The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
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