in their hands, you whom we have
nurtured so soft and warm, you who, I swore to your father, should be
my life's charge, the star of my existence! Fool! fool! fool! to ever
let you go thus. Though God he knows," he whispered still, "I did it
for the best; did it, knowing the dangers that threatened, that were
surely coming, that must above all else strike at Baville and his.
Deemed I could save you, send you away to peace and safety."

And still he sat on there, his head in his hands, while from between
his fingers the tears trickled as he muttered still, "Urbaine,
Urbaine!"

"She is dead," he said after a pause. "She must be dead. Of all, they
would not spare her--my lamb. That is enough--to belong to me! O God!"
he cried, springing from his chair and clasping his hands above his
head, "nothing can give her back to me. Yet one thing thou canst give
me: Vengeance! vengeance! vengeance! On him, above all, on that
treacherous Huguenot, that viper who, when there was still a chance
left, dragged her from the carriage, gave her up to his accursed
brethren. Give me that! Place him but once in my hands and I ask no
more. Urbaine can never come back, but at least she shall lie in her
grave--where is it?"--and he shuddered--"lie in her grave avenged. Why
did I ever trust him--kinsman of the de Rochebazons as he is--why not
execute him that night at Montvert?"

After the rout of Poul's escort and of De Broglie's soldiers in an
adjacent place by the Camisards, some half dozen of the dragoons of
Hérault had managed to escape from the former slaughter, as well as
many more from the latter. As has been said, they fled to Nîmes, where
Baville was at the time, bringing with them the full account of what
had happened to both detachments, and in their dismay and confusion
making the disaster none the less in the telling. Now, among those who
had thus escaped was one, a young _porte-guidon_, or cornet, who had
by chance ridden also with De Peyre's detachment to Montvert when in
attendance on Baville and the abbé's nephew. And there this lad had
seen Martin upon the bridge with Buscarlet, had heard something of the
conversation which ensued; knew, too, that he had returned to Alais
with them. Therefore he was acquainted with Martin's appearance so
well that, when the distracted Intendant had demanded from those who
had escaped where his child was, he was very well able to inform him.

"My God!" Baville exclaimed, sitting in his rooms in the old Roman
city, with the lad before him and surrounded by half the councillors
of the place, sitting there white to the lips, "you saw it, saw him
drag her out of the carriage, ride away with her."

"I saw it, your Excellency, beyond all doubt. And had it not been
that I dared not take my eyes off these Camisards who were attacking
me--one of the villains was armed with a reaping hook--I would have
made a stroke to save mademoiselle; have hamstrung his horse, run him
through. But, your Excellency sees," and he pointed to his hand, a
mass of rags and bandages, "two fingers are gone; cut off as I wrested
the brutal weapon from the man."

"Which road did he take?--yet, why ask?" Baville had said. "Which road
would he go but one--that toward their accursed mountain dens? And
he--he was of their faith."

A moment later he interrogated the young dragoon again.

"Can you by no chance be mistaken about this man? Think, I beseech
you! Of all, she could have fallen into no worse hands than his."

"It is impossible, your Excellency. It is the man who sat on the
bridge with the curé when we rode into Montvert--the man who returned
to Alais with us. Also, I have spoken with him in Montpellier when
your Excellency made him welcome at the Intendancy."

Beneath his lips Baville muttered a bitter imprecation as the young
officer recalled this fact. It was, he saw now, a fatal error to have
committed. Yet--yet he had done it of set purpose, for a reason. No,
he would dwell no more on that. And now weeks had passed since
Urbaine's disappearance. She must be dead, he and his wife had told
each other a thousand times by night and day.

"Every hope is gone," he said to her more than once, "every hope. She
was mine--known to a hundred mountain refugees from Montpellier to be
ours. They would not spare her. There is nothing left but vengeance,
if he, that kinsman of the de Rochebazons, ever falls into our hands,
as he must, as he must. They can not triumph forever. Can not win in
the end."

Madame l'Intendante came in to him now as he sat in his room, a
gentle, handsome woman on whose face the grief she felt within was
very plainly apparent; came in, and, touching his forehead softly with
her hand, sat down by his side.

"Nicole," she said, "a thought has come to me that--that--my God that I
should have to say it!--if Urbaine is still alive, might lead to her
rescue."

"A thought!" he exclaimed, his face brightening. "A thought! What
thought? Yet what can a thousand thoughts avail? She is Baville's.
That dooms her."

"_Mon mari_, suppose--only suppose--they have not slain her--nay, deny
me not," as her husband made an impatient movement, "suppose they
have not slain her yet. Remember, she would be a great hostage,
and they, these rebels, boast they seek not warfare, but only
peace--concessions; offer to lay down their arms if--if--all they ask
for their unhappy, mistaken religion is granted."

"Well," Baville replied, yet looking eagerly at her, "well, what
then?"

"To bring about a truce, obtain those concessions. They may have
spared her life, if only for a time, if only for a time," she
repeated, sobbing now.

"Even though they have done so," her husband replied, "concessions are
impossible, though I myself desired them. Julien is maddened at his
total failure; he will grant none. Montrevel comes full of pride at
gaining his long-desired _bâton_. It is not to make peace, grant
concessions, that he is on his way. Rather to cause more slaughter,
extermination. And for _her_--there," and his eyes wandered toward the
direction where, hundreds of leagues away, Paris and the great white
palace of Versailles lay, "will she grant any?"

Madame l'Intendante knew well enough to whom he referred--to _la femme
funeste et terrible_--and shook her head sadly, while Baville
continued:

"She bars all, blocks all, Alice," and he lowered his voice
instinctively. "Alice, it is she who has lit this torch of rebellion
through all Languedoc. Chamillart writes me that Louis has known
nothing until now of what has been happening. She has kept him in
ignorance until forced by my demand for a great army and the services
of Montrevel to tell him."

"My God! What duplicity!"

"It is true. She holds him in the hollow of her hand, winds him round
her finger as a child winds a silken thread. Will she grant
concessions, do you think?"

"But, Nicole, listen. If she, Urbaine, lives, there may be still time.
Montrevel is not yet here. His great army moves slowly. Time, still."

"For what?"

"Have you forgotten? Her real father--that friend of yours--Monsieur
Ducaire--have you not often told me he was himself of their faith--a
Huguenot?"

"Mon Dieu!" Baville exclaimed, "it is so. He was. Yet, again, what
then?"

"If--if she does still live, and it could be communicated to them,
they would perhaps spare her. Surely, among the old of those
refugees--even among those who are now but elderly--there may be some
who would remember her father, could recall this Monsieur Ducaire----"

She paused, alarmed at the strange effect of her words, for Baville's
face had turned an ashen hue as she spoke. Almost it seemed to his
wife as though his handsome features were convulsed with pain as he,
repeating those words, whispered:

"Recall Ducaire? Remember her father? Oh! Dieu des Dieux, if they
should do that, if there should be one among those who surround her,
if she still lives, who could do so! If there is but one who should
tell her----"

"What, Baville?"

"No, no, no!" he whispered. "No, no! If so--yet it can not be!--but if
it is, if there is any still living to tell her that, then better she
be dead. Better dead than bear it."

"Husband," Madame l'Intendante said, "I know now, something tells
me--alas! alas! ever have I suspected it, feared it," and she wrung
her hands; "you have deceived me, trifled with me from the first.
Baville, is it you? Are you in solemn truth her father? Is Ducaire
another name, known once in the far-off past, for Baville? Would she
be better dead than alive to learn that? Answer me."

"No," he said, "no; you do not understand, can not understand; must
not know yet. But I am innocent of that wrong to you. I swear it. And
Alice, my wife," he continued as he bent over her and kissed her brow,
"Alice, my love, if you knew all you would pity me. Alice, I swear it
to you--swear that it is not what you think."

Then, as again he kissed her, he murmured the old French proverb:

"Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner," adding, "Oh, believe in me,
counsel me, my wife."




CHAPTER XX.

WHAT IS THIS MYSTERY?


The swallows were gone--a month earlier in this mountainous region
than in the rest of the golden south of France. Below, the corn had
fallen ungathered from its stalks, since of those who remained in the
valleys, and faithful to the iron rule of Baville, none dared reap it,
for fear that, while doing so, from its midst might spring up a body
of the dreaded Camisards. Already, too, high up in the mountains, the
first flurries of snow had sprinkled the ground; autumn had come. And
still Baville was no nearer to finding Urbaine, or to gathering news
of whether she was alive or dead, than he had been before. Neither did
he know what had become of the man who, he deemed, had betrayed her
into his enemies' hands; who, he believed, had sent her to her death.

Meanwhile, Montrevel had arrived. Montrevel, the general and newly
created field marshal, second only to Tallard, who next year lost
Blenheim, and to Villars, who was ordained later to bring peace to the
distracted land. Montrevel, of whom it was said that he fought like a
Paladin of old, made love like a Troubadour, and had the air of a hero
of the stage or the leader of a chorus in the newly invented operas.

With him came a vast army--one which, to any other rebels but the
all-triumphant Protestants, harbouring defiantly in the mountain
deserts on high and in the inaccessible caverns, would have brought
fear and terror. To them, however, this army brought none. "_Nous
sommes les rochers que les vents combattants en vaine_," they cried,
and even as they so taunted their late persecutors they stole down by
night and by unknown paths, sacked a fresh village, provided
themselves with fresh food, more arms and more ammunition, seized on
costly uniforms and laces, and, when possible, horses and cattle,
while once more like phantoms they vanished quietly afterward from
human sight. Vanished as the crawling Indians whom some of their
adversaries had encountered on the Mississippee or the St. Lawrence;
vanished, after devastating lonely settlements and townships;
disappeared as disappears the snowflake which falls on the bosom of
the ocean, is seen a moment, and then is gone forever.

In that army, sent to destroy the men whose retaliation of half a
century's persecution was now so terrible, came soldiers who had never
yet known defeat. From Italy the Marquis de Firmacon brought back the
men of a regiment of cuirassiers who had fought like victorious tigers
at Cremona and had even driven back the fiery Eugene and his soldiers
before their rush; in that army also were the guards of Tarnaud, De
Saulx, and Royal Comtois; marines who had faced Russel's and Shovel's
squadrons; dragoons of Saint-Sernin who had seen Marlborough ride all
along the line giving orders to the great English force to advance,
and had observed, but a year or two before, the consumptive invalid,
William of England and Holland, stand undismayed beneath a hailstorm
of bullets while superintending the siege of some great fortress in
the Netherlands. Also there came the brigade of Lajonquiére which had
followed Turenne in victory and defeat, and that of Marsilly which had
stood shoulder to shoulder awaiting the orders of Condé to charge. And
still there were others who might have struck more terror to any
mountain rebels than these trained battalions; a regiment of men,
themselves mountaineers, whose fierceness and brutality were a byword
through all the South.

These were the Miquelets, a body of six hundred Pyrenean soldiers
under the command of a rough one-armed free lance named De
Palmerolles. From sunny Roussillon and Foix these men came, their
faces burned black, their bodies half clad in red shirts and trousers,
resembling sailors' slops in vastness, _espardillos_, or shoes of
twisted cord, upon their feet, in their belts two pistols on one side,
a scimitar dagger on the other, while in their hands they bore the
long-barrelled _gyspe_ peculiar to the Pyrenean. Also, to render
greater Montrevel's chance of defeating those who were termed rebels
to the king, he brought with him twenty large brass cannons, five
thousand bullets, four thousand muskets, and fifty thousand pounds of
powder--enough, in truth, to defeat all the rebels in the Cévennes, if
they could only be got at.

From far up on the height of La Lozère, sheltered in a small copse of
wind-swept firs, Jean Cavalier, looking down on the road which wound
from Genoillac to Alais, laughed lightly as he turned to the
companions by his side--his comrade, Roland, and his prisoner, Martin
Ashurst.

"In truth," he said, "'tis a brave array of men. Yet what will they do
against us? They can never get up here in spite of Baville's recently
constructed roads, while as for us we can get down and back again as
we choose." Then, turning to Martin, he said politely, and with that
attempt at gracious ease and condescension which he never forgot to
assume:

"Monsieur, I know we are safe with you. When you and your charge,
Mademoiselle Ducaire, have left us you will betray no secrets."

"No more," replied Martin, "than I should betray any of Monsieur
Baville's to you. You know now that, though I am of your religion, I
am no partisan of either side. I pray God the day may come when all of
our faith may be free, happy."

"We pray so, too," both chiefs answered, while Cavalier continued:

"'Tis what we seek. Peace--peace above all! And we are no rebels to
the king. Let him but give us leave to worship in our own way and
unmolested, earn our bread undisturbed, pay no taxes that go to
support his own Romish church--the other taxes we will willingly
pay--and he will find he has no more loyal subjects than the
Cévenoles. Nay, have we not offered our services to him against his
enemies, offered to furnish a Protestant regiment to aid him in Spain
against the Austrian claimant, to fight against all his foes except
the English, our brother Protestants? Yet he will not consent that it
shall be so, or, rather, those who dominate him in his old age will
not let him listen to us."

"Therefore," said Roland, "let him look to himself. See--hearken to
those Miquelets who tread the plains now, shrieking their barbaric
songs. Do you know what their war-cry is? 'Tis 'war to the knife.' So
be it; 'tis ours too. And ere we cease to shout it Louis will have
given in to us. While one Protestant remains in these mountains we
shall never yield. The king may conquer Europe, drive back all his
enemies; us he will never conquer."


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


After La Grande Marie had uttered these words of hers, "Those whom you
would slay are of our faith," there had fallen a great silence on all
within the vast vaulted cavern--a silence begotten of wonderment, yet
a wonderment which had in it no element of disbelief; for of all the
prophetesses, she it was who was most believed in by the Camisards,
her inspiration the one which they had never yet known to be at fault.
She had advised the descent to Montvert, fortelling how, on that
night, the abbé should atone for his crimes at their avenging hands in
spite of their not seeking his death. She also it was who had bidden
them attack the convoy of Urbaine under the hated command of Poul, and
the detachment under the equally hated command of De Broglie. Had
prophesied, too, that in that convoy should be found one whose capture
and death would wring the heartstrings of the tyrant Baville as
nothing else could wring them, would beat him down to misery, might
even force him in his despair to abandon all further cruelties toward
those of his creed.

And what she had prophesied had all come to pass. Baville's daughter,
as most of them supposed Urbaine to be, was in their hands, her death
assured. Therefore now, also, they believed her prophetic visions and
utterances, though, in believing, a victim thereby escaped them. Even
the women--whose bitterness, born of the horrors practised on their
own helpless babes and their old back-bowed mothers and fathers, as
well as on themselves, was more intense than that of the men who, in
their hearts, felt for the white delicate girl who stood a prisoner
before them--even the women paused, wondering, amazed.

"Of our faith," they muttered, "of our faith. Yet the wolf's own cub,
the persecutor's own blood. Marie, sister, think again of what you
say. Pause and reflect."

"I know what I say," La Grande Marie murmured, the misty eyes still
fixed upon the girl before her, her hand half raised. "God has entered
my heart, given me the power of divination. She and he, this man by
her side, are of our faith. Is it not so, little one?" and she leaned
forward to a child near her upon whom also the gift of prophecy was
reported to have fallen.

"It is so, Marie," the child lisped.[3]

"What is the mystery?" Cavalier asked, standing before Urbaine, his
voice expressing the surprise he felt at the turn matters had assumed,
expressing also his awe, for he, too, was sometimes visited with the
impulse of prophecy. "In God's name explain, mademoiselle."

"There is no explanation to offer. Your prophetess is wrong. Since my
father adopted me I have known no faith but the true one."

"Adopted you!" he repeated, while all round them stood listening
eagerly. "Ah! yes, I have heard; remember you said such was the case
at the Château de Servas, yet had forgotten. Mademoiselle, what is
your name since it can not be Baville?"

"Urbaine Ducaire."

"Ducaire?" he repeated, "Ducaire? There is no name such as that in the
lists of our unhappy brethren. Mademoiselle, _was_ your father of our
religion?"

"I know not," the girl replied, while in her manner, in her eyes, too,
was the haughty indifference to her captor which had surprised
Cavalier from the first. "I know not. Yet, since he was M. de
Baville's friend, it scarce seems possible he should have been."

"Listen," cried the Camisard chief, addressing all those who stood
around, "listen, my brethren. Among you are many no longer young, many
who can cast their memories back to the years ere this--this
demoiselle--could have been born. Some, too, who come from far and
wide, from where the waters of the sea lap our southern shores; from
where, also, Guienne on one side, Dauphiné on the other, touch our
border. Heard ever any of you of a Huguenot named Ducaire?" and as he
spoke he cast his eyes around all within the cavern.

But there came no affirmative answer. Only the repetition of that name
and the shaking of heads, and glances from eyes to eyes as each looked
interrogatively at the other.

"There must be some who, at least, have heard this name if--if La
Grande Marie divines truly--if this lady is in truth of our faith.
Yet--yet--the gift may have failed her now, have misled her."

"Test that gift, Cavalier," La Grande Marie exclaimed from where she
stood now among the others, and speaking in a clear voice, while her
filmy eyes, which seemed ordinarily to be peering into far-off space,
rested on him. "Test that gift. The woman is not the only one named as
being of our faith. Ask of the man."

As she spoke the eyes of Urbaine and Martin met, the minds of each
filled with the same thought. The knowledge that whereas hitherto to
have declared himself of their captors' faith would have led to his
being set free and no longer able to share her doom, his doing so now
would almost beyond all doubt prevent that doom from falling on her.

The acknowledgment that La Grande Marie had divined justly in his case
would cause them to believe that she had also done so in Urbaine's.

And knowing this--as she too, he felt, must know it--he did not
hesitate.

"She has pronounced justly," he said. "I am of the Reformed faith. A
Protestant."

Amid the murmurs that arose from all who surrounded those two
prisoners, amid their cries, in some cases exultant ones, that La
Grande Marie had never yet been mistaken and was not, could not be so
now; amid, too, their strongly expressed opinion that, since she had
been right as regards the man, therefore also she must be so as
regards the woman, Cavalier exclaimed:

"In heaven's name why not say so before? Also why risk your life as
you have done at the Château de Servas and here?"

"She was alone and defenceless," Martin exclaimed. "I desired to
protect her."

"Knowing that she too is a Protestant, by birth at least?"

"Nay, knowing only that she was a woman."

"Yet Baville's cherished ward?"

"Yes, his cherished ward."

Cavalier shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Perhaps the bitter
sufferings of all of his, of their, faith were too present to his mind
to make that mind, young as it was--he being not twenty--capable of
understanding such magnanimity. Also he did not know that the man
before him belonged to a land where, for now nearly fifteen years,
none had suffered for their religious opinions as over all France they
suffered horribly and were to suffer for still some years to come, and
that, consequently, he could not feel as strongly as they themselves
felt.

Whatever Cavalier might think, however, of the motives which had
prompted a man who avowed himself a Protestant to protect the
worshipped idol of the Protestant's greatest persecutor in the most
persecuted part of France, one thing was very certain: neither would
be put to death--the one because he was undoubtedly of their faith,
the other because, not being the actual child of Baville, she might in
truth have been born a Huguenot, as La Grande Marie had had revealed
to her. La Grande Marie! in whose auguries and predictions they
believed for the simple reason that, until now, all that she had
foretold, all that she had uttered as prophetic inspiration, had come
to pass.

They were safe so far!




CHAPTER XXI.

"YOU WILL NEVER FIND HIM."


"When you and your charge, Mademoiselle Ducaire, have left us you will
betray no secrets," Cavalier had said to Martin, as they stood side by
side watching the army of Montrevel on its way through the province?
Yet some weeks passed, and still they remained in the hands of the
Camisards, well treated, yet still there.

For their accommodation two large caverns had been prepared as
sleeping rooms; prepared, too, in such a manner as would indeed have
astonished the Camisards' enemies, the dwellers in the valleys below,
had they been able to observe them. To observe that Urbaine's
chamber--if such a name could be given to the vault in which she
slept--was furnished not only with comfort, but indeed luxury, her
bed, which had been constructed expressly for her by one of the
_attroupés_ who was a carpenter, being covered with fine white linen
and made soft with skins and rugs. Also the sides of the vault were
hung with tapestry and brocade; the ewer from which she poured water
was solid silver; the floor on which she trod was covered with carpets
made at Aubusson. Yet the girl shuddered as, nightly, daily, she
glanced round this luxuriously furnished cavern, knowing full well, or
at least being perfectly able to divine, whence all these things came;
for none who had ever knelt, as Urbaine had done since her earliest
recollection, at the altar of any church of the Ancient Faith could
doubt that that silver jug had been torn from some such altar which
had been devastated with the edifice itself; none who had seen the
luxurious fittings and adornments of the _noblesse_ of Languedoc could
doubt that the tapestries and hangings and rich fine linen had once
adorned the château of Catholic noblemen or gentlemen. Everything
which surrounded her, all--even to the choice plate off which they
both ate their meals, and the crystal glass from which they drank the
Ginestoux and Lunel placed before them--told the same story; the story
of robbery and pillage, of an awakened vengeance that spared nothing
and hesitated at nothing.

Both, too, were free now, free to wander on the mountain slopes, no
parole being demanded, since escape was impossible through those
closely guarded paths and defiles, a little mule being at the girl's
service when she chose to use it, an animal which had been captured
from Julien's forces during a defeat sustained by him and while
bearing on its back two mountain guns. Now those guns guarded, with
other captured cannon, one of the approaches from the valley, and the
mule was given over entirely to her service. Yet she rarely rode it,
preferring, indeed, to sit upon a high promontory whence, at sunset,
she could see the spires of distant cathedrals or churches sparkling
far down in the valley, sometimes with Martin by her side, sometimes
alone.

"Monsieur," she said to him now one crisp, sunny October afternoon as
together they strolled toward this promontory to watch the sunset,
"monsieur, why do you not go away, return to your own land? You will
have the chance soon to escape out of France forever. You heard what
the chief said last night, that an English agent was at Nîmes
endeavouring to discover what chance the fleet in the Mediterranean
will have of invading us there."

"You forget, mademoiselle. I am in their power; you forget that----"

"Nay," she exclaimed, "why speak thus? I know that you are free to go
to-morrow, to-night; that you might have gone long since had you
chosen. That you remain here only because you will not leave me alone
in their power. I know, I understand," and the soft, clear eyes stole
a glance into his.

"I saved you once, by God's mercy," he said. "I shall not leave you
now. Not until I return you to your father's arms. And take heart! It
will not be long. Whether Montrevel or my countrymen effect a landing
from the sea, you will be soon free. If the former happens, it will be
a rescue; if the latter, you will be detained no longer, since they
deem you beyond all doubt a Protestant."

"The woman was mistaken," she answered. "It is impossible."

"Yet Cavalier thinks he has confirmation of the fact. You know that he
has been in the valleys lately, even in Montpellier, disguised. He has
met one, an old woman, who knew Monsieur Ducaire, your real father.
You know that?"

"She has said so, yet I deem it impossible. Who is this woman?"

"She will not say. But he seems confident. And--and--even though my
religion is so hateful to you--think, think, I beseech you, of what
advantage to you it is to be deemed here one of our faith.
Mademoiselle, if that strange seer, that prophetess whose knowledge
astounds, mystifies me, had not proclaimed you one of them and a
Protestant, you would have been dead by now," and he shuddered as he
spoke.

"You wrong me," she said, "when you say that the Protestant--that
your--faith is hateful to me. It is only that I have been taught from
my earliest days to believe so strongly in my own, to regard nothing
as true but that. Also," she continued, "because it is yours, the
religion of you who have saved me, it could never be hateful to me."

And as she spoke the soft rose-blush came to her cheek and her eyes
fell. To her, and to Cavalier, Martin Ashurst had given a full account
of himself, concealing nothing, and at last not even hesitating to
avow himself an Englishman, a fact which, if known in any other part
of Louis' dominions but this Protestant and rebel stronghold, would
have led to his instant destruction. For England was pressing France
sorely now, trampling her under the iron heel of the vast armies
headed by Marlborough, attacking her on every coast she possessed,
even now sending a fleet under Sir Cloudesley Shovel to attempt a
landing at Cette and Toulon to succour and aid the Huguenots. Also it
was to her principally that France's cruelly-used subjects had been
fleeing for years, by her that they had been warmly welcomed and
humanely treated. What hopes of anything short of a swift and awful
death could an Englishman hope for at this time if caught in France?

Yet that he was safe in telling Urbaine Ducaire who and what he was he
never doubted, even though she, in her turn, should tell Baville; for,
since he meant himself to restore her to Baville's arms, it was not
too much to suppose that this restoration would cancel the awful
crime, in the eyes of the man who cherished this girl so, of being a
British subject.

Also he had told both of what had brought him to Languedoc--his quest
for the last of the de Rochebazons--and of how that quest had failed
up to now, must fail entirely, since it was impossible that any
investigations could be carried on in the distracted state of the
province at the present time. Nor did Cavalier, whose mind would have
better become a man of forty than one of twenty, give him any
encouragement to hope that he would ever find the man he sought.

"For, _figurez vous_," he remarked, "this land, this sweet, fair
Languedoc, has been a prey to dissension, slaughter, upon one side
only up till now" (and he laughed grimly as he spoke, perhaps at the
change which had come about), "to misery and awful wrongs for how
long? Long before this present king--this _Dieudonné_, this _Roi
Soleil_--came to the throne, and when his father _Le Juste_ was
harrying our fathers. _Le Juste!_" he repeated with bitter scorn, "_Le
Juste!_ A man who had a hundred virtues that became a valet--witness
his love for shaving his courtiers, for larding his own fillets of
veal, for combing his _mignon's_ wigs--and not one that became a
master, a king, except dissimulation! My God! he had that royal gift,
at least. You know what he and that devil incarnate, Richelieu, did
here in the south, did at Rochelle?"

"I know," Martin replied. "Alas! all the world knows. Yet it must have
been after his time that Cyprien de Beauvilliers, as he then was, came
here."

"If he came," said Cavalier, "he came under another guise, a mask;
under another name. And it is long ago; you will never find him."

"I fear not."

"Moreover, even should you do so, of what avail to you, to him? Will
Louis disgorge the de Rochebazon wealth, will the Church of Rome
release one dernier of what she has clutched? Monsieur, you have flung
your fortune away for a shadow, a chimera, since you yourself will
never get it now. Better have taken it, have got back to your own
land, have enjoyed it in peace."

"It would have been treachery to the dead--to her who believed in me
and died deeming that I was a true child of her own faith. And," he
added, "she was a good woman in spite of that faith."

Cavalier glanced at him, then shrugged his shoulders. Yet as he turned
away he muttered:

"I begin to understand why your country is so great, so prosperous.
Understand! if all Englishmen are like you."

That conversation was not to end thus, however, with a delicate
compliment to Martin's honour, since, ere Cavalier had strode many
paces from him, he came back and, taking a seat by his side in the
great cavern where they then were, began to talk to him about the
future hopes of the Protestant cause, in Languedoc especially. "We
shall win," he said, "we shall win! What we want, which after all is
not much for Louis to grant, we must have: Freedom to worship as we
choose, freedom from paying taxes for a Church we have revolted from,
freedom to come and go out of France as we desire. Let Louis grant
that and I will place at his disposal so fine a regiment that none of
his dragoons or _chevaux-légers_ shall be our superiors. None! He
shall say to me what he said to Jean Bart, the sailor."

"What did he say to him?"

"He sent for Jean Bart one day at Versailles, received him among all
his grinning, shoulder-shrugging courtiers, and, looking on Jean and
his rough, simple comrades, said, 'Bart, _mon ami_, you have done more
for me than all my admirals.' And I love Bart for his reply when,
casting his eyes round on all the admirals and captains who stood in
the throng, he answered, '_Mon Dieu! je crois bien_. Without doubt!
That is, if these _petits crevés_ are your admirals and captains.'"

Martin smiled at the little story, then he said:

"I would to God your cause, my own faith, could prosper here. We have
gone through much stress ourselves to make it secure and safe in
England. Discarded our king, who was of the family more dearly loved
in England than any that have ever sat on her throne, yet we were
forced to do it. But the Protestants of England can make a stronger
boast than those of your land, Monsieur Cavalier. They alone have
suffered; they never retaliated as you have done."

"As we were forced to retaliate," he exclaimed, striking the table in
his excitement. "My God! think of what we have suffered. And not our
men alone, but our wives, our sisters, our old mothers. Have you ever
seen a gray-haired woman stripped and beaten in a market place? Have
you ever seen a young innocent girl stretched naked on a wheel, the
shame of her exposure even more frightful than the blows of _la
massue?_ Have you ever stood on board a galley laden with Protestant
slaves or smelled the burning flesh of old men at the stake? We have,
we of these mountain deserts, and--and--my God!" while even as he
spoke he wept, brushing the tears from his eyes fiercely, "I wonder
that that girl, Urbaine Ducaire, is still alive, Protestant though she
be. Wonder she is spared, since she is the loved treasure of that
tiger, Baville."

"Protestant though she be!" Martin repeated. "You know that? From some
surer source than the divinations, the revelations of La Grande
Marie?"

"I know it," Cavalier said, facing round suddenly on him, "I know it
now for certain. Ducaire was a Protestant living at Mont Joyre. I have
discovered all. And I curse the discovery! For otherwise we would have
repaid Baville a thousandfold for all his crimes, wrung his
heartstrings as he has wrung ours for years, slaughtered his pet lamb
as he has slaughtered hundreds of ours. But she is a Protestant,
therefore safe."

"When will you release her, let her return to him?"

"Ho! _la, la!_" the other replied. "That must be thought upon. Even
now she is a great hostage in our hands, a card that may win the
trick. And--and--you and she are very intimate; yet can I tell you
something without fear of its being repeated to her?"

"I will respect any confidence you place in me so long as it thrusts
not against her welfare."

"It will not do that. Yet listen. Ere she leaves us there is something
to be told her as regards Baville's friendship for her father,
Ducaire. And, when she has heard that, it may be she will never wish
to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again."

"My God! What is to become of her then?"

For reply Cavalier only laughed. Then he said:

"There is always a home for any Protestant here, and she can not
complain of how we have treated her. I think myself she will elect to
stay with us, unless----"

"Unless?"

"Something more tempting offers," and again he laughed. "She might,
monsieur will understand, fall in love. With--say--some hero."

For a moment Martin wondered if Cavalier alluded to himself; in
another he _knew_ that he did so. There was no mistaking the glance in
the Camisard's eyes. But he gave him no opportunity of saying anything
further on the subject, asking instead if he might be confided in with
regard to the strange story which, when told to Urbaine, was to quench
every spark of love and affection in her heart for Baville, the man
who, with all his faults, had cherished and loved her so fondly.

"No, monsieur," Cavalier replied. "That can not be--as yet. Later you
will doubtless know all, know the reason why Urbaine Ducaire should
change her love for him to an undying hate. Meanwhile I have to ask a
favour of you."

"A favour? What is there in my power to do?"

"This: The power to help us end this war--you, a Protestant, an
Englishman."

"I can not understand. God knows I desire nothing better."

"_Soit!_ Then aid us. Thus: The English agent is at Nîmes, disguised.
He passes under the name of Flottard, and has plans for the use of
your admiral, who will bring his fleet to Cette or Toulon when the
time is ripe. Unfortunately, however, this man, this _soi-disant_
Flottard, has not the French very clearly. As for us--poor weavers,
carders, husbandmen--what should we know of other tongues? We can not
speak a word of your language. Monsieur Martin, you are a Protestant,
an Englishman. Before God I think you English the greatest of all.
Help us, help us to be free without more bloodshed, to worship the
Almighty as we see fit, to bow our necks no more before the Scourge of
God. Help us! Help us!" he repeated, "us of your own faith."

Stirred to the heart's core by the man's appeal, though he scarce
needed such impulse, every fibre in him, every drop of blood in his
veins, tingling for those of his own faith, of his own loved religion,
he answered quietly, saying again:

"What I can do I will," and adding, also quietly, "or die in the
attempt."




CHAPTER XXII.

I LOVE YOU.


Urbaine and Martin sat together on that night which followed the sunny
afternoon when they had been alone together on the promontory, in one
of the smaller caverns that opened out of the large one--a cavern
which, of late, Cavalier had used as that in which they ate their
meals--Roland, who shared with him the position of chief of the
Camisards (and indeed claimed to be the absolute chief), being rarely
in this part of the mountains. To-night, however, Cavalier was absent
too, he having gone on one of those terribly dangerous visits to the
valleys which he periodically made, sometimes to spy into what the
following of Baville were doing, or what the king's troops; or to head
some sanguinary raid upon a place where arms or ammunition, food or
clothes, were likely to be obtained.

But to-night he had gone forth on a different mission: to precede
Martin on his way to Nîmes, to see if all the mountain passes were
free of their enemies and, should such be the case, to conduct him
into the city, there to have an interview with the English agent.

Therefore Urbaine and Martin were alone together, save for the
Camisard woman who waited upon them at their meal, and who did not
obtrude herself more than was necessary into the cavern they were in.

As with the larger one and with those which each of them used as their
sleeping apartment, its furnishing and surroundings would have created
intense astonishment to any of the outside world who should have been
able to observe it. Hung with skins in some places, with rich and
costly tapestry and arras in others, all of which were the results of
successful forays upon châteaux and _manoirs_ which, a few hours after
the raids, were nothing but smoking ruins, the onlooker might well
have believed that, instead of a natural vault originally fashioned by
Nature's own hands, he stood within the hall of some ancient feudal
castle, such as the De Rohans or the Ruvignys had once possessed in
the vicinity. Also he might have thought that the table at which those
two sat was one prepared for the reception of guests at Versailles.

A table covered with the whitest napery, on which sparkled many pieces
of the prized _vaisselles_ of the _noblesse_ and the _haut-monde_, so
prized, indeed, that laws and edicts had been passed preventing the
sale of such things or their transposition from one family to another;
adorned as well with _verres-fins_, and with silver-handled knives and
silver forks. Also for provisions there were upon this table a
_poularde_ and the remains of a choice ham, a bottle of Ginestoux and
another of Lunel, a silver basketful of delicate, white chipped bread,
and a crystal bowl of mountain fruit. Yet the glass and the silver
bore no two crests alike. The arms that were broidered on the napery
represented still a third family. All was spoil torn from half a dozen
ruined and sacked mansions.

"I pray God, mademoiselle," Martin said, after having in vain pressed
his companion to eat more than the shred of _poularde_ she had trifled
with, and to drink at least one glass of the Ginestoux, "that this
task on which I go may end all your grief. You know that Cavalier
promises on my return, our object accomplished, to allow me to take
you away from here, to return you in safety to your father's--to M.
Baville's arms."

"Yes," she answered, looking up at him, "yes, to return me to my
father's arms."

"You will pray, therefore, for my success? It means all you can most
desire, all that you can hope for till these troubles are past. Once
back in his house, no further harm can come near you; you are safe
with him. Nay, even though he were in danger through any further
success of theirs, you are still safe. They deem you one of
themselves."

"I will pray," she said, "for your success, your prosperity, now and
forever--for all that you may undertake. Yet--yet--do you know?--I
have almost ceased to pray at all now."

"Oh, oh, God forbid!" he exclaimed, his heart wrung by her words.

"To whom am I to pray? What am I, how am I to approach Him? If I am a
Protestant I must pray for his, my father's, downfall; if a Catholic,
for the destruction of what I----" She did not finish her sentence,
but added instead: "Best never utter prayer at all; forget that from
my childhood I have been taught to worship humbly and to never know a
petition unheard. Oh," she said, thrusting her hands through the great
coils of golden hair that adorned her head, "oh, that I had died on
the day you saved my life, that the bullet which pierced my poor
_gouvernante's_ breast had found mine instead!"

Profoundly touched, moved to the deepest pity and sympathy by
her words--the words of one so young and fair, yet, alas! so
distraught--he moved nearer to her and, unaware even, perhaps, of his
action, took her hand.

"Why," he said, speaking very low, yet with a voice that seemed as
music in her ears, "why feel thus, suffer thus? In spite of all
the dissensions between our faiths--grant even that you are no
Protestant--we worship the same God though we see him with different
eyes. Urbaine," he whispered, forgetting as he spoke that he had
broken down the barrier of formality which had been between them until
now, "if you can not pray for me to-night, can not pray that my
efforts may meet with success, how can I depart and leave you here?
How go, knowing that your heart is not with me?"

"Not with you?" she whispered in her turn. "Not with you? Alas----"
and again broke off, saying no more.

"Urbaine," he continued, emboldened now to repeat softly her name, and
perhaps not understanding her repetition of his words, deeming, it may
be, that the repetition confirmed them, "Urbaine, your heart, your
wishes must go with me, with the cause I undertake. It is the cause of
peace and reconciliation, of strengthening your king's hands by
winning back his subjects to him. For if this fleet can but get a
foothold for its men on shore, Louis must make terms with all who are
now beating him down; not only in this fair Languedoc, but over all
Europe a lasting peace may ensue. A peace," he continued, still gently
yet impressively, "between your land and mine. Yours and mine," he
repeated, dwelling, it seemed to her, pleasantly on the coupling of
their interests together--"yours and mine."

For answer she only sighed, then she said a moment later:

"Yet to go on this mission may mean death to you. If Montrevel or
Julien caught you--O God! it sickens me to think of your peril. They
might not know, might not even believe, all that you have done for me.
The end would be awful."

"Yet remember also that they would not know, can not know, that I am a
Protestant--worse than all else within their eyes, an Englishman. And,
not knowing, nothing would be suspected."

"Still I fear," she answered. "Am overcome with horror and anxiety.
Oh!" she exclaimed again, "oh! if your reward for your noble chivalry
to me should be nothing but disaster. If--if we should never meet
again."

"Fear not," he said. "We shall meet again. I know it; it is borne in
upon me. We shall meet again. I shall restore you to your father's
arms."

Yet, even as he spoke, he remembered the words that Cavalier had
uttered under the seal of confidence, the words: "When she has heard
what is to be told, it may be she will never seek to return to him, to
set eyes on her beloved Intendant again." Remembered them and wondered
what they might portend.

As he did so there came into the cavern one of the Camisards, a man
who had been deputed to lead him at a given time to where Cavalier was
to await his coming. A guide who said briefly that the horses were
prepared and ready to set forth at monsieur's pleasure, then went
outside to wait for him.

"Farewell, Urbaine," Martin said. "Adieu. Nay, do not weep. All will,
all must be, well with you, otherwise I would not leave you. And,
remember, once my task is accomplished you are free. It is for that,
as for other things, in other hopes, that I go. Bid me Godspeed."

It seemed, however, as if she could not let him depart. Weeping, she
clung to his arm, her cheeks bedashed with the tears that ran down
them, her hands clasping his. And then, overmastered by her misery, he
said that to her which he had never meant to say until, at least,
happier days had dawned for both--if, as he sometimes thought, he
should ever dare to say it.

"Urbaine," he whispered, "Urbaine, be brave; take heart; pray for me.
Listen, hear my last words ere I go. I love you--have loved you since
that night we sat beneath the acacias after I had saved you. I shall
love you ever--till I die."


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


The moon shone out through deep inky clouds that scurried swiftly
beneath her face as Martin and the guide set forth to descend to the
spot where Cavalier was to await them. Up here there were no
precautions necessary to be taken, since to the higher portions of the
Cévennes it was impossible that any enemy could have penetrated from
below. The paths that led up to the caves which formed the barracks
and dwelling places of the two thousand men who now kept all Languedoc
in dread and two of Louis' armies at check were of so narrow and
impassable a nature that Thermopylæ itself might have acknowledged
them as worthy rivals; and, even had they been less close and
tortuous, were so guarded at intervals by pickets of Camisards that
none could have surmounted them. Also in many places the route had
been made to pass specially over terrible chasms and ravines, since,
by so doing, it enabled the defenders of the passes to construct
drawbridges which could be lowered or raised at their own pleasure,
or, in case of necessity, destroyed altogether.

Yet one precaution had been taken for their journey--a precaution
never neglected by those dwellers of the mountains, in case they
were forced to take to flight and desired to leave no trace behind
them--their animals were shod _backward_ on their fore feet, a method
which, in conjunction with the usual shoeing of the hind feet, was
almost certain to baffle those who should endeavour to follow their
tracks.

Beneath that moon which shone fitfully from the deep masses of
rain-charged clouds the two men paced in Indian file down the narrow
passes, seeing as they went that which, for now many weeks, had been
visible to all eyes in the province--namely, the flames of villages on
fire at different points of the compass; hearing, too, as they were
borne on the winds, the distant ringing of alarm bells and tocsins
from many a beleaguered church and monastery. For not only did those
flames spring from edifices wherein the old faith was still
maintained, but also from the villages and hamlets where some
Protestants continued to dwell and worship in their own manner, hoping
ever for better, happier days. Already it was calculated that more
than forty Romish churches had been destroyed, with, in many cases,
the bourgs in which they stood; ere all was over the number was
doubled. And already, also, more than that number of Protestant places
of worship, with the villages around them, had been pillaged, sacked,
and burned by Montrevel and Julien, while, in their case, ere all was
over the number was almost trebled.

Thinking of his newly declared love for Urbaine, thinking, too, of
how, in whispered words, she had declared her love for him in return,
of how in their last hasty embrace, which had been also their first,
they had sworn deathless fidelity to each other, Martin took but
little heed of those midnight sights telling of happy homes ruined
forever which he had now been forced so often to gaze upon from the
heights where the Camisards dwelt. He had grown accustomed to these
beacons of horror, in spite of the unhappiness they caused him.

But now he saw a new phase of stern justice and punishment at which he
could not fail to shudder.

High up upon three gibbets at the wayside by which they
passed--gibbets so placed that, when their ghastly burdens should
rot from the chains which held them now, they would fall down and
down until they reached the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet
below--there hung three corpses; swung waving to the mountain air,
while ever and anon upon their white but blood-stained faces the moon
glinted now and again, making those faces look as though they
perspired in her rays, were clammy with sweat. And two grinned
hideously in those rays, a bullet wound which had shattered the mouth
of one giving to his face the appearance of a man convulsed with
laughter, while the smirk of the other face was, in truth, the last
grimace of the death agony. The features of the third told naught,
since, from a wound in his forehead, there had run out the blood which
was now caked and hardened to a mask, hiding all below.

"My God!" exclaimed Martin, with a shiver, "who are they? Men caught
here and executed as spys, troopers made prisoners and done to death
by the avengers?"

"Nay," replied the man, while he made a contemptuous gesture at the
loathsome things that at the moment executed a weird fantastic
movement in unison as a fresh gust of wind swept down from the
mountains above, making them sway and dance to its cold breath, "nay,
vagabonds, _marauds_. Murderers these, not soldiers. Those men are of
our number--were of our number--Protestants--ourselves."

"What, traitors?"

"Ay, traitors--to humanity. Listen! They caught one, a good woman,
Madame de Miramand, a Papist, yet a kindly creature who succoured all
alike. Also she was young, not twenty, and beautiful. She was _en
voyage_"--again Martin shuddered, thinking of another woman young and
beautiful who had also been _en voyage_, and almost caught--"had with
her her jewels, also her _vaisselles_. Well they slew her even as she
knelt before them, stabbed her, left her to die, left her thus as she
prayed God to pardon them."

"Go on," Martin said, seeing that he paused.

"God may pardon them," the guide said. "One, however, would not.
Cavalier! We caught them, tried them; you see the sentence. It is not
women _we_ war upon."

As he finished, again the loathsome figures swung to the breeze, again
they danced and pirouetted in their chains, while from behind a rock
Cavalier himself strode forward.

It was the spot that had been the meeting place appointed with the
guide.

"It is true," he said. "We war not with women. Let Montrevel or Julien
do that. Or their master--Louis!"




CHAPTER XXIII.

"LOVE HER! BEYOND ALL THOUGHT! AND SHE
IS THERE."

With the rapidity of wildfire the news had run over all Languedoc at
this time--was known, too, and shared by Catholics as well as
Protestants--that the English, who once they drew the sword never
sheathed it until its work was done, meditated an attack on France in
a fresh place, that place being her Mediterranean seaboard, the one
spot still free from their assaults up to now, also a spot more
vulnerable, since there were scarce any troops to defend it, the
armies of Montrevel and Julien being sufficiently occupied in
endeavouring, without success, to prevent the terrible reprisals the
Camisards were at last making.

And now indeed the desolation of Languedoc was supreme; now, like a
torch that flareth in the night, was visible an awful terror upon all
of the old faith, as well as the adherents of Louis, who dwelt
therein. Men of that old faith barricaded themselves in their houses,
refusing to either quit them or let any of their families do so, or to
receive bread into those houses in any other way than by baskets
raised by cords, either for fear that they should be stabbed to the
heart on their doorsteps or that they should add one more body to the
many that hung upon the branches of the trees by the wayside--bodies
having affixed to their dead breasts the label bearing the words,
"_Tous qui tomberont entre les mains des vengeurs seront traités
ainsi_." Verily, Languedoc was, as its greatest churchman, Fléchier,
said, but one vast gaping wound!

Yet not only was it the avengers who caused the wound. Maddened by
defeat, by merciless retaliation on their enemies' part, by their
fierce determination to never give or ask for quarter, Baville,
Montrevel, and Julien enacted more awful cruelties than had ever yet
been practised upon those of the Reformed faith. Again the dungeons of
the prisons, the vaults of the cathedrals, which living prisoners
shared with the coffined dead, re-echoed with the groans of the former;
_les places publiques_ were foul with the odour of burning flesh and
of corpses that rotted on wheels; the very roofs were laden with
carrion birds waiting their opportunity to swoop down and plunge
their beaks into the dying; even mothers slew the babes in their arms
sooner than see them perish slowly before their eyes from the pangs
of thirst and hunger. But still the war went on, if such oppression,
such retaliation, could be dignified by the name of war. Went on
because from Paris the word still came that none should worship God in
their own way, or in any other method than the priests of Rome
directed--priests who declared with their lips that the God they
served was one of love and mercy, yet sowed with full hands the seeds
of violence and trouble, of blood and death.

And now to add to all the terrors that the papists felt at last, to
all the fierce joys that the Protestants had begun to thrill with, it
was rumoured through the country that some great admiral of the
accursed English race, backed up by the Duke of Savoy, was about to
land an army at one of the ports with the full intention of assisting
the Protestants, and of, so those papists said, establishing
Protestantism over all the land. No wonder, therefore, that the
priests fled from their churches, that the archbishop said (forgetting
how he and his had outraged God for years) that "God had deserted
them."

Clad like muleteers in some cases, in others like travelling weavers,
and in still others like husbandmen and horse-dealers, some scores of
Camisards were making their ways by ones and twos at this period
toward Cette, avoiding Montpellier and leaving it to the east of them,
and threading the low lands that lay between that diocese and the
sister one of D'Agde, for _they_ knew where the landing was to be
attempted; knew likewise when the English assistance was to be
expected. Also--though few were aware of it, and Baville alone, on his
side, suspected that such was the case--from Holland, from Geneva,
from the villages of the Vaud and Valais, from Canterbury and
Spitalfields were coming refugees, some making their way by foot and
some on horses. They had been summoned from the lands they had fled
to, summoned to return and take part in what was now to be done.

Amid a small band which at this moment drew near to Frontignan there
rode Martin Ashurst, his companions being some of the noblest
Protestant blood of the province. Also by his side there rode the
English agent known as Flottard, a Huguenot whose father had escaped
long since into England and who spoke that language better than his
own, or rather than the _langue d'oc_ which had been his father's.

"And now, _mes frères_," said one of these companions, Ulson de la
Valette, who as a boy had been forced to stand before the scaffold of
Greonble holding his fainting mother's hand while they witnessed the
decapitation of his elder brother _pour cause d'hérésie_, "we must
separate, to meet again by Heaven's grace as followers of the English
admiral. Monsieur, read the route to our friends," and he turned to a
man clad as a monk. He had in truth been one who had but recently been
unfrocked at Rome on suspicion of heretic principles, and had now
openly avowed Protestantism, while still retaining the gown as a
disguise.

"This is the route," the monk answered, producing from his breast a
paper which, in the clear light of the dawn, he read from. "You, De la
Valette, and you, Fontanes, will pass straight on to Frontignan. You,
_messieurs les Anglais_," and he glanced at Martin and Flottard, "will
proceed through La Susc; the rest must distribute themselves and
travel through the villages of Sainte Bréze, Collanze, and Le Test.
Yet, remember, Baville has warned every _aguet_, every watchman, every
village consul and river guard. Capture and discovery mean death."

"The meeting-place," said Ulson de la Valette, "of all of us is the
plain of Frontignan, 'twixt that and the great port. The signal will
be the landing of the first English troops, the entry of the first
ship of war. The password is 'God and his children.' My friends,
farewell; yet, as you ride, forget not to pray for success. If God is
on our side now we are avenged and Louis beaten down under our feet.
We shall triumph."

A moment later all had parted, dispersing quietly after a hand-shake
round, and each going alone, Martin and Flottard remaining behind for
some little while so as not to follow too hurriedly upon the footsteps
of the others.

"Yet," said Flottard in English, which he spoke like a native, "we
must part too, Monsieur Martin. I have to enter Bouziques if I can;
'tis full of disguised Savoyards and some of your--our--land. You
will, I should suppose, join Sir Cloudesley Shovel?"

"As agent," Martin replied, "not combatant. My mission is to lead his
troops if possible to Montpellier and Nîmes, to act as guide."

"It will not save your neck if you are caught," Flottard said with a
laugh.

"There is no thought of that," Martin answered, hurt and annoyed that
the man should suppose this was his consideration. "But--but--I have
other things to do. To me are to be confided the arms, ammunition, and
money which the English fleet brings. Also, with the exception of you
and me, there is no one who can speak English."

"And," repeated Flottard, "there is no one the French will punish as
ferociously as they will punish us--for I am English too now--if we
are caught."

"They can do no worse by us than by their own," Martin replied
quietly.

Afterward, when they had parted, Flottard taking his way to Bouzique
while Martin rode on quietly toward Cette, he, musing deeply on all
which might be the outcome of the proposed attack by the English
admiral, told himself that, even were it possible for his punishment
to be made five thousand times worse than anything which had ever
been dealt out to the Protestants, nothing should stop him now but
death. He loved Urbaine Ducaire; had loved her, as he had said, since
first he saved her life, since they had sat together beneath the
sweet-scented blossoms of the acacia trees on that soft summer night
amid the desolation of the land; he should love her till the end.
And--and Cavalier had promised that, if he helped their cause now, on
his return he should lead Urbaine forth a free woman; should return
her safe and unharmed to Baville's arms, even though Baville was the
most hated name the Camisards knew.

Cavalier would keep his word. That he never doubted. Only there was
the future to be thought upon--the afterward. His love for her and
hers for him. How was that love ever to be brought to a happy
fruition? How? How? How? Would Baville give her to him, a Protestant,
even though it were proved, as Cavalier had said it could now be
proved beyond all doubt, that Urbaine was herself born in that faith?
Give her to him, an Englishman, a native of the land which had wrought
much disaster on France through innumerable centuries, that was even
now closing its grasp of steel upon France and crushing the very
life-blood out of all its pores? Would Baville, the Tiger of
Languedoc, ever consent to such a union as they projected, the
fulfilment of the troth which they had plighted?

One hope there was, he reflected: a hope that at least the question of
faith might not prove an insurmountable object. For though Baville was
of the old faith, though in the name of that faith and at the
instigation of its chiefs he had wrought innumerable cruelties, had
broken countless hearts and driven thousands to despair, religion had
been but a war cry with him, a banner under which to march. As a
papist he was but an indifferent one. He had said, had owned as much
more than once, that it was duty which led him to be severe, to crush
down rebellion, to exalt the King's authority. He would have acted in
precisely the same manner as he had recently acted had France been
Protestant and had the _attroupés_ been papists. "_Il est plus
royaliste que le Roi!_" Urbaine had said of him once in speaking to
Martin; "and to him the soil of France and the power of Louis are the
most sacred things he knows, except one other, his duty. The King made
him governor of Languedoc; in his mind Languedoc exists for the King
alone. Forgive him all for his loyalty, his obedience to duty."

As he reflected on this, trying to pierce the future, endeavouring to
see one glimmering ray of hope amid all the darkness which enveloped
that future, he drew near to where the port of Cette was; in the warm
autumn air with which these southern plains were suffused, it seemed
almost as if he scented the breezes of the great blue sea beyond. Also
it seemed as if already the balm of the myriad flowers which adorn its
shores was surrounding him, as if, with the bright rays of the sun, a
promise was heralded of peace and happiness at last.

It behooved him to be careful how he progressed, for all the
countryside was in a state of alarm. The English fleet had been seen
out at sea two days before! Also it was known to all the King's
followers that a descent was intended, while a regiment of dragoons
marching swiftly to the coast had given the information that, from the
towers of the cathedral at Montpellier, that fleet had been seen
approaching Maqualone. While even a worse cause for alarm was the
rumour that Cavalier with six hundred Camisards had passed by a
circuitous route toward Cette, and was now waiting on the beach to
welcome the English invaders.

Yet, furnished with papers which Flottard had caused to be procured
from Paris, not only Martin but most of the refugees who had of late
returned to the south of France managed to reach the coast ere night
fell, to reach the shore, there to await the coming of those who were
to land and succour them--a shore upon which were those Camisards who,
setting out with Cavalier long after Martin had departed, had by a
forced march contrived to reach Cette ere he and his companions were
able to do so, owing to the _détours_ they had made; a sandy, shingly
beach, from which, as now the warm night closed in on them, all gazed
upon what they saw before them.

Two large ships of war (their names were afterward known to be the
Pembroke and the Tartar) which through that night made signals
frequently that, none understanding, remained unanswered. Signals
arranged by the Earl of Nottingham (who, after many compunctions
against assisting rebels in arms, even though in arms against a king
hostile to England, had consented to Shovel making the attack), the
key to which he had forwarded to Peytaud, a Protestant but recently
returned from Holland. But Peytaud had been caught that morning ere he
could reach Cette; the signals had been found upon him, and, at the
time that the Pembroke and the Tartar were showing their masthead
lights, the unfortunate man's body was lying broken all to pieces on a
wheel in the crossroads outside Aiguësmortes.

And there were no duplicates! The signals remained unanswered. Later
on Cavalier said that he did not know these were the ships of war, but
in the darkness took them to be fishermen's boats. Had he known, he
averred that he would have swam out to them rather than have missed so
great a chance.

In the morning when day broke the topsails of these vessels were seen
to fill. Soon they were gone.

The hoped-for chance was lost, and lost forever. The tide no longer
served; nothing could have been then landed from the English ships,
nor could they have remained where they were. Already the galleys
armed to the teeth had put out in dozens to attack them. On the
horizon there rose the topmasts of a great French fleet coming swiftly
from Toulon.

And by Martin's side upon the desolate shore stood Cavalier, the
picture of despair.

"The opportunity is gone," he said; "gone also our last chance for
making peace. It is war now to the end. Yet had your countrymen but
got ashore the struggle would have been over; hampered on all sides,
Louis must have yielded, have made terms. God help us all!" and he
turned away to bid his followers disperse and make their way back by
the routes and by-paths which they knew of to the mountains.

As he did so there came through the crowd of Camisards one whom Martin
had seen before, a gaunt, haggard man, with an arm missing--an arm
which, it was said, had withered under the cruelties the Abbé du
Chaila had practised on this Cévenole while he had him in his power at
Montvert, so that, when at last the man was freed, it had to be
removed.

"Cavalier," he said, "Cavalier, friend and leader, bid them also
hasten on their way; lose no time. You have heard the news?"

"No! What?"

"Montrevel and Julien have forced the passes, taking advantage of our
absence. Roland, too, is away. The caverns are besieged. All in them
are lost."

"Lost! Pshaw! They will stand a siege of all Louis' armies."

"Ay, they will. But it is not for siege that the _battue_ is arranged.
Those in the caverns are caught in a _blocus_; they can make no
_sortie_. Outside, fires have been made. Hurry! or you will find
nothing but smoke-dried corpses when you return."

As he spoke there fell upon his ears a heartbroken gasp. Turning his
eyes, they lighted upon Martin--Martin who, white to the lips and
palsied with horror, could only mutter, "Urbaine! Urbaine. And she is
there!"

"Ay!" said Cavalier fiercely, "she is there. The blow falls as heavily
on Baville as on us----" Then paused in his speech. Paused to say in
an altered, gentle tone a moment later to Martin, "I see! See all! You
love her?"

"Love her! My God," Martin replied, "beyond all thought! And she is
there!"




CHAPTER XXIV.

"AN ERRAND OF LIFE OR DEATH."


Through the fair, sweet land known as the _Département Hérault_ Martin
rode north, toward where the mountains lay, in the darkness of the
autumn night, like purple shadows hovering over the earth; rode
recklessly, as though caring little whether he or the horse he
bestrode found death at the next step. Recklessly, as it seemed to the
startled shepherds guarding their flocks of Narbonne sheep in their
huts of reeds and clay, and peering out as the horseman dashed by, the
moon illuminating his pale face so that, but for the clatter of the
creature's hoofs, they would scarcely have known whether 'twas a
spectre or a living thing which flew past. Recklessly, too, as it
seemed to peasants sleeping in their cottages, and aroused by that
clatter only to turn on their beds and sleep again. Recklessly,
threateningly, as perhaps it may have seemed to startled fawns and
timorous hares and rabbits, fleeing helter-skelter into vineyards
where grew the luscious Lunel and Genistoux grapes, or into underbush
where lurked the famed and dreaded viper of the south.

But reckless as that hurried course might seem, wild and furious as
the ride of Gary from London to Edinburgh, to tell James that the
great Queen was dead and he was King of England as well as of
Scotland, it was not so in truth, and, though swift and unhalting, was
neither foolhardy nor rashly impetuous. He was too good a horseman,
also too kindly-hearted a man, to spur a willing beast above its best
endeavours. Yet he knew well enough that beyond breathing spells in
cool copses, where the moon flung down on to the thick grass the
shadowy lacery of leaves which quivered in the night breezes, and
beyond halts at trickling rivulets so that the panting creature might
drink and be refreshed, there must be no delay. None if he would reach
Montrevel or Julien ere the worst had fallen; if he would be in time
to tell them that, amid those whom they sought to murder and burn in
the caves they had surrounded, was the fairest woman in all Languedoc,
the child of Baville's heart, Urbaine Ducaire.

Also he knew the dangers that lurked in his path; knew how, all along
the road he went, were countless soldiers out seeking for _attroupés_;
men who, not knowing what his mission was and perceiving that he bore
no signs about him of royal scarlet, or lace, or accoutrements, would
send a dozen bullets at his back, any one of which would hurl him from
his saddle to the ground a corpse. Nay, once such had almost been the
case. Refusing to halt at the village of St. Jean le Bon, from a
tavern had come a shower of such missiles, which, by God's mercy, had
only hissed harmlessly past, though by the shock he felt beneath him
he knew that his saddle had been struck.

The dawn was nigh as at last he neared Lunel. He knew it by the deeper
chill of the air, by the changing lividness of the summits of the
distant mountains, and by the vanishing of the purple darkness from
their caps and spurs and ridges. If the horse he rode could reach that
town he might get a change of animal and so ride on and on, and on
again, until he was within the outlines of Montrevel and Julien.

"Away!" Cavalier had said to him as, after weary waiting, the evening
fell over Cette and he was free at last to commence his journey. All
day he had fretted and stormed at having to remain until the night
came, though forced to do so, since to have started on that wild ride
by daylight would have been, in the state of the locality, simply to
invite destruction. "Away! God grant you may be in time! If they spare
her they must spare the others, as, if they slay them, they must slay
her. And--and--we shall be close behind you. If Montrevel and Julien
have got into our mountains, may the devil, their master, help them!
They will never get out again; we have them in a trap."

And he laughed bitterly while repeating aloud the word "Away!" Also he
added, "If you can but induce them to hold their hands for twenty-four
hours we will do the rest."

Lunel came nearer and nearer now. He thanked God again and again that
still the horse beneath him did not falter, still swept on in an even,
easy stride. Already he could see in the morning air, now clear and
bright, the great wooden spire of its church, which up to now had
escaped destruction. And he remembered how Cavalier had told him to
have no fear in entering it, since neither papists nor Protestants had
made any attack upon it because it was principally inhabited by Jews
from Marseilles, who, from the days of Philip of Valois, had been
permitted to dwell within it, they taking, as was natural, no share in
the troubles with which the province was torn.

Nearer and nearer, close now, its one peaked, _calotte_-roofed tower,
which faced to the south, standing up like an arrow pointing to the
sky in the cool light of the swift advancing dawn.

Close now, and hammering on the great gray storm-beaten door of the
ramparts, against which for centuries the _mistral_ and the _bise_ had
howled and flung themselves on winter nights and days; on which all
through the summer the southern sun had glared. Hammering with
pistol-butt and clenched hand, loud enough to arouse the dead, and
calling:

"Awake! Open! Open! In God's name open!"

"_Hola!_" a voice shouted answeringly from within. "No more. Cease. I
come! 'In God's name.' Good! You give the password. 'Tis well!" the
utterance being mingled with the grating of a key in a lock and the
rumbling of a bar. And Martin divined that by a chance, a miracle, he
had uttered the royalist sign.

A moment later the gate was open wide. Before it stood a lean,
gray-haired warder, the very counterpart of Cervante's hero, fastening
the tags of his jacket with one hand as he threw back the door with
the other.

"Monsieur rides in haste," he said, seeing that he had a gentleman to
do with, though no soldier clad in _bleu royal_ or scarlet, as he had
expected. "What is the news you carry? Have the accursed English
landed, the vile Protestants captured the port?"

"Nay," answered Martin, "but I ride on an errand of life or death. I
must reach Baville; above all, Montrevel or Julien. They know not what
they do."

"What they do! What is't? I have heard they barricade themselves in
Uzès and Alais, yet thousands strong! Soldiers! Bah! Tosspots and
_vauriens_, afraid of a beggarly set of goatherds. _Dieu des Dieux!_
'twas not so when I rode behind Condé."

"You are mistaken. They are in the mountains, putting all to fire and
sword. Above all, to fire. And among those whom they will slay--they
know her not--is Baville's child. Friend, as you have loved ones of
your own, help me to a fresh horse. This one is spent."

"It is," the warder said, all action now and regarding the smoking
flanks of the poor beast. "Antoine, _petit_," he called, "out of your
bed, _dindon_. A bucket of water, quick. And for you, monsieur, a
sup," whereon he ran into his lodge and came back carrying a great
_outre_, from out of which he poured a flask of amber-coloured liquor.
"'Tis of the best," he said, and winked as he did so. "Hein! 'tis
Chastelneuf. Three years in vat. Down with it."

"Another horse, another horse!" Martin exclaimed after he had
swallowed the wine and thanked the man. "In Heaven's name put me in
the way of that. I must on--on."

"Off!" said the man to a boy who had now come from his lodge, half
dressed, as though he had but just tumbled out of his bed; a boy who
was by now holding a bucket to the horse's thirsty mouth. "Off,
Antoine, to the Jew. He has the cattle. If you have money," he added
to Martin. "Without it you will get naught from any of his tribe."

"I have enough. Fifty gold pistoles."

"Show them not to him, or he will want all. Bargain, traffic,
_marchandise_. 'Tis the only way."

Led by the boy and leading now the steed, with the warder calling
after him that it was strange he had heard naught of what he related,
"for his part, he believed he was misinformed, and that Montrevel and
Julien were doing nothing but eating and drinking up all in the land
like locusts," Martin went down the street, none of the inhabitants
seeming yet awake. It was as silent and empty as a deserted city.

In front of a cross in a market place--a cross which the fiery Anjou
had caused to be erected there to remind the Jews of their fathers'
sins, as he said--the boy paused and, pointing to a house with large,
capacious stables by its side, observed:

"'Tis there that Elie lives. Beat him up, monsieur, beat him up," and
Martin, following his advice, seized the great copper knocker and
hammered with it as lustily as, some minutes earlier, he had hammered
to arouse the warder.

Because strange, fantastic thoughts and memories come to us even in
our most bitter moments, so to Martin there came now the thought that
the face, which a moment later appeared at a window above, might well
have served Nokes, the comedian, whom he had often supped with at
Pontac's, for a model of the apothecary in Mantua. A face lean and
hatchet-nosed, fleshless almost as the face of one dying of
starvation, the eyes deep sunken above the beak-like nose.

"What is't?" this man asked. "What does monsieur desire at such an
hour?"

"A horse. A horse at once that will carry me to----"

"Horses are dear just now. The army needs all."

"I will pay well. Come down and supply me. Quick, every moment is
precious."

"So are horses. Yet I will descend. I have a good animal, but it cost
me much."

A moment later he appeared at his door, a thick cudgel in his hand as
though to guard against any sudden attack that might be made upon him,
and said:

"The animal I have is worth a hundred gold pistoles."

"Bah! I have not so much about me."

"How much have you?"

"Twenty."

"Twenty for such an animal! Father of Abraham and Isaac! Twenty gold
pistoles for such a creature!" and he made as though he would re-enter
his house.

"Let him go, monsieur," whispered the boy with a grin, "he will come
back. _N'ayez pas peur_. Oh! _avec ça_, we know him."

The lad spoke truly, for even as Martin, cursing himself for
trafficking thus at such a moment, resolved to fling his purse of
fifty pieces down before the man and bid him bring out the horse, the
Jew's vulpine beak and pendulous underlip appeared again from behind
the door.

"Will you give twenty-five?"

"Show me the horse."

A little later, in accordance with some whispered instructions to
another person behind the door, a Jewish maiden was seen leading a
horse from out the stable yard at the side, an animal of an ordinary
type, yet looking sturdy and as though quite capable of carrying
Martin to Alais and the mountains beyond.

"Twenty-five?" the Jew asked, leering.

"Yes, twenty-five. Help me"--to the boy--"to change saddle and
bridle," which the lad did willingly enough. But the Hebrew's
instincts were stronger than aught else. As they began to do this he
shrieked:

"Ah, mother of Moses, the girl is mad. She has brought the wrong
beast. Oh! Oh! Oh! This can not go under fifty pistoles."

"It is too late to change," Martin said grimly. "The beast is mine,"
and he produced his purse and told out twenty-five pistoles. Then,
tossing the boy a crown, he said: "Keep my horse for me until I come
this way again or send for it, and I will reward you well. Treat it
carefully. Farewell. The road to Nîmes and Alais? Where is the gate?"

The boy indicated it amid the shrieks of the Jew, who now yelled he
was robbed; that he meant twenty-five gold pistoles with the other's
horse thrown in; how else could he part with such an animal for a
beggarly twenty-five? And amid a tussle between the lad on one side
and the Abrahamite and the girl on the other, in which the former
seemed quite able to hold his own and retain his charge, Martin rode
down the street to the Nîmes gate.

Once more he was upon the road. Nearer to his love, to her who had
dawned a star above his life--the woman in deadly peril for whom, as
he tightened rein and pressed flank, he prayed God's mercy. Prayed
also that he might not be too late, not too late.

The autumn sun beat down upon his head, fierce as July suns in more
northern lands. The skies were like brass. There was no air to fan his
cheek except that which his own swift passage caused. Yet he never
felt or heeded the former, nor missed the latter; there was but one
thought in his mind--Urbaine! Urbaine! Urbaine!

Lunel was left behind him, had dwindled to a spot. He cursed the
leagues of _détour_ he had to make to reach Nîmes first, find Baville,
and warn him of the awful danger of the girl if still she lived--oh,
God! if still she lived!--procure his order to those battue-making
butchers to hold their hands, possess himself of it, and hurry on to
the mountains, That, that was all he could do, yet he would accomplish
it or reel from his saddle to the road--dead.

Through Vergese he went, seeing the cool wooden slopes of Les
Vaquerolles on his left, shouting the password he had by Heaven's
grace learned so opportunely to all who endeavoured to arrest his
flight; on, on to Milbaud and Saint Cesare. And at last Nîmes was
ahead of him. He saw it now. The Temple of Diana rose before his eyes,
solitary and majestic as the Romans had left it two thousand years
before; rose, too, beneath the brassy shimmer, the white marble
columns of Agrippa's sons and the city walls.

Yet also arose something else toward the heavens which startled,
amazed him.

Stealing up into the yellow haze, a spiral column twined snakily until
it seemed to be merged in the sky, a column white and fleecy at first,
then black at its base, and, later, black up all its length. Next,
tinged flame-colour--soon flame itself. Flame which leaped up in
countless tongues as though with its great flecks and flickers it
aspired to lick the canopy above, flame in which now were mixed black
specks and daubs borne up upon its fiery breath.

Nîmes was burning. It was impossible to doubt it.

Set on fire by whom? Camisards descending from the mountains, or
perchance, though that seemed impossible, by Camisards returning from
Cette. Or by the King's forces. Yet, why that? It was the royalist
stronghold, the royalist base. It could scarce be that.

Spurring his horse, he urged it to its fullest speed through
the last remaining half-league of road running through fields of
crimson-flowered sainfoin and beneath the yellow-green, sweet-scented
limes. On, while now above the broadleaved trees the smoke rose
thicker and thicker. On, scarce knowing why he rode thus or what he
had to do in Nîmes except to find Baville if he were there; to tell
him no burning city mattered one jot to him in comparison with what
was doing, might be done by now, up in those mountains five leagues
off which lay bathed in the golden haze of the noontide heat.

He saw the great southern gate open before him, no warders by it.
Doubtless they were in the city trying to save it from the flames;
from the gate itself he saw people issuing, running. Some--among
others two old gray-haired people, man and woman--wringing their
hands; also a great burly _cordelier_, his fat face suffused with an
oily smile.

"What--what is it?" he cried, reining in his horse. "What fresh horror
now?"

"Murder! Cruelty unparalleled!" the old gray-haired man said, his look
of terror awful to behold. "Wickedness extreme! Montrevel is there,
Julien is there; they have caught the Protestants in the great mill,
have barred them in, they can not escape. And they are burning it.
All, all must perish."

"Montrevel--Julien--there! It is impossible. They are in the mountains
burning the Protestants _there!_" Martin exclaimed.

"Nay, nay, my son," the greasy monk exclaimed, chiming in, "that was
but a heaven-inspired ruse to catch the others in the trap. They are
here. They slaughter the heretics, _par le fer et par le feu_, as
Montrevel says. Here! Here! My son, make your way in. Join the good
work."




CHAPTER XXV.

PAR LE FER ET PAR LE FEU.


He made his way in.

Entered by the Porte des Carmes, to find himself in the midst of a
seething mass of people who shouted and gesticulated while pushing
each other to and fro, some doing so in their anxiety to escape from
out the city, others endeavouring to force themselves farther into it
and toward the Canal de la Gau, which was near the gate. A mass of
people who seemed infuriated, beyond the bounds of reason, to frenzy,
who shouted and screamed, "_Au glaive, au glaive avec les héritéques_.
Kill all! Burn all! Now is the time." While others shrieked, "To the
mill, to the mill!" as onward they went in the direction of the canal.

He had put his horse up in a stall behind the gate, tethering it to a
peg alongside one or two other animals which, by their trappings,
evidently belonged to some dragoons; and now, borne on by the crowd,
Martin went the same way, keeping his feet with difficulty yet still
progressing, progressing toward where he saw the flames ascending,
darting through dense masses of black smoke, roaring as a vast furnace
roars. Toward the mill that, all said, was the place which was on
fire; the mill in which there were three hundred people--women,
children, and old, decrepit, useless men, old, aged Protestants who
could not take to the mountains--being burned to death; the mill in
which they had been worshipping God in their own fashion.

"Tell me," Martin besought a bystander, big, brawny, and muscular,
whom he found by his side and who, in spite of his splendidly
developed manhood, wept, dashing the tears fiercely away from his eyes
every moment. "Tell me what has happened. Tell me, I beg you."

"Murder! Butchery! A crime that will ring down the ages. Montrevel is
burning three hundred helpless ones in Mercier's mill." Then he
paused, casting his eyes over Martin's riding dress (stained now with
the dust of his long rides) and upon his lace at breast and throat,
smirched and dirty from continued wear. Paused to say: "What are you?
a _seigneur_, I see. But of which side? The butchers or the
slaughtered?"

"I am of the Reformed faith."

"Of Nîmes?" the man asked. "If so, God help you. Your mother or your
babe may be burning there and you powerless to succour them.
Montrevel's wolves surround the mill. He is there too, mad with wine
and lust of blood. If there is any woman or child you love in Nîmes at
this moment, God help you."

"She whom I love is not here. But, alas! can we do nothing? You wear a
sword as I do? We can strike a blow----"

"Do! What can we do? There are two hundred dragoons there. What will
our blades avail, though we were the best _ferrailleurs_ in France?"
Then suddenly he cried, "See, there is the slaughter-house!"

He spoke truly. The burning mill was before them.

A sight to freeze one's blood, to turn that blood to ice even beneath
the sky of brass, even before the hot flames that darted forth,
licking up, devouring all.

It stood, an ancient building of stone foundations and wooden
superstructure. They said the former dated back to Cæsar's day, the
latter to that of Charles le Bel, upon the banks of the canal as it
would never stand again, since now it was nothing but a mass of
burning fuel. Also a human hecatomb, there being within it the ashes
of three hundred human beings whose bodies had that morning been
consumed. And Martin blessed God that he had not been there to hear
their piercing shrieks, their cries for mercy and their supplications.

Around the nearly destroyed mill, except on one side where it adjoined
an inn, "La Rose de Provence," the front of which was all singed and
scarred, he saw the executioners, the men who had been soldiers,
fierce yet valiant, until this morning, but who were now worthy of no
nobler name than that of cowardly murderers. Dragoons, Croatian
Cravates, now Prance's most bloody swashbucklers with one exception,
the Miquelets, those fierce Pyrenean tigers, as well as
_chevaux-légers_ and countless numbers of the _milice_. And near them,
his sword drawn, his face inflamed with drink and fury, his breast a
mass of ribbons and orders, was Montrevel upon his horse, a scandal to
the _bâton_ he had lately gained.

"Murderer! Assassin! Brave butcher of women and babes," howled many in
the crowd, one half of which was Protestant, "noble papist! you have
done your work well. Yet beware of Cavalier and Roland!"

And even as they so shouted, from more than one window high up in the
roofs there came little puffs of smoke and spits of flame, showing
that he was aimed at. Only the devil protected him. His time was not
yet come. He was mad now with fury or drink, or thirst for human
blood. Mad, stung to frenzy by resistance and contempt, even in spite
of all that he had done that morning, of having glutted his ire on the
helpless, which should have sufficed, all heard him roar:

"_Finissons!_ Nîmes is heretic to the core. Make an end of it.
_Avancez, mes soldats_. Burn, destroy, slaughter. Kill all." And he
turned his horse toward where the crowd was thickest and bade the
carnage begin, marshalling his troops into companies the better to
distribute them about the doomed city.

But now there stepped forth one--Sandricourt, Governor of Nîmes--who
forbade him to do that which he threatened; warned him that if one
more house or street was injured he would himself that night set forth
for Paris, and tell Louis that Montrevel was unworthy of the command
he held in this distracted province.

"Ha! Sandricourt, 'tis Sandricourt," whispered one in a knot of
Protestants standing near to where Martin and the man he had accosted
were. "He is the best, he and Fléchier, bishop though he is. If all
were like them--if Baville were--then--then we might live in peace,
not see nor know the awful terrors we have seen this day. Oh, the
horror of it! the horror of it!" and he buried his face in his hands
as though to hide some sight that he feared might blast him.

Baville! The name recalled the man to Martin's memory. Nay, it did
more, far more than that. Recalled his love, Urbaine. Set him
wondering, too, if by any chance this holocaust had taken place at the
Intendant's suggestion; if this was a vengeance on those who had
destroyed her. For he must deem her dead by now; weeks had passed
since she disappeared. Had he set the shambles fresh running with
blood to avenge her loss?

He must see Baville at once, must tell him she was safe. Thereby,
perhaps, more slaughter might be averted.

"Where is Baville?" he asked, turning to the group of terrified
Protestants by his side. "Is he in this carnage?"

"God, he knows," one replied. "Yet he has not appeared. Not since this
commenced. Were you here at the beginning?"

"Nay, I arrived but now. Is it true, can it be true there are three
hundred destroyed within that?" and he glanced toward the _débris_ of
the mill, the superstructure now nothing but ashes and charred beams,
with, lying above them, the red tiles of what had been a roof ere it
fell in, burying beneath it--what?

"It is true, it is true," the man wailed. Then, composing himself, he
told of all that had gone before. "They were at prayer," he said, "in
there, in Mercier's mill. I myself and Prosper Roumilli," indicating
one of the men by his side. "Also Antoine La Quoite and Pierre
Delamer," nodding to two others near him, "were hastening to join
them; all grieved that we were too late. Late, _grand Dieu!_ What have
we not escaped?"

"Death and destruction," whispered La Quoite, trembling.

"Ay, death and destruction. _Hélas!_ they raised their songs of
thanksgiving too loud. Their _cantiques_ told where they were, reached
the ears of that murderer there who was at his breakfast----"

"He was," again interrupted La Quoite, "with the woman, Léonie Sabbat.
A fitting companion. She can drink even him beneath the table."

"Furious he left that table, summoned a battalion, passed swiftly
here, surrounded the mill. Furious, too, because as they passed the
cathedral he heard the organ blow, knew that Fléchier worshipped too,
mad and savage because during such time we should also worship God in
our own way."

"Yet our day will come," murmured Pierre Delamer, "it will come. I am
old, yet shall I not die until it comes."

"The soldiers burst open the door," went on the original speaker,
"rushed in among them sabres in hand, slew many. Yet this was too slow
for him----"

"It was," exclaimed La Quoite. "He said they would be three hundred
minutes slaying three hundred people thus. Too slow! He drew off his
men, closed the doors, set fire to the mill. You see the end," and he
pointed to the ashes of the ruined place, ashes that were also
something else besides the remains of the mill.

Again the first speaker took up the story, Martin feeling sick unto
death as he stood by and heard.

"From within there came the shouts of the lost, the piercing cries,
the heartrending shrieks. Midst burst walls, at windows, upon the
roof, we saw the death-doomed appear. Flying spectres, phantoms, upon
them the wounds the soldiers had made, black, singed by the flames.
And then, O God! the sight passed man's endurance."

"What next?" asked Martin, white to the lips.

"What next? This: With their new weapons, the accursed _baïonnettes_,
the soldiers thrust back into the flames those whom the could get at;
those whom they could not reach they fired at. We saw them fall back
shrieking. Yet in God's mercy their shrieks ceased soon--there were
none left."

"But one," exclaimed the man called La Quoite, "a girl, _pauvre petite
fillette!_ She escaped so far as to reach the ground unhurt, to escape
their blades, although they held them up as she jumped from the
window, so that thereby she might be impaled. But they missed her,
and, running toward Montrevel, she shrieked for mercy. Poor child,
poor child! not more than fifteen--than fifteen!"

"His lackey," struck in Delamer, "had more mercy than the master. He
helped her to escape from out the hands of the soldiers."

"Thank God there was a man, a human heart, among them," murmured
Martin.

"Ay, yet it availed little. The brigand ordered her to the hangman's
hands, also the lackey. The gibbet was prepared. Both would have died
but that a Catholic woman, _une s[oe]ur de la miséricorde_, upon her
knees--Heaven's blessings light upon her!--besought him by the God
whom all worship equally to give them their lives."

"And he yielded?"

"He yielded. He spared these two, though an hour later the lackey was
thrown outside the gate of Nîmes, his master bidding him go hang or
drown himself, or join his friends, _les Protestants_, whereby once
more he might fall into his hands."

"There is one good piece of news yet to be told," whispered La Quoite,
who was a man of fiercer mood than the others. "In the _mêlée_ the
soldiers sabred many of the Catholics unwittingly. God be praised!"
and he laughed harshly.

And now the end of this day's work had come. Montrevel had left the
spot. Behind him went the dragoons and _milices_. The butchery was
over. He should have been well satisfied with his morning.

Yet it scarcely looked as though he were so. His eyes glared around
him as he rode off, his hand clutched convulsively the sword laid
across his horse's mane. No wonder that they said afterward, when his
recall came and the noble and merciful Villars replaced him, that on
that day he was mad as the long-chained and infuriated panther is mad.
He had met with nothing but defeat and disaster since he had marched
into Languedoc _tambours battants_; nothing but scorn and contempt and
derision from the mountaineers whom he had sworn to crush beneath his
heel; had received nothing but reproof from headquarters.

"Baville must be somewhere near," Martin said to La Quoite as they
watched him ride forth from the scene of carnage. "Where is he?"

"I know not; yet, doubtless, not far. And he too is mad for the death
of his loved one. God grant he is not close at hand; that none of us
fall into his clutches. He would spur Montrevel on to fresh attempts."

Yet La Quoite's prayer found no echo in Martin's heart. He wished to
find Baville, desired to see him, to stand face to face with him and
tell him that Urbaine was safe. For safe she must be even after this
massacre, safe even though in Cavalier's hands.

Had he not said that he knew for certain she too was a Protestant, as
they were--_une Huguenote!_


Note.--Justice requires it to be said that, of all the Roman Catholic
writers who have described and written upon the slaughter at the mill
in Nîmes, not one has approved of it, or attempted to exonerate
Montrevel. In truth, this awful outrage was the brutality of a rude,
ungovernable soldier and not of a priest; and Fléchier, Bishop of
Nîmes, was loud in its condemnation. It led to Montrevel's recall and
to the arrival of Marshal Villars, who at last restored peace to
Languedoc by the use of clemency and mercy. Such peace was not,
however, to take place for some time.

Also it should be stated that Baville was quite free from any part in
this matter, and that Louis XIV knew nothing of what had happened, nor
indeed of any of the terrible events which occurred about the same
time, it being the system of Madame de Maintenon and of Chamillart to
keep him in ignorance of what was being enacted so far away from
Versailles. It has been told that when he heard of the massacre at the
mill he was observed to weep for the first and only time in his life.
He might well do so!




CHAPTER XXVI.

DOOMED.


Remembering that his horse (which he would require ere long to carry
him to the mountains, since although, as he had thanked God again and
again, Urbaine was in no danger, Baville would doubtless desire him to
obtain her release at once) had been left in the stables behind the
Porte des Carmes, Martin made his way there. Went toward the gate,
resolved to fetch it away and place it in some more secure spot than
the one in which several dragoons had tied up theirs ere dismounting.

Reaching the yard, he found the animal; found also that the dragoons
must have preceded him, since now all their horses were gone excepting
one, which, by its caparisons and trappings, by the great gold sun
upon the bridle, the throat-plume and saddle-flaps, as well as by its
fleecy bear-skin saddle-cloth, was plainly an officer's.

"A fine beast," he mused as, ere he removed his own horse, he held a
bucket of water to its mouth, "a fine beast. Too good to be employed
in carrying its rider to such work as he and his men have been about
to-day."

As he thought thus he heard the heavy ring of spurred boots upon the
rough flags of the yard, also the clang of a metal scabbard-tip on
them, and, glancing round, saw coming toward him a young dragoon
officer, his face flushed, perhaps with the heat, perhaps with the
business that he and his troops had been recently employed upon.

"_Peste!_" the man exclaimed as he came up to his own steed and began
unfastening the bridle from the staple to which it was attached.
"_Peste!_ Hot work, monsieur, this morning, what with the glaring sun
and the flames from the mill. _N'est-ce pas, monsieur?_ Yet, yet I
wish those heretics had not been of the feeble. It is no soldier's
work slaughtering babes and women and _vieillards_. My God!" he broke
off, exclaiming, a moment later, "So it is you, villain!"

"What!" exclaimed Martin, astonished at this sudden change of speech
and regarding him as though he were a madman. "What! _Villain!_ To
whom does monsieur apply that word?" and the look upon his face should
have warned the young man to be careful of his words.

"To whom," the other sneered, however, "to whom? To whom should I
apply it but one? Who else is there in the stable-yard but you to whom
it would apply? And if there were fifty more, I should still address
it to you. Also the word murderer."

"To me! Are you mad that you assault a stranger thus with such
opprobrium? Answer, or, being sane, draw the weapon by your side."

"Which is that which I intend to do. Yet I know not whether you are
fit to cross blades with. You! You!"

"You will know it shortly," Martin said quietly, as now he drew his
own sword and stood before him, "unless, that is, you have some very
tangible explanation of your words to offer."

"Explanation! Explanation! Oh, _avec ça!_ you shall have an
explanation. Are you not the fellow who sat on the bridge when De
Peyre's dragoons rode into Montvert after the murder of the Abbé du
Chaila? Are you not the man who led the attack on the Intendant's
daughter, dragging her from her carriage, carried her off to the
mountains, to your accursed _attroupés_; doubtless assisted in her
murder? Answer that, _maraud_, and tell no lies."

And even as he spoke he struck at him with the gauntlet he held in his
hand, muttering, "I loved her, I loved her, and I will slay you." Then
said again, "Answer ere I slay you."

"I will answer you," said Martin quietly still--so quietly, yet
ominously, that, had the man before him not been a soldier, he would
have been well advised to flee from out the yard. "But it must be
later; when I have stretched you at my feet for your insolence. You
shall have the explanation when I have paid you back that blow, when
your soul is hurrying to join your victims of this morning."

His blood was up now. The abusive words of the soldier; the sting of
the heavy gauntlet still upon his cheek; perhaps, though that he
scarce recognized, the feeling of hate against this swashbuckler for
having dared to dream of loving Urbaine--all combined to make him
resolute to kill the man before him. Also the horror, the disgust,
that every effort he had made, every danger he had run, should be
subjected to such misinterpretation, added to the accusation, if any
addition were needed, that doubtless he had murdered her. For the
first time in the course of this unholy war his weapon was unsheathed,
about to be used. It should not find its scabbard again till it was
wet with this man's life blood.

"Have I been mistaken?" the soldier said, astonished by his words,
above all by his calm. "Made some strange error?"

"You have. No greater in your life than that foul blow. Put up your
weapon before you, or I run you through as you stand here. Quick, _en
garde_. I am neither 'woman, babe, nor _vieillard_.'"

"If it must be, it must----"

"It must!"

"_Soit!_ If you will have it so."

The yard was large enough for any pair of _escrimeurs_ to make fair
play in, yet had it been smaller it would have well sufficed, as the
dragoon found. Found that he had his master here before him, a man in
whose hands he was a child; a fencer who would not let him move from
the spot he was on, except backward slowly to the wall. And that not
by his own desire, but because the iron wrist in front of him rendered
resistance to its owner's will impossible.

Sword-play such as this he had never known, nor an adversary who
parried every thrust as he made it, yet never lunged himself,
reserving, doubtless, all his strength for that lunge at last.
Strength to thrust through muscle and chest-wall the blade which would
pierce his heart.

He felt that he was doomed. There rose before him an old _manoir_ with
a window high up in a _tourelle_, a window from which he knew that,
even now, a gray-haired, sad-eyed woman--his mother!--watched as she
had often watched for his coming. Ah, well, he would never appear
again to gladden her. Never, never, through all the years that she
might live. Never!

There was a click, a tic-tac of steel against steel that told him his
reflections were but too true and just, that the gray-haired woman's
chance of ever seeing him again would be gone in a few seconds now.
Also he experienced that feeling which every swordsman has known more
than once, the feeling that the wrist of the opponent is preparing the
way for the deadly lunge, the feeling that his own guard is being
pressed down with horrible, devilish force, that the lightning thrust
will be through him in a moment.

For a moment he was saved, his agony prolonged by an interruption. Two
men--warders--had appeared on the roof of the gate, and, seeing what
was going on below, stood there watching the play of the swords.
Joking and jeering, too, about his incompetency in spite of the
scarlet and gold he wore, bidding him take heart; that soon it would
be over; also that the pain was not great after the first bite of the
steel.

And disturbed, agitated, he but clumsily endeavoured to guard himself
from that awful pressure, knowing that the thrust must come directly.

Astonished, he found it did not do so. Instead, the pressure relaxed.
A moment later his adversary spoke to him.

"Those fellows agitate you. Take breath," and the dreaded blade was
still. Soon both weapons were unlocked.

"You are very noble," the dragoon said. "I--I--no matter. Let us
continue," and muttered to himself, "as well now as three moments
later," preparing for the death he knew was to be his. Or rather
thought was to be his, not dreaming that it would never be dealt to
him by the calm and apparently implacable swordsman before him. For
Martin, his blood cooling as he learned how poor a foeman he was
opposed to, a swordsman unworthy of his steel, had resolved to dismiss
him, strike up his weapon and give him his life, with some
contemptuous words added to the gift.

Not understanding, however, all that was in the brain of the man who,
as a boy, had been sent across the Alps from Paris to the best
_maestri di scherma_ of Padua and Florence to learn all they could
teach in the use of small arms; not knowing this, the other prepared
himself for his fate, seeing now that the men on the roof jeered and
fleered no longer; instead, stared with a look of apprehension at the
entrance to the yard.

Started, too, at a voice which Martin heard, as the others heard.

"Strike up that man's guard," the voice cried. "Secure him. For you,
Montglas, touch him not at your peril. Arrest the English spy."

The voice of Baville! As Martin knew well enough ere, contemptuously
disarming the dragoon by a _flanconnade_, he turned and faced the
Intendant. The man whose child he had saved, yet who now denounced him
as an English spy; who had learned by some means that he was a subject
of France's bitterest foe.

Behind him there stood six Croatian Cravates, part of the Intendant's
guards, swarthy fellows whose very name caused tremblings to all in
France, though they themselves had trembled once before Prince
Eugene's soldiers, and were to tremble again as Marlborough hedged
them in with English steel later--men who now advanced to seize the
English spy.

"Take his sword from him," Baville said. "If he resists, knock him on
the head. Yet spare his life. That is mine to deal with."

For a moment the glittering blade flashed ominously before the
Croatians; glittered, too, before Baville's eyes. Then the point was
lowered to the ground, and Martin spoke.

"What," he asked calmly, "do these orders mean?"

"Mean?" echoed Baville. "Mean! You ask _me_ that? They mean that you
are in my hands. That to-morrow you die."

"Upon what charge?"

"Bah! I equivocate not with such as you," and he turned to go. "Nay,"
he exclaimed violently, looking round as Martin again addressed him.
"Speak not. I require no answer. If you reply I shall forget that I am
the King's Intendant, shall remember only that you are the murderer of
my child, shall bid these men despatch you here upon this spot."

"The--murderer--of--your--child!" Martin repeated. "Of--of----"

"Of Urbaine Ducaire."

"You believe that?"

"Believe it? I know it. This man whom but now you attempted to slay,
le Baron de Montglas, saw you drag her from her carriage, carry her
off. Enough. Answer me not. Take him," he said to the Croatians, "to
the citadel." Then, once more addressing Martin, he said, his voice
calm now, his tones gentle:

"To-morrow you will have your chance to speak, even you, an English
spy, you, the murderer of an innocent woman, will not be condemned
unheard. The Court will sit at the earliest moment possible."

"What if I tell you that Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy? What
then?"

As Martin spoke he saw the handsome face of the Intendant flush, the
dark olive complexion become suffused with a warm glow, the dark, full
eyes sparkle beneath their long black lashes. Saw, too, that he took a
step forward toward him, whispering, "Lives--is happy!" Next, turned
away again with a movement of contempt.

"What then!" he exclaimed, once more addressing Martin. "What then!
What, you ask, should I say or do? Say it is a lie, such as you told
before, only of five thousand times a deeper dye--a lie such as the
lie you uttered when you proclaimed yourself a _propriétaire_ of the
North. Shall do that which no power on earth, not Louis' own, can
prevent. Slay you as I have sworn a thousand times to do if ever by
God's grace I had you in my hands again."

At the feet of the soldiers there was a clang--the clang of Martin's
sword as he flung it on the paved stable-yard.

"Bid your bravoes pick it up," he said. "For yourself, do with me what
you choose. It will never be sheathed by me again till you have heard
my story before the Court you speak of. Packed as it may be, packed as
all the courts of Languedoc have been by Monsieur l'Intendant from the
beginning, packed by every one of your creatures whom you can gather
round you, they shall all hear to-morrow morning my story, if I am not
done to death ere I can tell it."

"Lies, bravado, will avail you nothing. Le Baron Montglas is witness
against you. Come," he said, turning to that person. "Come."

And he strode from out the stable-yard after bidding the Cravates to
follow with their prisoner.

Yet when he was alone in the house which he occupied at Nîmes his mind
was ill at ease. Ill at ease because, in the calm bearing of this
prisoner, in the contempt which that prisoner had shown for him and
his authority as he flung his sword at his feet, he saw something
which was neither guilt nor fear. Instead, contempt and scorn.

Also he had said "Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy," and in
saying it had spoken as one speaks who utters truth.

Yet how could he believe that such as this could be possible?
Montglas, whose life had been at this man's mercy as he entered the
stable-yard, had seen the other in the _mêlée_, had seen him tear
Urbaine from the coach, lift her on to his horse, ride off with her.
To what, to where? To death, to the mountains where the Protestants
sheltered. And, if further confirmation was needed, had he not caused
to be brought before him one who had escaped from the massacre of the
Château St. Servas, one who plainly told how ere the Camisards
attacked the castle disguised as royalists, this man, the Englishman
as he now knew him to be, had brought Urbaine there, to wait doubtless
for his accomplices? Also that very day he had heard, had been told by
some who had returned from Cette, that among the Cévenoles who had
been on the beach waiting for the landing of the English, this man had
been recognised. His own spies had seen him; there could be no
possibility of doubt.

"Yet if, after all, they should be wrong," he mused to himself; "if,
after all, Montglas, the escaped one from St. Servas, the spy, should
be deceived! Or, not being deceived, Urbaine should still live! What
then? What if in truth he has in some manner managed to protect her,
to save her! What then?"

Even as he muttered these words, these surmises, he wiped the heat
drops from his brow. For--and now almost he prayed that this man might
be lying--if all were wrong in what they accused him of, if instead of
leading Urbaine to her death he had saved, protected her, all the same
he was doomed. Doomed beyond hope!

He had communicated with Paris, with Chamillart, with the woman who
ruled the King, had asked for information about this stranger who
stated that he was a kinsman of the de Rochebazons in search for one
who was the De Rochebazon himself, and not a week since had received
in return his orders from Paris. Orders written by De Maintenon's own
private secretary to arrest the man, to put him on trial as an English
spy found in France during a time of war, orders to have him condemned
and executed without appeal--his nationality, which was undoubted, to
be the justification for that execution.

And again, as he remembered this, Baville almost prayed that Martin's
words might not be true, prayed that, if they were true and Urbaine
still lived and was safe, _he_ at least might not prove to be her
saviour.

Her saviour! Yet doomed to lose his life at the hands of the man who
worshipped the girl, the man who, instead of doing that saviour to
death, should, instead, have poured out at his feet all that would
have gone to make his life happy, prosperous, and contented.




CHAPTER XXVII.

HER FATHER, URBAIN DUCAIRE.


It was in a great hall, or chamber, of the Hôtel de Ville that Baville
now sat, splendidly apparelled, as was ever his custom when assisting
at any great public function. Once more he wore his white satin jacket
with, over it, the _justaucorps-à-brevet_, and with, upon his satin
waistcoat, the gold lilies of France emblazoned. Also his hat--which,
since he represented the King, he did not remove--was white and
fringed with gold lace, his ruffles were of the finest point de
Malines, his gloves gold-fringed, his sword ivory-hilted and
gold-quilloned. The rich costume suited well the handsome features of
the terrible Intendant of Languedoc--_le fléau du fléau de Dieu_, as
he had been called. That superb dress, combined with his dark olive
complexion, classic outline, and soft dark eyes, shaded by their long
lashes, caused Baville to look, as indeed he was, the handsomest man
in Nîmes that day.

Beneath him sat a group of men of the law. Three judges in scarlet and
ermine; the _Procureur du Roi_, also in scarlet, but with ermine only
at his cuffs; _greffiers_ and clerks, as well as two men who were
termed _abréviateurs_ and practised the shorthand of the day, with,
near these, many other persons of importance in Nîmes. Sandricourt,
the governor of the city, was there, as also Montrevel, his fierce
eyes rolling round the Court as they glared from his inflamed face;
Esprit Fléchier, Bishop of Nîmes, a good and righteous man,
reverencing deeply his ancient faith, yet shuddering with horror at
all that had been done in Languedoc, and was still doing, in the name
of that faith; and many more. For it was known to every one in Nîmes,
Protestant and Catholic alike, that to-day a man was to be tried who
was himself a Protestant, an ally of the Camisards in the mountains,
an English spy who had been one of those waiting on the shore of the
Mediterranean to welcome the English invader. Tried! tried! Nay,
rather brought up for condemnation and sentence without any trial to a
doom which meant either the flames in the market place or the wheel by
the cross in the Cathedral _Place_ below the _Beau Dieu_, or perhaps
the lamp whose post was highest. All knew this, Protestant and
Catholic alike; all knew, the former shuddering and the latter
gloating over the knowledge, that this was to be no trial, but a
sentence; no execution, but a murder.

The Court, or great chamber, began to fill with spectators, also with
those who were to act as guards to all who presided at or took part in
the proceedings. That guard would indeed be necessary, since none
could say, among those who represented what was termed the _Partie
Royaliste_, how soon its services might be required to prevent them
from being attacked and done to death, even as, in Mercier's mill
yesterday, they had attacked and done to death those of the other
side. None could say how, at any instant, sweeping down from their
mountain homes, from their impenetrable fastnesses and caverns, might
come the dreaded _attroupés_ headed by either Cavalier or Roland, with
their tigerish blood on fire to revenge the hideous massacre not yet
twenty-four hours old, or with a fierce determination in their hearts
to save the man who had been their friend and ally. At any moment a
shout might be heard, o'ermastered by the pealing of a solemn canticle
from a thousand throats; at any moment a psalm might break upon the
ears of all, as it rose to Him whom they termed the God of the
Outcasts, even as, to the swell of that hymn, was heard the clash of
steel, the shriek of those who were in the avengers' grasp, the cry of
despair from those who fell before the avengers' glaives. It was well
those guards should be there.

They came in now, the fierce Cravates whose eyes gleamed like dusky
stars from beneath their heavy brows, whose faces were as the faces of
wild beasts that rend and tear others, not so much because rending and
tearing is necessary to their own preservation as because it is their
sport and delight; men from whom women drew back shuddering as they
passed, and before whom their fellow-men felt their blood tingling
with the desire to measure themselves. Also the Miquelets were there,
the wolves of the Pyrenees who fought with their short, thin-bladed
knives, yet slew as surely as others slew with heavy-handled
swords or by shot of musketoon. Outside were the dragoons and the
Chevaux-Légers, even the humble militia of the province, proud yet
half timorous of the company they were in.

Scarcely could even Cavalier, the undefeated, have made his way with
his followers into that hall, or, being there, have done aught to
avenge the butchery of yesterday or to save the one who would shortly
be doomed to-day.

The guard set outside and in, every precaution taken. Those of the
citizens who chose to enter and were able to find standing room were
allowed to do so. They were a strangely assorted company. Some were of
the class known as the _nouveaux convertis_, men whom misery and fear
of poverty had turned from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, men who
could not endure to face the flames or the gibbets. These were mostly
old--too old to seek the mountains and fight for their lives and their
faith, _vieillards_ who told themselves that the only fire they needed
was that of their own hearths to warm their blood, and who persuaded
themselves, though with many a tear dropped unseen, that one religion
was much the same as another. Yet by their sides came others now who
should have put their weakness to shame: old women brought up in the
same faith as they, yet scorning to change to save their skins; women
who now mouthed and grimaced at Baville as he sat in splendour on the
dais which acted as a substitute for Louis' throne, and seemed by that
mouthing and grimacing to defy the Intendant to injure them that
morning. Also, too, there came in shepherds and goatherds clad in
fleeces of the Narbonne sheep that grazed on the hills around, with
knives in their girdles; men known to be of the new faith, yet men who
were safe to-day, since the butchery of yesterday would not bear
repetition. Even Montrevel knew this, knew that he dared take no
vengeance at present on those mountaineers who scowled at him over the
shoulders of his own scowling soldiers, and nodded to one another and
whispered as they glanced toward where he sat, while they gazed
inquiringly into each other's eyes, as though asking a question. What
question? One, perhaps, as to whether it would not be well to o'erleap
the barriers and cut from ear to ear the throat of the beribboned and
bestarred swashbuckler who sat glaring before them! It may well have
been such a question as that.

The soft yet piercing eyes of Baville saw all who entered by the great
porte that gave into the chamber--_nouveaux convertis_, mountaineers,
monks and priests, prohibited Protestant _pasteurs_, old women and
men, soldiers off duty, and some members of the _noblesse_ (_grande et
petite_) from the surrounding towns and villages. Those eyes missed
not one face, yet seemed, judging by the calmness that dwelt in his
glance, to observe nothing; a calmness that told no more than a mask
or a marble bust tells, yet only served to cloak a hell which raged
within him. The unhappiest man in Languedoc that day was Baville, the
most heartbroken.

Ere the dawn had long been come, the Intendant, a prey to his own
thoughts, to his own self-reproaches, not knowing whether he had not
committed an act that was irreparable in handing Martin over to the
judges as an English spy, had left his bed and made his way to the
cell in which Martin had been placed.

"I must see him," he whispered to himself as he hastily donned a dark
coat and cloak, vastly different from the splendour of the costume he
now wore in open court. "I must see him, for I fear--O God, how I
fear!--that I have sent to his doom the man who has saved Urbaine. His
manner, his words, were the words, the action of truth. What hideous
reparation may I not have made!"

Thinking thus, musing thus, he had taken his way from the apartment he
occupied in the citadel when at Nîmes to the place where Martin was
detained, a room stone-flagged and built into the wall, and strong
enough to detain the most ferocious and determined prisoner who should
once find himself within it.

"Unlock the door," he said to the man, one of the local _milice_, who
was appointed to sit outside on guard over the prisoner within. "Open.
You know me, do you not?"

"Yes, monseigneur, I know you," the soldier said, springing to his
feet and preparing to do as he was bidden. "Yet will monseigneur
venture within? The man is, they say, a dangerous----"

"Bah! Open."

And a moment later the Intendant was gazing down upon him whom he had
denounced to the law, the man for whose trial, a few hours later, he
had already issued orders and summoned the judges.

Upon a low pallet Martin Ashurst lay sleeping as peacefully as though
in his own bed in his far-distant home, nor was he disturbed by the
grating of the key in the lock nor by the entrance of Baville. He had
slept but little for some nights past, and his long rides and
exertions had worn him out at last.

Gazing down upon him, observing the fair hair and handsome features of
his victim, Baville knew that here was no guilty man capable of
betraying a young and helpless girl to her death. The calm and
peaceful figure beneath him could scarce be that of one who would
descend to such villainies. Murderers of the young and innocent looked
not so innocent themselves! And if any confirmation of his thoughts
were needed, he had it now. Upon Martin's face there came a soft
smile; his lips parted and he murmured the name of Urbaine.

"Urbaine!" he whispered. "Urbaine! My love!"

Had an adder stung the Intendant standing there, or the lightning
stroke blasted him, neither could have been more terrible. His love!
His love! His love! Therefore he must have spoken truth when he said
that she was well, was happy.

"God help me," Baville muttered. "Have pity on me."

Even as he did so, Martin's eyes opened and he saw his enemy, his
captor, looking down upon him.

"What," he asked, the softness of his face all gone, his glance one of
contemptuous disdain, "do you desire of me? Is my hour come, and are
you here to show me the way to the scaffold? Is that the reason of
your presence?" and as he spoke he rose from the pallet and stood
before the other.

"Nay, nay," replied Baville, veiling his handsome face with the end of
his cloak, as though he feared his emotion might be too palpable.
"But--but--I have judged you too hastily. I have learned that but now.
Have indeed misjudged you. All pointed, all evidence pointed, to one
thing: that, by treachery unparalleled, you were the betrayer of
Urbaine--to her death."

For a moment the clear eyes of Martin, all traces of slumber vanished
from them, looked into the equally clear ones of Baville with a glance
that the latter could scarce fathom. Then Martin said, quietly: "And
you believed that evidence? Believed that I, whom you had made welcome
to your hearth, had made known to your child, should do _that!_"

"Almost I was forced to believe," Baville answered, his voice thick
and hoarse, his eyes lowered to the ground. "You were in the _mêlée_,
the attack upon the escort. You were at the Château St. Servas, and
she too was there. After that massacre--I--I--was compelled to
believe."

"Do you still believe?"

"No," the other answered, his voice still broken, his eyes still on
the ground.

"What has changed your belief against the evidence you speak of?"

"You murmured her name but now in your slumbers, spoke of her as your
love. Is she that? Do you love--her?"

"Yes, I love her. Before all, beyond all else in this world, I love
her." Then he turned his face away from Baville and whispered low:
"Urbaine, oh, Urbaine!"

The dawn had come now, saffron-hued, bright with the promise of a fair
day; had come stealing in through the _[oe]illet_ high up in the wall.
Through the cross of the _[oe]illet_ the morning sun streamed, also
throwing one ray athwart the features of the two men standing there
face to face.

"And--and "--whispered Baville now, the voice, usually so rich and
sweet, still blurred with emotion, almost indistinct, "and she
loves--returns--your love?"

"Yes," Martin answered, "yes."

"Has told you so?"

"Ay, with her own sweet lips to mine." Then suddenly, his tone
changed, speaking loudly, clearly, he exclaimed: "Man, you can not rob
me of that! Make one more victim of me in your shambles if you will,
yet, as I die, my last word, my last thought, shall be of Urbaine. My
recompense, her hate and scorn of you."

"No, no, no!" Baville exclaimed, his hands thrust out before him as
though groping for something he could not touch, or as though to fend
off the denunciation of the other. "No, no, not that. Never that. You
must be saved--for--for her sake. For Urbaine. She is my life, my
soul. Sorrow must never come _anigh_ her again. Already I have done--O
God!--have done her wrong. Enough. Listen. You will be tried to-day,
condemned as an English spy; the De Maintenon has said it----"

"The De Maintenon!"

"Ay! You are the heir to the wealth of the de Rochebazons--to much of
it. You are English. It is enough. Tried, I say, condemned! Yet you
shall be saved. Here, in Languedoc, _I_ am Louis. _I_ am France," and
once more Baville was himself, erect, strong, superb. "It shall be
done--it--it--it; there must be no sorrow," he repeated, "for
Urbaine."

"You forget one thing--the Church."

"The Church! Bah! Theirs is a sentimental power; mine is effective,
actual. You must be saved. I am Louis, the King, here. Shall be
recalled for what I do; be broken, ruined. Yet, _until recalled_, the
King. Go to your trial, but say nothing. Refuse to plead; that shall
suffice." Then changing the subject, he said eagerly, feverishly
almost, "Where is she? Where have you left her?"

"In the mountains. Under the charge of Cavalier."

"Cavalier!" Baville exclaimed recoiling, his face a picture of
suspicion and doubt. "With Cavalier! Under the charge of Cavalier! My
God! They will slaughter her! And you profess to love her!"

"She is safe; as safe as in your own arms. They will protect her."

"Protect her! Protect her! They! Protestants, like yourself!"

"Yes, Protestants, like myself. And, as they believe, nay, as they
know, perhaps as you yourself know, Protestants like--Urbaine
Ducaire!"

Through the thick moted sunbeams that swept from the _[oe]illet_
across the dusty room, passing athwart of Baville's face, Martin saw a
terrible change come into that face. Saw the rich olive turn to an
ashen hue, almost a livid hue; saw the deep, soft eyes harden and
become dull.

"They know," he whispered, "they know that! That Urbaine
is--a--Protestant? How--can--they--know--it?"

"One of their seers, a woman, divined it, proclaimed her no papist.
And Cavalier has discovered those who knew her father, Urbain
Ducaire."

"My God!"




CHAPTER XXVIII.

BAVILLE--SUPERB!


There was a hush over the Court. Yet a hush broken and disturbed by
many sounds. By the sobs of more than one woman, by the shuffling of
many feet, by muttered ejaculations from those who strove to force
their way nearer to where the judges sat beneath the Intendant, and
once by a ribald laugh from a painted woman who leered at all around
her and flung nods and smiles toward Montrevel--the woman Léonie
Sabbat. By pushings, too, administered by brawny men who were possibly
mountaineers to the Miquelets and even the Cravates, since if they
were the former they feared not the latter; they had met before. Once
an oath was heard muttered and the ominous sound of a blow, then a
girl's shriek of horror. Yet at last some semblance of order was
obtained, the proceedings were about to commence.

"Bring in the prisoner," exclaimed the presiding judge, Amédée
Beauplan, a harsh and severe man who had sentenced countless
Protestants to the various forms of death dealt out to those of that
religion; and his words were re-echoed by the _greffiers_.

A moment later Martin Ashurst stood before all assembled there. And as
he did so many women were heard to weep afresh. Perhaps his handsome
manhood recalled to them some of their own men who had once stood
where he was standing now. Alone among her sex Léonie Sabbat, who was
eating Lunel grapes from a basket, laughed.

"_Tiens!_" she muttered, addressing herself to an elderly
decorous-looking woman who was close by her, but who shrank away from
the courtesan as though she were some noxious reptile, "_regardez moi
ça_. A fool! One who might have had wealth, vast wealth. Now see him!
Doomed to death, as he will be in an hour. I know his story. _Tout
même, il est beau!_" and she spat the grape seeds out upon the floor
at her feet.

Baville's eyes, roaming round the Court, yet apparently observing
nothing, he seeming indeed supremely oblivious of all that was taking
place, lighted casually upon two persons hemmed in by many others. A
man well enough clad in a simple suit of russet brown, who looked
somewhat like a notary's clerk, his wig _en pleine échaudé_ covering
the greater part of his cheeks, so that from out of it little could be
seen but his eyes, nose, and mouth. An idle fellow, the Intendant
deemed him, a scrivener who had probably brought his old mother to see
the _spectacle_. For he held in his hand that of an aged woman whose
eyes alone were visible beneath the rough Marseilles shawl with which
her head was enveloped, and with, about her brow, some spare locks
that were iron-gray.

The pair were not, however, always visible to Baville even from his
raised seat; sometimes the movements of others by whom they were
surrounded--of a fat and gloating monk, or of a weak and shivering
Protestant, or of a crowd of gossips from out the streets--obscured
them from him momentarily. Yet, as the trial went on, they came across
his view now and again, the youth holding always the old woman's hand.
And seeing that woman's hollow eyes fixed on him always, Baville
shuddered. He knew her now, from a far-off yet well-remembered past;
her face rose as a phantom rises.

That Martin, standing there, calm, almost indifferent, his hands
folded on the rail in front of him, should be the principal object of
attention in that crowded place was natural. For he was, as all knew,
awaiting a sentence that must indubitably be awarded ere long. All
knew also that the trial was but a preliminary farce leading up to the
great _dénoûment_.

That trial, such as it was, drew near to its close. Witness had been
heard; Montglas, who had seen Martin snatch Urbaine Ducaire from her
coach and ride off with her; also the one man who had escaped from the
massacre at the Château St. Servas; also the three men who had been
present on the beach near Cette and had seen the English spy hand and
glove with the Camisards--all had testified, Montglas alone with
regret and emotion.

"You swear this is the truth?" Beauplan said to him, looking up from
the papers on his desk before him. "There is no doubt?"

"It is the truth," the young dragoon had answered. "Yet I would that
other lips had had to speak. He spared my life but yesterday when it
was in his hands."

"He has led to the death of many others. Also he is an English spy.
_Mes frères_," he went on, turning to each of the other judges and
whispering low, so that none but the silent Intendant sitting above
could hear, "what is our verdict? We need not long deliberate, I
imagine."

Both those others fixed also their eyes upon him acquiescingly, yet
neither spoke. Words were not wanted.

Then Beauplan, turning his head over his shoulder toward the man who
represented the King's majesty, and seeing that he sat there calm and
impassable, statue-like, inscrutable, rose from his seat and made
three solemn bows to Baville.

"We await permission to pronounce sentence," he said.

"Pronounce--it," and Baville drew a long breath between the two words.
Yet the handsome face changed not. Or only grew more ivory-like--so
ivory-like that those standing in that hall, both enemies and
adherents, cast back their thoughts to their dead whom they had seen
lying in their shrouds ere the coffin lid closed over and hid them
forever.

"What does he see that blasts him?" whispered Montrevel in Fléchier's
ear, and the bishop, turning his own white face to the inflamed one of
the great bravo, muttered, "God, he knows, he only."

In the crowd beyond the railed-off place where the principals sat the
effect was the same. Among all who now fixed their eyes on Baville,
the greater number asked: "What does he see?" and glanced over their
shoulders as though expecting themselves to see something terrible.

"Can the dead rise?" exclaimed one swarthy Cévenole who, in any other
circumstances than the present, would have been arrested for an
_attroupé_ ere he had been an hour in Nîmes; have been borne to the
earth by the Cravates and loaded with chains ere hurried to a dungeon,
so certain did it appear that he was a Camisard. "Can the burned ashes
of our loved ones come together again, the limbs that have rotted on
the gibbets be restored to life? Has one of those come back to
paralyze him?" And he laughed bitterly.

"_Il est lâche_," whispered Léonie Sabbat through her small white
teeth. "_Mon Dieu! il a peur. Fichtre pour Baville!_" and she pressed
her plump jewelled hand on the shoulder of her unwilling neighbour as
she craned her neck over the balcony to observe the man she jibed at.

Yet he was no coward. Only his heart sickened within him. With fear,
but not the fear of either phantom risen from the dead or of fierce
Camisard ready to send him to join the dead. Sickened at the sight of
that aged woman who never took her eyes off him, who seemed about to
address all assembled there. For he remembered her. Recognised her
face now beyond all doubt. Remembered one night--how long ago it
seemed!--when all the land lay under the snow, and when, at the foot
of the mountains the _tourbillon_ whirled down from the heights above
great flurries of other snow which froze as it fell, and struck and
cut the faces of those riding through the wintry storm as knives or
whipcord strike and cut. Recalled how he himself riding through the
_tourmente_, followed by a dozen of his guard, had to strike breast
and body to prevent this freezing snow from ensheathing him in its
swift, hardening masses. Yet of what account such memory as that
compared to another which followed swiftly in its train!

The memory of a humble peasant's cot, a man stricken with years
reading his Bible by the fireside, a child playing at his feet,
rolling about the floor laughing and crowing as it teased a
good-natured hound that endeavoured, unavailingly, to sleep before the
crackling logs. Then a word from the man, another from him--O God! how
fearfully, horribly misunderstood! Next, the room full of smoke and
the smell of powder, the man gasping out his life, gasping, too, one
last muttered sentence, whispering that he, Baville, was forever
smitten by God's frown. And on the rude staircase that led from behind
the deep chimney to the room above a comely woman standing, the little
child clasped in her arms, her face distorted with terror, her voice
shrieking that he was a murderer, an assassin.

A comely woman then, now an old one and before him, there, in the body
of the Court.

What if she and Urbaine should meet? What if they had met?

The doomed man, the man upon whom Amédée Beauplan was about to
pronounce sentence, had said that Cavalier had discovered those who
knew her father, Urbain Ducaire. Was she one of those whom the
Camisard chief had discovered, and had she told all?

"Is he mad?" some in the Court asked again, while others answered,
"More like stricken with remorse or fear." Yet surely not the latter,
since now he repeated his last words referring to the sentence.

"Pronounce--it."

Yet with his eyes never off that woman's face.

A moment later and it was done; the sentence delivered, even as it had
been delivered again and again in Nîmes and Avignon, Montpellier and
Alais within the last few months by red-robed legal functionaries,
and, in countless bourgs and villages, by rough soldiers acting as
judges. A sentence of death by the flames before the _Beau Dieu_ of
the cathedral, to take place at the time ordered by the King's
representative, Baville. The ashes afterward to be scattered to the
winds.

Yet, as Amédée Beauplan's voice ceased, others were heard in the
Court, rising above all the noise made by the movement of the
spectators passing out into the street, by the orders shouted from
officers to men to clear that Court, and by the loud murmurings either
of approbation or disapproval which were heard.

"It will never take place," one clear, high-toned voice was heard
above all others to cry, "never. Ere it does, Nîmes shall be consumed
to ashes."

And Martin, turning as the warders prepared to take him back to his
cell, saw from whose lips that cry had come. From Cavalier, the man
dressed in russet-brown and with his features hidden by the long black
wig.

Perhaps, too, Baville suspected who might be the utterer of that
ominous threat, for now he rose from his seat once more, again he
stood erect and commanding; except for his pallor, which still
remained, he was himself as ever.

"Stop!" he cried, his voice ringing like a clarion above all the other
sounds, the shuffling of feet, the murmurings and mutterings, and the
clank of sabres; "stop and hear my words!" And seeing that all eyes
were turned toward him, he continued, his tones as firm and unshaken
as though the events of the past hour had had no actual existence:

"In this hall to-day are present--I know it well--many who are rebels
to the King's, to my authority. Men whose lives are forfeit even as
the lives of countless others have been forfeited. Enough! To-day they
are safe. This Court is open, but for to-day only. Let those rebels
therefore take heed. For so sure as there is a God above us, so sure
as I, Baville, Intendant of Languedoc and representative of his
Majesty, stand here, those rebels who are found in this city at
nightfall shall follow the same road their brethren have trod before
them. You have called me the Tiger of Languedoc, and, by the splendour
of Heaven, a tiger you shall still find me. Till rebellion is crushed
forever from out this province, so long as I live, never will I spare
one who takes up arms against the anointed King of France. Now," and
he sank back on to his chair, "begone all of you out of Nîmes.
To-night I cause a house-to-house visitation to be made--ay! a search
from room to room. Those found here die. Begone, therefore, while
there is yet time."

Then, without waiting to hear what answer might be made to his threats
by any in the crowd, he rose and, passing to the heavily curtained
door which led from out the Court, left them. Yet ere he did so, and
even while the attendants held back that curtain for him to pass
through, he paused once and, facing all there, gazed on them calmly.

A moment later he was gone; gone without hearing the curses and
objurgations muttered by many lips, the loud "Brava" which Montrevel
gave utterance to, or the little rippling laugh that issued from
Léonie Sabbat's lips as again she struck her unwilling neighbour on
the shoulder with her white hand and exclaimed, "_Avec tout, il est
superbe_."

Had she seen him, however, the instant after the heavily figured arras
had fallen behind him, she might have deemed he was less strong and
masterful than she had a moment before grudgingly allowed him to be.
For even as he passed down the passage which led to the door at which
his heavily-gilt state-coach awaited him, an exact facsimile of that
in which Le Roi Soleil himself travelled from Versailles to Marly or
from St. Germain to Fontainebleau, he walked unsteadily and his white
brow was moist and damp.

"If she should have met Urbaine," he muttered as he passed along the
passage, "or if she should meet her, and tell all!"




CHAPTER XXIX.

"HER FATHER'S MURDERER."


"I have not yet decided," Baville said that night to Beauplan as they
sat together in the new citadel, "when the sentence will be carried
out. Have my doubts as to whether I shall not release him."

"Release him!" the other echoed. "Release him! Such a thing is unheard
of. He, an Englishman, a consorter with the Camisards, a man under the
ban of Versailles! Surely you would not dare----"

"Dare!" exclaimed Baville, though very quietly, "dare! Monsieur
Beauplan, you forget yourself. Since I have ruled in Languedoc no man
has _dared_ to use that word to me before."

"Yet," said the judge, a member of an ancient family in the south, who
had always rebelled against the authority of this stranger to the
customs, as well as the _noblesse_, of Languedoc, "though none here
may question your authority, there are those in the capital who can do
so."

"There are. But you are not of the number. Monsieur Beauplan, I have
nothing more to say. I wish you a good-night."

"I understand," Beauplan replied, "understand very well. And your
conduct is natural; also natural that there should be an exchange of
prisoners, that your child's release should depend upon his. Yet
beware, Monsieur l'Intendant! I was at Versailles two months ago, as
you know, and--and--they said----" and he hesitated a moment while a
slight smile came into his face.

"What did they say?"

"That not only might a substitute he sent in place of Montrevel, but
of----"

"Baville! Is that it?"

"It is that."

"The substitute to be, perhaps, Amédée Beauplan."

"Nay, that is impossible, as you are aware. In Languedoc none can rule
as Intendant who are of the province. Yet I warn you, if you set free
this man even in the desire to obtain the freedom of Urbaine Ducaire,
neither Chamillart nor Madame de Maintenon will forgive."

"You mean well, doubtless," Baville replied, "yet I shall act as I see
best. Beauplan, you have children of your own, also a high post. If
the life of one of your girls were balanced against that post, which
should you prefer to protect?"

To this the judge made no answer, leaving the Intendant alone a moment
afterward. Yet, as he sought his own great sumptuous coach, he
acknowledged that, much as he detested Baville, what he was
undoubtedly about to do was natural.

Left alone, the other took from his pocket a paper and glanced at it
as, before the judge had appeared in his room, he had glanced at it a
dozen times--a paper on which were written only a few words. They ran:

"Urbaine Ducaire will be restored unharmed to none other than the
Englishman sentenced to death to-day. If he dies she dies too. Nothing
can save her, even though she is a Huguenot. Decide, therefore, and
decide quickly." And it was signed "Jean Cavalier."

"So," he mused, "he was in the Court to-day, or sent this message by
one of his followers, knowing well what the sentence would be. Yet the
decision was made ere this paper was smuggled in here, God knows how!
It needed not this to determine me."

He struck upon the bell by his side as he thus reflected, and, on the
servant appearing in answer to it, he asked:

"How came this paper here which I found upon my table?" and he touched
with his finger the letter from Cavalier.

"It was left, monsieur, by a woman."

"A woman! Of what description?"

"Old, monsieur, gray and worn. She said, monsieur, that it was of the
first importance. A matter of life and death."

Again, as the lackey spoke, there came that feeling to the other's
heart of icy coldness, the feeling of utter despair which had seized
upon him earlier, as he saw her face in Court. For he never doubted
that the bearer of the missive was the same woman who appeared as a
spectre before him at the trial--the woman who could tell Urbaine all.

"Where have they disposed the man who was tried and sentenced to-day?"
he asked next.

"In the same room he has occupied since he was brought here,
monsieur."

"So! Let him be brought to this room. I have to speak with him."

"Here, monsieur!" the man exclaimed with an air of astonishment which
he could not repress.

"Here."

Ten minutes later and Martin was before him, he having been conducted
from the wing of the citadel in which he was confined to the adjacent
one in which Baville's set of apartments were.

His escort consisted of two warders who were of the _milice_; nor was
there any need that he should have more to guard him, for his hands
were manacled with great steel gyves, the lower ends of which were
attached by ring bolts to his legs above his knees. Yet, since they
could have had no idea that there was any possibility of one so
fettered as he escaping from their custody, the careful manner in
which these men stood by their prisoner could have been but assumed
with a view to finding favour with the ruler of the province.

As Martin confronted the other, their eyes met in one swift glance;
then Baville's were quickly lowered. Before that man, the man whom
Urbaine loved, the man who had saved her life, who could restore her
once more to his arms--if, knowing what she might know, she would ever
return to them--the all-powerful Intendant felt himself abased.

"Who," he said, addressing the warders, "has the key of those irons?"

"I, monsieur," one answered.

"Remove them."

"Monsieur!"

"Do as I bid you."

With a glance at his comrade (the fellow said afterward that the
Intendant had gone mad) the one thus addressed did as he was ordered.
A moment later and Martin and Baville were alone, the warders
dismissed with a curt word, and hurrying off to tell their mates and
comrades that the rebellion must be over since the trial of the
morning could have been but a farce.

Then Baville rose and, standing before Martin, said:

"You see, I keep my promise. You are free."

"Free! To do what? Rejoin Urbaine?"

"Ay, to rejoin Urbaine. For that alone, upon one stipulation."

"What is the stipulation?"

"That--that--she and I meet again!"

"Meet again! Why not?"

Instead of replying to this question Baville asked Martin another.

"Was," he demanded, speaking swiftly, "Cavalier in Court to-day,
dressed in a russet suit, disguised in a long black wig?"

"Yes," the other replied, "he was there."

"And the woman with him, old, gray-haired, is she one of the dwellers
in the mountains, one of his band?"

"Nay. Her I have never seen."

"She can not then have met, have come into contact with Urbaine?"

"How can I say? It is a week since I left Urbaine there, safe with him
in those mountains. Since then many things have happened, among others
the horrors of Mercier's mill."

"It was not my doing," Baville answered hotly. "Not mine; Montrevel is
alone answerable for that. I was away at the beginning, on my road
back from Valence. None can visit that upon my head. Yet--yet--rather
should fifty such horrors happen, rather that I myself should perish
in such a catastrophe, than that this woman and Urbaine should ever
meet."

As he spoke there came to Martin's memory the words that Cavalier had
uttered to him. "Ere she leaves us there is something to be told her
as regards Baville's friendship for her father, Ducaire. And when she
has heard that, it may be she will never wish to return to him, to set
eyes on her beloved Intendant again."

Was this woman of whom Baville spoke the one who could tell her that
which would cause her the great revulsion of feeling which Cavalier
had hinted at?

"Why should they never meet?" he asked, the question forced from him
by the recollection of the Camisard's words joined to Baville's
present emotion.

"Because," the other replied, his face once more the colour of death,
the usually rich full voice dull and choked, "because--O God! that I
should have to say it--because I am, though all unwittingly, her
father's murderer. And that woman knows it."

"You! Her father's murderer!"

"Yes, I." Then he went on rapidly, his tones once more those of
command, his bearing that of the ruler before whom stood a prisoner in
his power. "But ask me no more. It was all a hideous, an awful
mistake. I loved Urbain Ducaire; would have saved him. And--and--by
that mistake I slew him. Also, I love his child--his!--nay, mine, by
all the years in which I have cherished, nurtured her. Oh, Urbaine,
Urbaine, _ma mie, ma petite!_" he whispered, as though there were none
other present to see him in this, his dark hour. "Urbaine, if you
learn this you will come to hate me as all in Languedoc hate me."

"Be comforted," Martin exclaimed, touched to the heart by the man's
grief, forgetful, too, of all the horrible instances of severity
linked with his name, "be comforted. She must never meet that woman,
never know. Only," he almost moaned, remembering all that the
knowledge of this awful thing would bring to her, "how to prevent it.
How to prevent it."

"I have it," Baville said, and he straightened himself, was alert,
strong again, "I have it. I said but now I would, must, see her once
more. But, God help me! I renounce that hope forever. To save her from
that knowledge, to save her heart from breaking, I forego all hopes of
ever looking on her face again, ever hearing her whisper 'Father' in
my ear more. And you, you alone, can save her. You must fly with her,
away, out of France. Then--God, he knows!--she and I will be far
enough apart. Also she will be far enough away from that woman who can
denounce me."

"But how, how, how? Where can we fly? All Languedoc, all the south, is
blocked with the King's, with your, troops----"

"Nay, the Camisards can help you. Can creep like snakes across the
frontier to Switzerland, to the Duke of Savoy's dominions. You must
go--at once. You are free, I say," and he stamped his foot in his
excitement. "Go, go, go. I set you free, annul this trial, declare it
void. Only go, for God's sake go, and find her ere it is too late."

"I need no second bidding," Martin answered, his heart beating high
within him at the very thought of flying to Urbaine, of seeing her
again and of clasping her to his arms, and, once across the frontier,
of never more being parted from her; of his own freedom which would
thereby be assured he thought not one jot, the full joy of possessing
Urbaine forever eclipsing the delight of that newly restored liberty
entirely; "desire naught else. Only, how will you answer for it?"

"Answer!" Baville exclaimed. "Answer! To whom shall I answer but to
Louis? And though I pay with my head for my treachery, if treachery it
is, she will be safe from the revelation of my fault. That before
all."

"When shall I depart?" Martin asked briefly.

"Now, to-night, at once. Lose no moment. A horse shall be prepared for
you. Also a pass that will take you through any of the King's forces
you may encounter on the road to the mountains. Once there, you are
known to the Camisards and--and she will be restored to you."

"Will they let me pass the gate?"

"Let you pass the gate! Pass the gate! Ay, since I go with you as far
as that. Let us see who will dare to stop you."

An hour later Martin was a free man.

Free, that is, in so far that he had passed the Porte des Carmes and
was once more upon the road toward the mountains, toward where Urbaine
Ducaire was. Yet with all around him the troops of Montrevel, the
field marshal having sallied forth that morning intent upon more
slaughter and bloodshed, and with, still farther off, the Camisards
under Cavalier in one division and under Roland in another,
descending, if all accounts were true, upon Nîmes and Alais with a
full intention of avenging mercilessly the burning of their brethren
in the mill.

Yet, sweet as was the sense of that freedom, sweet, too, as was the
hope that ere many more hours would be passed he and Urbaine would
have met once more never again to part, he could not but reflect upon
the heartbrokenness of Baville as he bid him Godspeed.

"Save her, save her," he whispered as they stood at the Great Gate,
"save her from France, above all from the knowledge of what happened
so long ago. Fly with her to Switzerland and thence to your own land;
there you can live happily. And--and--tell me ere you go that from
your lips she shall never know aught. Grant me that prayer at the
last."

"Out of my love for her, out of the hopes that in all the years which
I pray God to let me spend with her, no sorrow may come near her, I
promise. If it rests with me you shall be always the same in her
memory as you have been in actual life. I promise. And perhaps when
happier days shall dawn, you and your wife and she may all meet
again."

"Perhaps," Baville replied, "perhaps." Then from the breast of this
man whose name was execrated in every land to which French Protestants
had fled for asylum, this man of whom all said that his heart, if
heart he had, was formed of marble, there issued a deep sob ere he
moaned: "Be good to her. Shield her from harm, I implore you. She was
all we had to love. Almost the only thing on earth that loved me.
Farewell!"




CHAPTER XXX.

FREE.


The mountains again! And Martin free! Happy, too, because, as the cold
blast swept down from their summits to him as he rode swiftly through
the valley toward the commencement of the ascent, he knew that it came
from where, high up, Urbaine waited for her freedom and for his
return. Knew it beyond all thought and doubt; knew, divined that daily
those clear, pure eyes looked for him to be restored to her, was sure
that nightly, ere she sought her bed, she prayed upon her knees for
him and his safety. Had she not said it, promised it, ere they parted?
Was not that enough? Enough to make him turn in his wrist another inch
upon his horse's rein, press that horse's flanks once more, urge it
onward to where she was?

Yet though he travelled with Baville's pass in his pocket, though he
went toward where the Camisards were, who would receive him with
shouts of exaltation and welcome, he knew that again he rode with his
life in his hands as, but a night or so before, he had thus ridden
from the seacoast to Nîmes. For there were those abroad now who would
be like enough to tear Baville's pass up and fling it in his face if
he were caught, soldiers who served Montrevel and Montrevel alone, men
whose swords would be through his heart or the bullets from their
musketoons embedded in his brain, if he but fell into their hands. For
on this very night the great bravo had broken with the Intendant ere
he had quit Nîmes to march toward the Cévennes and make one more
attack upon the strongholds of the "rebels"; had sworn that ere
Villars arrived, who was now on the way from Paris to supersede
Julien, he would wipe out those rebels so that, when Louis' principal
soldier should appear on the scene, he would find none to crush.

Also he had sent forward on the very road which Martin now followed a
captain named Planque (a swashbuckler like himself) and a lieutenant
named Tournaud, in command of three thousand men, all of whom had
declared with many an oath that they took their orders from their
commander and from no governor or intendant who ever ruled.

At first Martin had not known this, would indeed not have known it at
all, had not his suspicions been aroused by finding that, as he rode
on swiftly toward where the principal ascent to the mountains began,
near Alais, he was following a vast body of men, among whom were
numbers of the hated Pyrenean Miquelets; men who marched singing their
hideous mountain songs and croons, such as in many a fray had
overborne the shrieks of the dead and dying.

"I must be careful," Martin had muttered to himself, as he drew rein
and moved his horse on to the short crisp grass that bordered the
road, "or I shall be among them. Where do they go to?"

Yet, careful as he was, he still determined to follow in their train,
to observe what road they took when farther on in their march, for he
knew, from having been much in the neighbourhood a year before, and
ere he had set out for Switzerland on his first quest for Cyprien de
Rochebazon, that ere long they must take one route of two. If that to
the left, which branched off near Anduse, their destination would be
undoubtedly the mountains; if they kept straight on, then Alais was
their destination. And if the latter, they would not hinder him. He
was soon to know, however, where that destination lay.

High above the chatter of the Miquelets and their repulsive chants--on
one subject alone, that of slaughter, rapine, and plunder
combined--high above also the jangle of the bridles, bridoons, steel
bits, and the hoofs of the dragoons and _chevaux-légers_ ahead, the
orders were borne on the crisp icy air: the orders to wheel to the
left--to the mountains.

Therefore an attack was intended there, or what, as Julien had himself
termed it, when planning that which was now to be carried out, _une
battue_.

That it would be successful Martin doubted. Never yet had the
royalists forced their way far up those passes, never yet had they
been able to possess themselves of one square yard of ground above the
level of the valley. And he recalled the treacherous drawbridges
constructed over ravines and gullies, as well as the other traps,
which he had seen and had pointed out to him as he descended from the
Cévennes to meet Cavalier. He doubted if now this enlarged attack
would be any more successful than former and less well-arranged
attacks had been.

Yet Urbaine was there. That unnerved him, caused him to shudder. For
if at last, if now, at this time, success should come to these troops,
as both Julien and Montrevel had sworn it should come eventually, what
then of her! Those in command might not know, or, knowing, not choose
to believe that she was Baville's cherished idol. And to think of his
beloved one in the power of those fiends, the Miquelets, was enough to
cause his heart to cease beating.

Or, better still, to beat more fiercely with a firm determination of
seeking her than even he had experienced an hour before; the
determination to get to where she was before these heavily accoutred
soldiers could do so, if they ever got there at all; to join her, save
her, protect her. But how to do it! How! How!

How to get ahead of this band; how gain the ascent before them, warn
the Camisards. Above all--ay, that was it--above all, how save the
girl he worshipped and adored! That, or one other thing: die in the
attempt.

He knew a moment later that the turn was made toward the mountains.
From beneath the tree where he had halted he saw, in the rays of the
now risen full moon, the sparkle of the breasts and backs and gorgets
of the dragoons as they wheeled to the left, also the glitter of
aiguillette and steel trappings. Perceived, too, that a deep silence
had fallen on all that moving mass. Even the Miquelets ceased to sing
and chatter. Nothing disturbed the silence of the night but the thud
of countless horses' hoofs, with now and again a neigh and now and
again the rattle of scabbard against charger's flank. They were in, or
near the country of the insidious, unvanquished foe. Doubtless the
order had gone forth for silence.

He must get ahead of them--reach the pass or mountain road before
them. Otherwise, what of Urbaine if they should win?

But, again, how to do it!

To the left of him, and still farther yet to the left of where the
battalions marched after wheeling, there was a stream, a branch of Le
Gardon; in summer a swift-flowing river beneath whose gliding waters
the reeds bent gracefully; now half frozen and seemingly without
current. If he could cross that, there was on the other side a wide
open plain, on which for centuries peasant landlords had been
endeavouring to cultivate grapevines, to redeem from the marshy soil
that was so common in the south some of the thousands of useless acres
which abounded. And across that plain, dotted here and there by
countless poles on which no vine had ever grown in man's memory, and
on which many sheep had browsed upon the short grass salted by the
spray (brought in from the Mediterranean on the wings of the Circius)
until the Cévenoles had descended and raided them, he might make his
way, might cut off by a short _détour_ that advancing force, get
before it to where the ascent began, be the first to reach the
mountains, the home of the outcasts.

Only he might be seen. And then--then--though the heavily accoutred
dragoons would undoubtedly not be able to leap the stream and chase
him, the balls from their musketoons and fusils would perhaps reach
him; one alone out of the number sent hurtling after him might reach
its mark. And that would be enough.

Yet all the same it should be done.

The horse he rode was a strong black, handsome creature, its nostrils
red and fiery, its eyes possessed of that backward glance which tells
the horseman ere he mounts what he is about to bestride, its legs as
thin and agile as a cat's. Well, he would see. Now for the stream,
fifteen feet across if an inch. Then he found the animal knew what was
meant even as his knee pressed beneath the holster, even as his wrist
turned inward to draw tighter the rein and as he sat down firmly in
the saddle. There was a rush upon the short, crisp grass--crisp both
from the salt of the distant sea and from the night frost--a quiver
from the body beneath him, a loosened rein now, a flight as of an
arrow, as smooth, too, and as swift. Then the animal's feet were upon
the other side; the rivulet was skimmed as though by a swallow. Over
and away, the black steed bounding like a ball beneath him.

"Thank God!" he said, "thank God!" And, ere he settled into the
saddle again, patted the firm, iron-sinewed neck beneath his hand.

Off through vine poles, over another and a smaller rivulet unseen by
him for the moment, yet clear as day to the keen eyes of the noble
creature that bore him; off now parallel with the dragoons, across the
plain--parallel with the dragoons so dangerously near! And with over
all, both them and him, a cloudless sky and a full bright moon.

Then, next, a shout from that advancing force, a hoarse clatter that
all know and recognise who have ever heard firelocks wrested quickly
from saddle-rests, white smoke curling on the night air, spits of
flame from twenty different spots near together, puffs of bullets past
his face, puffs such as the droning beetle makes as it flies by us; a
numbing shock against the saddle-flap, yet on, on, on! The horse
uninjured and still going fleet as the deer, or even fleeter still,
because of fear and nervousness. But still on, and followed by a
dropping fire that ceased almost directly. The musketoons were useless
by this time; they were out of range and he was ahead of the others.
Nothing could stop him now, the danger was past. Nothing, unless the
horse reeled in its stride, was wounded. Yet that he knew was not so,
or else that swift, even motion below him would have ceased ere this.
"Heaven be praised! Where is she?"

The night wind blew more piercingly as he felt the earth rising
beneath the steed. Far up he saw more and more plainly the burning
lights that burned near false bridges and declivities, to fall down
which meant death and destruction. The air was nipping even to those
two whose bodies were heated by their last hour's motion together. The
ascent had begun. The horse breathed more heavily now, threw out great
snorting gasps from mouth and nostrils, yet hardly halted, or only so
far as to change from canter to trot and from trot to walk. But still
went on up, until at last one of the red flambeaux on the hilltops was
winking and flickering close by.

He was near Urbaine now. Another hour and she would be in his arms.

At that moment three forms sprang lightly into the mountain road from
behind a piece of fallen rock, the moon showing that each bore in its
hand a firearm--a firearm raised and pointed at the advancing man and
horse.

"Who goes there?" one cried. "Quick, your answer, or this," and each
weapon's butt was brought to the shoulder.

"The Englishman," Martin called out in reply. "The man doomed to death
to-day at Nîmes for consorting with you."

"So! Advance, Englishman. Yet in the name of the Holy One how came you
here?"

"To seek for her who was my fellow-prisoner with you," he replied as
he got off his horse. "Is she well?"

"She is well--"

"Behind. Up there," and he cast his eyes toward the summits. "She
descends with brother Cavalier to-night."

"With Cavalier to-night! Is he back already?"

"Ay, he is back, three hours ago. Now, to-night, he descends. Nîmes is
doomed. You would have been rescued by the morning. It was brother
Cavalier's second plan. He warned the tyrant, Baville, to free you at
pain of the girl's death, but _tout de même_, he meant to have you out
himself. Yet," he repeated, "Nîmes is doomed."

"But why, why, since I am free?"

"To repay the slaughter at the mill. Ho! Doubt not! That goes not
unrewarded. Nîmes first, then Alais, then Montpellier. 'An eye for an
eye, a tooth for a tooth.' It is our holy shibboleth."

"It can never be----"

"Never be! Why not?" asked the man who alone had spoken among the
three. "Why not? What shall prevent the Lord's children from
outrooting their persecutors? Why not? You are on our side. Is it not
so?" and he looked menacingly at Martin.

"You do not know," the latter replied. "Advancing here not two hours
behind me there comes a vast body of royalist soldiers in two
battalions. Among them the Miquelets. And, though they may never scale
your mountain passes, never reach the plateau, yet surely they will
bar your way to Nîmes. Even though your full force descend, they will
outnumber you."

The man, whom Martin remembered well when he was a prisoner in the
caverns and whom he had heard addressed as Montbonneux, pondered a
moment; then he said suddenly, with a slight laugh:

"Perhaps they will reach the plateau. Perhaps we shall not bar their
way. One catches the rat by leaving the trap-door open, not by
shutting it," and as he spoke his companions laughed too, while as
they did so Martin again remembered the _oubliettes_ and snares
prepared for any who might wander up into the gloomy refuges of the
_attroupés_.

Ere he could reply, however, or announce his intention of proceeding
to where Urbaine might be ere setting forth with Cavalier, there rose
a sound close to them. A sound borne on the night wind toward where
they were, a sound that told him and them that down from their
mountain home were coming the Camisards. A chant that, rising above
all else; spoke of revenge decided on, of fierce unsparing
retaliation:


    "Quand tu te léveras, oh, notre Roi celeste!
     Pour délivrer enfin les élus d'ici-bas,
     Le vent de ton tonnerre à nos tyrans funeste
     En Balaiera le reste
     Au gouffres du trépas.
     Venge--Venge----"


"Tis he, Cavalier," the man Montbonneux exclaimed, "'tis he who
comes."




CHAPTER XXXI.

BETRAYED.


They had met again. Were together, never more to part unless parted by
one thing, Death! Death that was imminent at any moment, that might
overtake them that very night, or to-morrow, or the next day; for
Cavalier was on his way down to the plains to make those reprisals of
which Montbonneux had spoken. God only knew what might be the end of
all.

She, riding on the captured little mule and enveloped in costly
furs--as usual, part of a spoil of a successful foray made by the
Camisards on a more or less unprotected _manoir_--had seen him as the
large body of Cavalier's followers had rounded a point in the mountain
pass, and, springing from the animal's back, had thrown herself into
his outstretched arms, unheeding those who came behind her and the
Cévenole chief, thinking of naught at the moment but that he was safe
and with her again, deeming all else insignificant beside that one
supreme mercy vouchsafed by God. For she knew in what awful danger he
had stood not many hours before; knew that, not more for the purpose
of exacting vengeance than for that of rescuing him, was this descent
from the mountains being made. And now he was safe, by her side again.

He drew her apart from where Cavalier stood with all his followers
behind him; drew her apart and whispered words of love and
thankfulness at seeing her once more. Then suddenly, observing on the
fair young face and in the clear, pure eyes a look that he had never
seen before, he murmured:

"What--what is it, Urbaine, my sweet?"

But she would not answer him, only contenting herself with saying,
"Not now, not now," while even as she did so he saw beneath the light
of the full moon that her eyes were full of tears. Felt, too, the warm
hand which he held quiver in his grasp.

And as he noticed those symptoms of unhappiness he wondered if she had
learned while among these Camisards that secret which one at least of
them knew--that secret which, to prevent her from ever learning, had
caused Baville to bid him fly with her out of France, away, anywhere,
so that she might never know it. Never know that her father's death
lay at his door.

"Come," said Cavalier, approaching them and speaking very quietly,
after having carried on a hurried conversation for some moments with
Montbonneux and the other two men, "come, we must move forward. Thank
God, you are free, out of the tiger's claws; for your sake and ours as
well, if what my followers report of the news you bring is true. _Is_
it?" and he looked piercingly at the other in the moonbeam's light.

"It is true if they have told you that a large force is making its way
toward these mountains. They must have left Nîmes some time before me,
since I followed them a considerable distance before coming up with
their rear, and I have outstripped them by perhaps two hours, though
not longer, I think."

Then he told Cavalier that Baville had himself released him.

"Baville released you! Because of my threat?"

"Because of----" yet since Urbaine was by his side he paused and told
no more, or only with a look which Cavalier understood sufficiently
well, for he also now knew of the Intendant's part in the death of
Urbain Ducaire, understood that his love for Urbaine had grown out of
his remorse.

"Come," he said shortly, after meditating for a moment with his eyes
fixed on the ground, "come, we must go forward now. Best meet this
force and check it, or part of it. How many strong are they, do you
suppose?"

"At least a thousand. Perhaps more. Composed of dragoons,
_chevaux-légers_, and Miquelets. Can you cope with those?"

"If we are united, yes. But Roland is away, ahead, with half our men;
yet, stay. We have to meet at the Tour de Bellot. If we can join them
before these soldiers reach that, then we can win. If not, if they
catch Roland's force alone, then God help Roland!"

As he spoke, from afar off there came a sound that none in all the
vast band which had descended from the mountains could have mistaken,
unless it were Urbaine alone. A sound deep, muffled, roaring. That of
cannons firing. Heard first down in the valley, then reverberating
high up amid the clouds that capped the summits of the cold mountain
tops.

"You hear?" he said. "You hear? We must on at once. On, on! What will
you do with the lady? She is yours now. You see, I remembered my
promise. I was bringing her to you, knowing full well that either by
threats or siege we would have you out of the hands of Baville. Yet I
thought not you could have been free to-night, so soon."

"My place is by her side forever now. Where she is, there am I."

"Be it so. Will you go back with her? Yet I know not, if they gain the
passes, the caverns will be surrounded and--and--if they succeed we
shall not be there to help or succour. God, he knows what is best!"

"Can they do that, gain the summits?"

"Scarce can I say. Yet now at last I fear. The prophets see visions,
speak of rebuffs at last. The _extasées_, the woman seers, the female
children--all foretell disaster. Even I, who have ere now believed
that I could read the future, am shaken, not in my courage, but my
hopes."

His last words were lost, or almost lost, in the dead muffled roar
that rose once more from far down in the valley, and as the sound was
heard again Cavalier started.

"We must not tarry, even for her. Decide, therefore, and decide
quickly," while, as he spoke, he gave orders briefly to all who
surrounded them and commanded that they should be transmitted along
the line of Camisards which stretched far behind and up to where the
great plateau was.

"I have decided," Martin answered. "That firing is some distance off,
some five or six miles at least. At the foot of the mountains there
are many side-paths leading east and west. I can convey her by one of
those to some haven of shelter, out of harm. Let us accompany you to
the valley; then, Cavalier, we part."

"Do as you will," the other answered. "I gave you my word that all
should be as you desired when you returned from Cette. I keep it to
the last. We part to-night forever. Remember me in years to come as
one who was an honourable man."

Then, as though he wished no more said, he gave another order for the
band under his command to set forth again upon its descent, and,
quitting Martin, went forward and placed himself at its head.

And now Martin took his place by the side of her he loved, walking by
the little mule, holding her hand in his beneath the richly-furred
cloak. Also he told her what was decided on as best for her safety.
Once, too, he asked, after he had informed her of the arranged plan:

"You do not fear? Are content?"

"Content! To be with you!"

And the glance that rested on him, and plainly to be seen beneath the
ray of the moon, told more than further words could have done.

"We shall be together forever and always now," he continued, speaking
clearly though low, so that she might catch his words above the deep
thud of the Camisards' tread as they swept down the mountain road.
Above, too, the roar of the cannon that grew louder as they approached
nearer and nearer to the spot whence it proceeded. "Forever and
always, once we are across the frontier and in the Duke of Savoy's
dominions. Man and wife, _ma mie_, in a week's time if we escape
to-night. Will that suffice?"

And once more she answered with a glance.

They were descending fast now toward the plain, yet, as they neared
it, it almost seemed as though the booming of the cannon grew less
continuous, as if the pauses were longer between each roar. What did
it mean? the Camisards asked each other. Was the cannon becoming
silent because Julien and his detachments had been caught in some
trap, or had the royalist troops been driven back again as they had
been so often driven back before? Were the outcasts, the _attroupés_,
again successful, still invincible? Above all else, above that thud of
mountaineers' heavy feet and the clatter of musketoon and fusil
shifted from shoulder to shoulder; above, too, sword scabbards
clanging on the ground, Cavalier's voice arose now.

"Down to meet them!" he cried. "Down! Down! Faster and faster, to join
Roland and sweep the tyrant's soldier from out our land, or perish
beneath their glaives. On, my brethren, on!" and as he spoke the tramp
of the men was swifter and heavier, the march of the band more
swinging.

The plain was reached. They poured out upon it, no longer a long, thin
line, but a compact body now which marched not only on the straight,
white road that gleamed a thread beneath the moon's rays, but spread
itself over the sodden marshy lands bordering that road; went on swift
and fast, while as they almost ran they saw to the priming of their
firelocks, and buckled rough goatskin baudriers and bandoleers,
wrenched from many a dying royalist, tighter round them, and loosened
swords and knives in their sheaths.

Yet, as they went, the firing ceased or rather rolled farther away
from them, sounded now as if coming from where, beneath the moonlit
sky, the cathedral spire of Nîmes lifted its head. Surely, all
thought, the enemy must be driven back. Otherwise the booming of the
cannon would not have ceased altogether; at least would not become
more distant, farther off.

And now they were near the Tour de Bellot, the rendezvous, the spot
where Roland was to have joined forces with them, if all was well. So
near that the solitary and lofty structure--once the round tower of an
ancient feudal castle that had stood many a siege in days as far off
as those of the Albigensian crusade, but on to which, in later years,
had been built a farmhouse, now a ruin also--could be seen rising
clear and pointed to the heavens; clearer than the more distant spire
of Nîmes itself.

And Roland was not there, nor any of his force. One glance showed
that, long ere they reached it, the battle which had been going on for
now more than two hours was farther off than they had at first
supposed.

The place was deserted, except for the shepherd who dwelt within it, a
man holding the creed of the outcasts, one who had also at that time
two sons in their ranks.

"Where is Roland?" demanded Cavalier of this man as they all streamed
into the place, leaping over the stone walls which surrounded the
pasturage and rushing hastily into grange and granary, there to snatch
some rest, even though but half an hour's, ere they might have to set
forth again. "Where? Where?"

"Forward toward Nîmes," the fellow answered, speaking stolidly and, as
it seemed to Martin, who stood by, stupidly; "toward Nîmes. He has
driven them back."

"God be praised!" exclaimed Cavalier and many who stood around. Then
the former asked: "And followed them toward Nîmes? Is that so?"

"Nay, I know not," the other replied, seeming even more stupid than
before. "I know not. They are not here. The battle was afar. I did but
hear it."

"We can do nothing as yet," Cavalier said, "nothing. Can but wait and
abide events. Yet 'tis strange, strange that of all his force he could
not send back one messenger to tell me of his doings, his whereabouts.
Our rendezvous was to be ten of the clock; 'tis past that now.
Strange!" he repeated, "strange!" And his eyes followed the shepherd
searchingly as he moved about preparing rough, coarse food for as many
of the band as he could supply. He had been warned that the descent
was to be made that night from the mountains, and also to prepare as
much bread and wine as possible; and now he produced all that he had,
he said, been able to obtain without arousing suspicions.

At this time Martin was standing beside Urbaine, she having been
placed in a rude armchair possessing neither pillow nor covering,
which had been set in front of the fire for her; and to them Cavalier
now addressed himself, saying:

"For you to go forward now would be madness; nay, madness even to quit
this house and seek any road either to right or left. For--for--Heaven
forgive me if I am wrong, yet I misdoubt me of this man, one of us as
he is and the father of two others."

"I have Baville's pass; they would respect that. Would not harm her.
Even though the men in command have never seen her, they would
understand. And--and--it is imperative that I convey her across the
frontier to Savoy without loss of time." Then, drawing the banished
chief away from the close neighbourhood of Urbaine, he said in a lower
tone, "He dreads that she should learn from any here that he caused
her father, Urbain Ducaire's death!"

With a swift glance the other looked up into Martin's face, far above
his own; looked up with a glance that was almost a mocking one.

"He dreads that, does he?" Cavalier replied. "_Malheureusement pour
lui!_ he dreads too late. He should have taken steps bef----"

"What?"

"She knows it."

"Great God! 'Tis from that her fresh sorrow springs. How--how did
she----?"

But ere he could finish his question there came an interruption which
prevented it from ever being answered.

Across the broken flags of the farmhouse kitchen there came a man, one
of the prophets, known as _Le Léopard_, because of his fierce staring
eyes, a man in whose belt there was a long knife, the hilt of which he
fingered savagely, and on whose back was strapped a long military
carabine, another spoil of the enemy. And, reaching Cavalier's side,
he muttered hoarsely from beneath his ragged, dishevelled mustache:

"We are betrayed. There has been no battle. Roland is not within
leagues of this spot. The cannon was a snare, a lure. And--and--come
forth into the moonlight and see what is without."




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH.


From that old, dismantled farmhouse, built on to the tower, there
sloped down, toward where a small stream ran some four hundred yards
away, a long stretch of bare land, covered sometimes in the summer
heat by short, coarse grass, while in the winter time it was, if any
of it were left uneaten by the sheep, frost-bound or snow-covered. It
was so now on this clear, cold winter night, its surface being dotted
by innumerable folds and pens into which those sheep had once been
driven, but which, since the mountaineers had been forced into
revolution and had raided the place, were empty. They were so on this
night, of sheep. Yet not of other living things, unless the moon
played strange tricks with the eyes of those regarding the pens.
Instead, were being filled rapidly with human forms creeping like
Indians or painted snakes toward them, wriggling their bodies beneath
the hurdles they were composed of, entering by that way into the
ready-found ambush--the forms of the Miquelets, the most hated by the
Camisards of all the troops which had been sent against them; the men
whose extermination was more vowed and determined than the
extermination of either dragoon, _chevau-léger_, or _milice_.

"You see?" whispered Le Leopard to Cavalier and Montbonneux as they
stood together sheltering themselves from observation behind the great
stone posts of the farmhouse's antique stoop, "you see? They first,
then next the cavalry. Observe, beyond the stream; look through the
trunks of the trees across it. The moon sparkles on breast and back
and the splints of the gorgets. You see?" Then added, "And hear?"

For from down toward where _Le Léopard_ had directed the other's
attention there rang that which told beyond all doubt that the foe was
lurking there; discovered them to the surrounded, hemmed-in Camisards.
The neigh of a horse, long, loud, and shrill, taken up a moment later
by others in their company and answered.

After that no need for further disguise or hiding. The presence of the
enemy was made known. An instant later the trumpets rang out the
"Advance!" Across the stretch of bare land the cavalry of Montrevel
were seen riding fast.

"To arms! To arms!" sounded Cavalier's voice on the night air, it
rivalling almost in distinctness the clear sounds of the royal
trumpeters. "To arms! The tyrants are upon us. To arms! I say," and
ere, with one wild shriek in unison from the throats of the Miquelets,
the latter sprang from their ambush, the Protestants had leaped from
the floors where they had flung themselves and were in the open, face
to face with the Pyrenean wolves.

Instantly the whole surface of the earth beneath the bright rays of
the moon was changed. Soon no moon was seen. The smoke from countless
firelocks covered, obscured her. Smoke dispelled for an instant now
and again by volleys of flame belched forth from fusil and carabine,
flame that showed Miquelets dashing at huge mountaineers' throats,
their long knives in their hands or 'twixt their teeth as they so
sprang and clutched; that showed, too, these savage creatures forced
to release their grasp, hurled to the earth, their brains clubbed out
by butt and stock. Showed also the dragoons in the midst of all,
sabring, thrusting, cutting down, overriding ally and foeman
indiscriminately, reeling back themselves over their chargers'
haunches as, from the windowless apertures of the tower, came hail
after hail of bullets from Camisards ensconced therein.

But still the battle raged. Still from the Protestants' throats rang
their war cry, "For God and his children!" from those of the
royalists, "For God and the King!" from those of the Miquelets, in
their hideous shrieking falsetto, "Guerra al Culchielo!" "Guerra al
Morté!"

"Save yourself and her," cried Cavalier, rushing back for a moment to
the farmhouse kitchen and stumbling over the dead body of the
treacherous peasant, Guignon, who had been poniarded by _Le Léopard_
the moment he was certain that the man had betrayed them, "save
yourself--and her. There is a backway by the fosse to an ancient
passage 'neath the old castle; save yourselves. We are lost, lost!
Outnumbered! Save yourselves!"

Then in a moment he saw that neither Martin nor Urbaine were there.
Gone! either to destruction or safety, he knew not which, yet gone.
And he rushed back to his doomed band; rushed back to see that the
tower was in flames, that all of his men who were in it were beyond
earthly salvation. Already it seemed to rock beneath the great
spouting flames that leaped forth from roofless summit and openings
where windows might once have been. Doomed!

_Le Léopard_ came near him at this moment, an awful
spectacle--bleeding from a dozen wounds, his vast and iron-gray beard
crimson, yet with his eyes glaring as ever. Came near, staggering,
reeling, yet able to gasp:

"To the fosse, to the fosse! You can save some that way. To the
fosse!"

"Come you also," muttered Cavalier, "Come----"

"_I_ come!" _Le Léopard_ exclaimed. "Nay, never more. See!" and he
tore open his rough coat, showing on his breast a hideous gaping
wound. And as he did so he reeled more heavily than before, then fell
across the body of a dragoon lying close by.

But still, all around, the fight went on; the sabres swung and the
volleys rattled, while from the tower there rose now the death song of
those within it. Above all else that was heard a hymn of praise to the
God of Battles, the God also of the outcasts--a hymn blessing and
magnifying his name. And as it rolled through the fumes and the grime
there came next an awful roar, a vast uprising of a monstrous sheet of
fresh flame, and, with a crash, the tower came to earth, burying
beneath its ruins not only those within it, but also many others
around, Camisards and royalists.

"They are bringing their culverins," cried one now above all the
tumult, "to play upon the house," and in answer there rang out now
another voice which all knew, the voice of Cavalier, the words he
shouted being: "Disperse, disperse, my brethren! Children of the
mountains and the clouds, disperse as do the clouds themselves. Not
to-night is our triumph, yet it will come. It must come."

He spoke truly. The triumph was to come ere long now. The Camisards
were to gain their cause at last, but it was not to be to-night, nor
by the sword. Instead, by the gentle mediation and mercy of one whose
name is still spoken gently in the Cévennes--the name of the great and
good Villars.


"You can go no farther?" Urbaine said an hour later to Martin Ashurst,
"no farther. Oh, my God, my God, that it should come to this! And for
me, for my sake!"

"Nay, dear one, what matter? We are together to the last. And you love
me. What more is there to ask?"

"Alas! Alas! I can not live without you, stay behind alone. My love,
my love, you must not leave me. Shall not go before. If you die, then
must I die too."

And as she spoke she loosened his vest and sought for the wound in his
shoulder which had brought him to this pass.

They had found the fosse the Camisards knew of in the old farmhouse.
Even as the attack began, Martin, seeking for a place of refuge for
her, had thrust open a door at the back of the great old kitchen in
which they were, and had led her out of the dangerous room that gave
upon the spot where the conflict had begun. Had led her on through a
passage sloping down into the earth from behind the house, until, by
following it, they found themselves in a place which none could have
supposed would have been there; a place like a crypt, stone-flagged,
the stones themselves roughly hewn, the pillars dwarfed, yet strong
enough to bear a vast fabric above them; a place so old, so long since
built, that it may have been some Roman sepulchre, or hiding-place of
Albigenses in long-forgotten days, or secret chapel of worship beneath
the old feudal castle that had once existed.

Yet there it was, calm and quiet. Even the sounds of the battle now
waging in all its fury without came gently to their ears, was scarce
heard more strongly than the murmur in a shell or the breaking of the
ocean on a far-off shore. Calm and quiet, with, through a recess in
the farther wall, perhaps once a niche or shrine, a moonbeam streaming
brightly and making the dull flame of the lantern Martin had brought
with him, snatching it off the nail where it hung, burn dull and
rustily.

And Urbaine, entering with him this haven into which they had
penetrated--surely none of those soldiers knew of it, would find it,
surely God in his mercy would not permit that--flung herself on her
lover's breast sobbing that they were saved again; again were saved by
him whom she so loved with her whole heart and soul.

Then started back, a look of terror on her face--a look of awful fear
and apprehension--seeing what she did see in her lover's eyes as she
sought them.

"My God!" she half whispered, half shrieked, shuddering, "what--what
is it? Martin, my love? Oh, what--what has happened?"

For his lips were cold, there was no answering warmth in them as they
met hers; his face was white as death, his eyes dull and filmy.

"It--it--is not much. But--I--am struck. As we left the place above, a
bullet--through the window--struck me. I--I--can go no farther. Alas,
I can not stand," while as he spoke he swayed heavily against the
middle pillar of the crypt, then slid, clutching at it, to the earth.

Even as he did so, even, too, as she a moment later undid his vest to
seek for the wound, there came to her ears, though perhaps not to his
as he lay there faint and almost insensible, the sound of many rushing
feet, a heavy trampling; then, next, men passing swiftly by and
farther on through the fosse--men whose smoke-grimed faces (sometimes,
too, their wounded faces) she recognised as the moonbeams flickered on
them. Camisards fleeing hastily, dispersing as Cavalier had said. The
Camisards in whose power she had once been, in whose company she had
but a few hours ago descended from the mountains.

"O God!" she moaned, "are they pursued by Montrevel's troops? If so,
and he, my love, is found here by those troops!"

But he was not all unconscious; he could still hear, and, hearing,
understood that moan.

"Nay, dearest," he whispered back, "even so it matters not. The
Protestants, these men, are our friends. Baville's pass, the packet he
bade me give you on our wedding morn--alas, our wedding morn!--will
hold us safe from the soldiers. Fear not, _ma mie_."

Baville! The name stung her like an adder's fang. Baville! The man who
had slain her father, and then endeavoured by a false, pretended love,
to take that father's place! The man she would never see again, had
vowed, as deeply as one so gentle as she could vow, never to see or
know again.

Baville! And he had written to her, sent her a packet. Her lover had
it about him at this moment. What could such a thing mean? What
import? Yet, yet she upbraided herself for thinking of her own griefs
and sorrows now at such a time as this. Baville! Faugh! Baville! Yet
if he knew to what a pass they had come, knew that this man whose life
might be ebbing slowly from him now, was ebbing slowly, was here? If
he knew that he who had saved her was dying? Baville! The man whom
once she had loved with a daughter's love.

Again the hurrying feet passed, again the gaunt fugitives went by, yet
she heeded them not. Her whole soul was in what she was endeavouring
to do--to staunch that gaping wound. Then suddenly one, an old,
white-faced, terror-stricken man with long gray hair, stopped, seeing
those forms; stopped, peering through the moonbeam that slanted down
upon their faces; stopped, then advanced toward them.

"'Tis he," he whispered, bending toward the wounded man. "Martin!
Martin! O Martin, my friend!"

"You know him? Your friend? You know him?" she whispered back. "Who
are you?"

"His friend, Buscarlet, the inhibited _pasteur_ of Montvert. Driven to
the mountains at last, forced to abide with these unhappy outcasts,
but, thank God, not yet to draw the sword. No, no, not that! Never,
never! Only to pray upon my knees to them by morn and night to shed no
blood, to bear, to suffer all. To do that, I followed them here. Only
they will not listen. Oh, Baville, Baville, has not your tiger's fury
been glutted yet?" And he gazed down upon the almost senseless form of
Martin lying there, muttering, "If I could save you!"

Then, a moment later, he spoke again.

"Who," he said very gently now, "are you? Not his wife or sister, I
know. But what?"

For a moment she did not answer, looking up at him, instead, with
wide, clear eyes so full of sorrow that her glance struck him to the
heart.

"I was to have been his, am his, affianced wife. And--and--God help
me!--I am Baville's, that tiger's, adopted child!"

"You! _His_ adopted child, and Martin's affianced wife!"

"Even so." And she bent her head and wept.

For a moment there was silence in that deserted place, deserted now
since all the fugitive mountaineers had passed through the fosse;
silent because no longer was heard the distant sound or hum of shot or
cry of combatants. Then he bent over Martin, looked to his wound,
touching it very gently and afterward replacing the hasty bandages she
had made from some of her own linen, and said:

"He is exhausted from his loss of blood. But, though he dies, it will
not be yet. The cold is to be feared, however. If that reaches the
wound--I know somewhat of surgery--he can not live. Now I go to seek
succour, help!"

"Succour! Help! Where can it be obtained? In Heaven's mercy, where?
Nîmes is three leagues off."

"I will do my best. Pray God I am not too late."

And so he left her.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

TOUT SAVOIR, C'EST TOUT PARDOXNER.


Coming to himself, Martin, lying there, wondered where he was. He felt
no pain in the wounded shoulder, only, instead, an awful weakness.
Also he felt no cold. Knew too that around him was wrapped some soft
warm garment, yet knew not that it was the great fur cloak in which
the woman whom he had loved had been muffled up as she descended from
the mountains, and in which she had long since enveloped him. Long
since to her, watching, waiting there for succour to come, through
two, three, four hours, and then another, but to him no length of time
whatsoever. And he did not know--he was indeed even still in a
half-unconscious state--how those hours had been spent by her,
heedless of the cold which pierced through and through her, spent in
sitting on the ground by his side, soothing him when he moaned
painfully, holding his hand, kissing his hot brow. Attending also to
his wound, and going even some distance farther along the fosse in the
hope of discovering water, yet without success.

He knew nothing; had forgotten how he came there, that she had been
with him, that there was such a woman, and that they loved each other
madly.

Then suddenly a voice broke in upon his unconsciousness--a voice that
seemed to recall him back to the world--the voice of Urbaine, yet, as
she spoke, stifled now and again by sobs.

"Better," it seemed to him that he heard her say, "better have slain
me with him, upon his desolate hearth, than have spared me to learn
this at last. Of you, you whom I worshipped, whom I so reverenced."

If he had doubted whether he lived or was already in the shades
leading to another world, or in that world itself, he doubted no
longer, when through that old crypt a second voice sounded, one known
to him as well as Urbaine's was known--a voice deep, solemn,
beautiful. Broken, too, as hers had been, yet sweet as music still.

"If," that voice said, "you had escaped with your lover to some
far-distant land as I hoped, ay, as even such as I dared to pray that
you might do, you would have learned all. In those papers I sent by
him you love, you would have known all on the morning you became his
wife. Now I must tell you with my own lips. Urbaine, in memory of the
happy years gone by, the years when you grew from childhood to
womanhood by my side, at my knee, hear my justification, let me
speak."

It was Baville.

Baville! Her father's murderer there! Face to face with Urbaine once
more!

For a moment the silence was intense, or broken only by the woman's
sobs. Then from her lips he heard the one word "Speak" uttered.

"Urbaine, your father died through me, though not by my will, not by
my hands."

"Ah!"

"I loved Urbain Ducaire," the rich, full voice went on. "Loved him,
pitied him too, knowing something, though not all, of his past life.
Knew that he, a Huguenot, was doomed if he stayed here in Languedoc,
stranger though he was, for his nature was too noble to conceal aught;
he was a Catholic who had renounced his ancient faith, a _nouveau
converti_, yet of the wrong side for his future tranquility. And he
boasted of it loudly, openly. He was doomed."

Again there was a pause broken only by the weeping of Urbaine. Then
once more Baville continued:

"I beseeched him to go, to leave the neighbourhood, to depart in
peace. Provided him with safe conducts, implored him to seek an asylum
in England or Holland where those of his newly adopted creed were
safe. He refused. Your mother, a woman of the province, had died in
giving birth to you. He swore he would not leave the place where her
body lay. He defied me, bade me do my worst."

"And--and----" Urbaine sobbed.

"And the orders came from Paris. From Louvois, then alive, and Madame
de Maintenon. '_Saccagez tous!_' they wrote. 'Those who will not
recant must be exterminated.'

"Then I sent to him by a trusty hand a copy of those orders. I bade
him fly at once, since even I could not save him. Told him that on a
fixed night--great God! it was the night ere Christmas, the night when
the priests bid us have our hearts full of love and mercy for each
other--I _must_ be at his cottage with my Cravates. He was a marked
man; also I was known to favour him. If I did so now, spared him and
imprisoned others, all the south would be in a tumult."

Again Baville paused. Again went on:

"I never deemed I should find him; would have sworn he must be gone
ere I reached his house. Yet went there, knowing that I dared not omit
him. Went there, praying, as not often I have prayed, that it would be
empty, forsaken. Alas! Alas! Alas! he had ignored my warning, my
beseechings. He _was_ there, reading his Bible. He defied me. By his
hand he had a pistol. Seeing the Cravates behind me, their musketoons
ready, it seemed as though he was about to use it. Raised it, pointed
it at me, covered my breast."

The pause was longer now. Martin, hearing, understanding all, his mind
and memory returned to him, thought Baville dreaded to continue. Yet
it was not so. The full clear tones reached his ear again:

"I could not deem him base enough to do that, to shoot me down like a
dog, since I had drawn no weapon of my own. It was, I have divined
since, the soldiers whom he defied. Yet in my contempt for what I
thought his idle threat, I cried scornfully '_Tirez donc_.' Alas, ah,
God! the fatal error that has forever darkened your life and mine!
Those words were misunderstood. The Cravates misunderstood them,
believed the exclamation an order given to them by me; a moment later
they had fired. O Urbaine! my love, my child--I--I--what more is there
to tell?"

And as he ceased, hers were not the only sobs Martin heard now.

Then, as they too ceased somewhat, another voice was heard by the
listener--the voice of Buscarlet.

"You hear? The wrong, that was in truth no wrong, is atoned. Has never
been. Your way is clear before you. The evil he has wrought has not
come nigh you or yours. Woman, as his heart has ever cherished you, I,
a pastor of your rightful faith, bid you give back your love to him."

The dawn was coming as the old man spake these words. In the thin
light of that new morning which crept in from where the moon's ray had
shone through the night, Martin, his fur covering tossed from off him
long since, saw Urbaine fall on Baville's breast, heard her whisper,
"My father, oh, my father!" Knew, too, that they were reconciled, the
past forgotten. And thanked God that it was so.

Yet once again Buscarlet spoke, his white hair gleaming in the light
of the coming day, his old form erect and stately before the other.

"You are absolved by her," he said; "earn absolution, too, for your
past cruelty by greater mercy to others of her faith. I charge you, I,
a priest of that persecuted faith, that henceforth you persecute no
more. God has given you back your child's love. Be content."


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


A little later and those three were gathered round the spot where
Martin lay, with, in the background, a fourth figure, that of
Baville's own surgeon. He had been brought by the Intendant after
Buscarlet had told the latter all that he had ridden hastily to Nîmes
to inform him of, and when the pastor had declared that if surgical
aid was not at once forthcoming the wounded man must surely die. And,
seeing him, the surgeon had said that his life still hung in the
balance; that if what Baville desired was to be done, it had best be
done at once.

"It will make you happy?" Urbaine whispered, her lips close to her
lover's, her arms about him.

"Passing happy," he murmured, "beyond all hope. Now, now, at once."

"You can do it?" the Intendant asked, turning to the pastor.

"I can do it now."

"So! Let it be done."

"Stay there by his side," Buscarlet said then to Urbaine, "upon your
knees.--Take you her hand," to Martin.

And in whispered tones he commenced the marriage ceremony of the
Huguenots as prescribed by their Church.

"Repeat after me that you take Urbaine Ducaire to be your wedded wife"

"Nay, nay," said Baville, interposing. "Nay, I had forgotten. Not
that. Not that. The packet would have told what both must have learned
ere they had been married elsewhere. Now I must tell it myself. Her
name is not Urbaine Ducaire."

"Not Urbaine Ducaire?" all exclaimed, looking up at him. "Not Urbaine
Ducaire?"

"Nay. Nor her father's Urbain Ducaire. Instead, this," and he produced
hastily his tablets from his pocket and wrote on them for some few
moments, muttering as he did so, "I knew it not till lately, until I
communicated with those in Paris, though I suspected. Also," he
repeated, "the packet would have told all."

Then, thrusting the tablets into the pastor's hands, while all around
still gazed incredulously at him, he said aloud: "Marry her in those
names and titles. Hers by right which none can dispute, and by the law
of Richelieu passed through the Parliament of Paris in the last year
of his life. The right of sole daughters where no male issue exists."

"These titles are lawfully hers?" Buscarlet asked, reading in
astonishment that which Baville had written, while Urbaine clung
closer still to her lover, wondering what further mystery surrounded
her birth, and Martin, no light breaking in on him as yet, deeming
Baville demented. "Lawfully hers?"

"Lawfully, absolutely hers. Proceed."

And again Buscarlet commenced:

"Repeat after me that you take Cyprienne, Urbaine Beauvilliers----"

"My God!" whispered Martin faintly ere he did so. "My God! that my
quest ends here!" Then he repeated the words that Buscarlet read from
Baville's tablets as he had been bidden.

"Baronne de Beauvilliers," the pastor continued, "Comtesse de
Montrachet, Marquise du Gast d'Ançilly, Princesse de Rochebazon,
daughter of Cyprien, Urbain Beauvilliers, former bearer of those
titles, to be your wedded wife--to----"


                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *


It was finished. They were married. The union blessed by a pastor of
their own Church and attested by him who had so persecuted the members
of that Church by order of the man, if indeed it was by his orders,
whom they called "The Scourge of God."

And Martin, gazing up into the eyes of his wife, murmured:

"I have not failed, my love, in what I sought. But, ah, that my search
should bring me to such perfect peace, should end with you! Now, if I
die, I die happy."

But even as she held him close to her, his head upon her shoulder, he
knew, felt sure, that he would not die; that God would restore him to
a new life, to be passed as long as it lasted by her side.


Postscript.--The historical incidents in the foregoing story have
necessarily, for obvious purposes in one or two instances, been
altered from their exact sequence. With this exception they are
described precisely as they occurred, each description being taken
from the best authorities, and especially the best local ones.
Exclusive of the names of Ashurst, Ducaire, and all pertaining to that
of De Rochebazon and of De Rochebazon itself, the others are, in
almost every case, authentic.




FOOTNOTES

[Footnote 1: Baville judged accurately. Of all who are descended from
those great Protestant houses, there is not one now who is not of the
Roman Catholic faith.]

[Footnote 2: Doubtless the Prophet's visions foresaw the Battle of
Almanza, whereon many hundreds of Camisards fell fighting for England
and the allies against France. A strange battle this! in which the
French were led by an Englishman, the Duke of Berwick, and the English
by a Frenchman, Ruvigny, afterward the Earl of Galloway.]

[Footnote 3: Among the inspired prophets of the Cévennes, none were
supposed to be more penetrated with this gift than the youngest
children. In their histories there are recorded instances, or perhaps
I should say beliefs, of babes at their mothers' breasts who had
received it, and were by signs and motions supposed to direct the
actions of their seniors.]



THE END.








End of Project Gutenberg's The Scourge of God, by John Bloundelle-Burton