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Huguenot: A Tale of the French Protestants

<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2><h3>THE PREACHING IN THE DESERT.</h3> Again we must pass over a brief space of time, and also somewhat change the scene, but not very far. In the interval, the acts of a bigoted and despotic monarch had been guided by the advice of cruel and injudicious ministers, till the formal prohibition of the opening of any Protestant place of worship throughout France for the service of God, according to the consciences of the members of the reformed church, had been proclaimed throughout the land. Such had been the change, or rather the progress, made in that time; and the falling off of many leading Protestants, the disunion which existed amongst others, the overstrained loyalty of some, and the irresolution of many, had shown to even the calmer and the firmer spirits, who might still have conducted resistance against tyranny to a successful result, that though, perhaps, they might shed oceans of blood, the Protestant cause in France was lost, at least for the time. The scene, too, we have said, was changed. It was no longer the city of Poitiers, with its multitudes and its gay parties; it was no longer the château, with its lord and his attendants; it was no longer the country town, with its citizens and its artizans; but it was upon one of those dark brown moors of which so many are to be found on the borders of Brittany and Poitou, under the canopy of heaven alone, and with nothing but the bleakest objects in nature round about. The moor had a gentle slope towards the westward. It was covered with gorse and heath, interspersed with old ragged hawthorns, stunted and partly withered, as we often see, some being brought up in poverty and neglect, never knowing care or shelter, stinted and sickly, and shrivelling with premature decay. Cast here and there amongst the thorns, too, were large masses of rock and cold grey stone, the appearance of which in that place was difficult to account for, as there was no higher ground around from which such masses could have fallen. A small wood of pines had been planted near the summit of the ground, but they, too, had decayed prematurely in that ungrateful soil; and though each tree presented here and there some scrubby tufts of dark green foliage, the principal branches stood out, white and blasted, skeleton fingers pointing in despairing mockery at the wind that withered them. The hour was about six o'clock in the evening, and as if to accord with the earth below it, there was a cold and wintry look about the sky which the season did not justify; and the long blue lines of dark cloud, mingled with streaks of yellow and orange towards the verge of heaven, seemed to bespeak an early autumn. There was one little pond in the foreground of the picture sunk deep amongst some banks and hawthorn bushes, and looking dark and stern as every thing around it. Flapping up from it, however, scared by the noise of a horse's feet, rose a large white stork, contrasting strangely with the dim shadowy waters. The person that startled the bird by passing nearer to him than any body else had done, rode forward close by the head of the pond to a spot about three hundred yards farther on, where a great multitude of people were assembled, perhaps to the number of two thousand. He was followed by several servants; but it is to be remarked that both servants and lord were unarmed. He himself did not even wear the customary sword, without which not a gentleman in France was seen at any distance from his own house, and no apparent arms of any kind, not even the small knife or dagger, often worn by a page, was visible amongst the attendants. There was a buzz of many voices as he approached, but it was instantly silenced, when, dismounting from his horse, he gave the rein to a servant, and then advanced to meet one or two persons who drew out from the crowd as if privileged by intimacy to speak with him. The first of these was Claude de l'Estang, whose hand he took and shook affectionately, though mournfully. The second was a tall thin ravenous-looking personage, with sharp-cut lengthened features, a keen, but somewhat unsettled, we might almost use the word phrenzied, eye, and an expression of countenance altogether neither very benevolent nor very prepossessing. He also took the Count's hand, saying, "I am glad to see thee, my son; I am glad to see thee. Thou art somewhat behind the time, and in this great day of backsliding and falling off I feared that even thou, one of our chief props and greatest lights, might have departed from us into the camp of the Philistines." "Fear not, Monsieur Chopel," replied the Count; "I trust there is no danger of such weakness on my part. I was detained to write a letter in answer to one from good Monsieur de Rouvré, who has suffered so much in our cause, and who, it seems, arrived at Ruffigny last night." "I know he did," said Claude de l'Estang; "but pray, my dear Albert, before either myself or our good brother, Monsieur Chopel, attempt to lead the devotions of the people, do you speak a few words of comfort and consolation to them, and above all things counsel them to peace and tranquil doings." The Count paused and seemed to hesitate for a moment. In truth, the task that was put upon him was not pleasant to him, and he would fain have avoided it; but accustomed to overcome all repugnance to that which was right, he conquered himself with scarcely a struggle, and advanced with Claude de l'Estang into the midst of the people, who made way with respectful reverence, as he sought for some slightly elevated point from which to address them more easily. Chopel and l'Estang, however, had chosen a sort of rude rock for their pulpit before he came, and having been led thither, the Count mounted upon it, and took off his hat, as a sign that he was about to speak. All voices were immediately hushed, and he then went on. "My brethren," he said, "we are here assembled to worship God according to our own consciences, and to the rules and doctrines of the reformed church. In so doing we are not failing in our duty to the King, who, as sovereign of these realms, is the person whom, under God, we are most bound to obey and reverence. It has seemed fit to his Majesty, from motives, upon which I will not touch, to withdraw from us much that was granted by his predecessors. He has ordered the temples in which we are accustomed to worship to be closed, so that on this, the Sabbath day, we have no longer any place of permitted worship but in the open air. That, however, has not been denied us; there is no prohibition to our meeting and praising God here, and this resource at least is allowed us, which, though it may put us to some slight inconvenience and discomfort, will not the less afford the sincere and devout an opportunity of raising their prayers to the Almighty, in company with brethren of the same faith and doctrines as themselves. We know that God does not dwell in temples made with hands; and I have only to remind you, my brethren, before giving place to our excellent ministers, who will lead our devotions this day, that the God we have assembled to worship is also a God of peace, who has told us, by the voice of his Son, not to revile those who revile us, nor smite those that smite us, but to bear patiently all things, promising that those who endure to the last shall be saved. I appointed this place," he continued, "for our meeting, because it was far from any town, and consequently we shall have few here from idle curiosity, and afford no occasion of offence to any man. I begged you earnestly to come unarmed also, as I myself have done, that there might be no doubt of our views and purposes being pacific. I am happy to see that all have followed this advice, I believe without exception, and also that there are several women amongst us, which, I trust, is a sign that, in the strait and emergency in which we now are, they will not abandon their husbands, their fathers, and their brothers, for any inducement, but continue to serve God in the faith in which they have been brought up." Having thus spoken, the Count gave place and descended amongst the people, retiring several steps from the little sort of temporary pulpit, and preparing to go through the service of the reformed church, as if he had been within the walls of the temple his father had built in Morseiul, and which was now ordered to be levelled with the ground. After a few words between Claude de l'Estang and Chopel, the latter mounted the pulpit and gave out a psalm, the ----, which he led himself, in a voice like thunder. The whole congregation joined; and though the verses that they repeated were in the simple unadorned words of the olden times, and the voices that sung them not always in perfect harmony, yet the sound of that melody in the midst of the desert had something strangely impressive, nay, even affecting. The hearts of a people that would not bow down before man, bowed down before God; and they who in persecution and despair had lost all trust on earth, in faith and hope raised their voices unto heaven with praise and adoration. When the psalm was over, and the minds of all men prepared for prayer, the clergyman who had given out the psalm, closing his eyes and spreading his hands, turned his face towards the sky and began his address to the Almighty. We shall not pause upon the words that he made use of here, as it would be irreverent to use them lightly; but it is sufficient to say, that he mingled many themes with his address that both Claude de l'Estang and the Count de Morseiul wished had been omitted. He thanked God for the trial and purification to which he had subjected his people: but in doing so, he dwelt so long upon, and entered so deeply into, the nature of all those trials and grievances and the source from which they sprang, pointed out with such virulent acrimony the tyranny and the persecution which the reformed church had suffered, and clothed so aptly, nay, so eloquently, his petitions against the persecutors and enemies of the church, in the sublime language of scripture, that the Count could not but feel that he was very likely to stir up the people to seek their deliverance with their own hand and think themselves fully justified by holy writ; or, at all events, to exasperate their already excited passions, and render the least spark likely to cast them into a flame. Albert of Morseiul was uneasy while this was proceeding, especially as the prayer lasted an extraordinary length of time, and he could not refrain from turning to examine the countenances of some of the persons present, in order to discover what was the effect produced upon them, especially as he saw a man, standing between him and the rock on which the preacher stood, grasp something under his cloak, as if the appearance of being unarmed was, in that case, not quite real. Near to him were one or two women wrapped up in the large grey cloaks of the country, and they obstructed his view to the right; but at some distance straight before him he saw the burly form of Virlay, the blacksmith, and close by him again the stern, but expressive, countenance of Armand Herval. Scattered round about, too, he remarked a considerable number of men with a single cock's feather stuck in the front of the hat, which, though bands of feathers and similar ornaments were very much affected, even by the lower classes of that period, was by no means a common decoration in the part of the country where he then was. Every thing, indeed, was peaceable and orderly in the demeanour of the crowd: no one pressed upon the other, no one moved, no one spoke, but each and all stood in deep silence, listening to the words of the minister; but they listened with frowning brows and stern dark looks, and the young Count felt thankful that the lateness of the hour, and the distance from any town, rendered it unlikely that the proceedings would be interrupted by the interference, or even appearance, of any of the Catholic authorities of the province. The prayer of the clergyman Chopel at length came to an end; and, as had been previously arranged between them, Claude de l'Estang, in turn, advanced. Another hymn was sung; and the ejected minister of Auron commenced, what was then called amongst the Huguenots of France, "the preaching in the desert." On mounting the rock that served them for a pulpit, the old man seemed a good deal affected; and twice he wiped away tears from his eyes, while he gazed round upon the people with a look of strong interest and affection, which every one present saw and felt deeply. He then paused for a moment in silent prayer, and, when it was concluded, took a step forward with the Bible open in his hand, his demeanour changed, the spirit of the orator upon him, and high and noble energy lighting up his eyes and shining on his lofty brow. "The nineteenth verse of the twenty-first chapter of St. Luke," he said, "In your patience possess ye your souls!" "My brethren, let us be patient, for to such as are so, is promised the kingdom of heaven. My brethren, let us be patient, for so we are taught by the living word of God. My brethren, let us be patient, for Christ was patient, even unto death, before us. What! shall we know that the saints and prophets of God have been scorned, and mocked, and persecuted, in all ages? what! shall we know that the apostles of Christ, the first teachers of the gospel of grace, have been scourged, and driven forth, and stoned and slain? what! shall we know that, for ages, the destroying sword was out, from land to land, against our brethren in the Lord? what! shall we know that he himself closed a life of poverty and endurance, by submitting willingly to insult, buffeting, and a torturing death?--and shall we not bear our cross meekly? What! I ask again, shall we know that the church of Christ was founded in persecution, built up by the death of saints, cemented by the blood of martyrs, and yet rose triumphant over the storms of heathen wrath; and shall we doubt that yet, even yet, we shall stand and not be cast down? Shall we refuse to seal the covenant with our blood, or to endure the reproach of our Lord even unto the last? "Yes, my brethren, yes! God will give you, and me also, grace to do so; and though 'ye shall be betrayed both by parents, and brethren, and kinsfolk, and friends, and some of you shall they cause to be put to death,' yet the faithful and the true shall endure unto the last, and 'in your patience possess ye your souls.' "But there is more required at your hands than patience, my brethren. There is constancy! perseverance in the way of the Lord! There must be no falling off in the time of difficulty or danger; there must be no hesitation in the service of our God. We have put our hands to the plough, and we must not look back. We have engaged in the great work, and we must not slacken our diligence. Remember, my brethren, remember, that the most fiery persecution is but the trial of our faith, and all who strive for a great reward, all who struggle for the glory of the kingdom of heaven, must be as gold ten times purified in the fire. Were it not so even,--were we not Christians,--had we not the word of God for our direction,--had we not the command of Christ to obey, where is the man amongst us that would falsify the truth, declare that thing wrong which he believed to be right, swear that he believed that which he knew to be false, put on the garb of hypocrisy and clothe himself with falsehood as with a garment, to shield himself from the scourge of the scorner or the sword of the persecutor? "If there be such a coward or such a hypocrite here, let him go forth from amongst us, and Satan, the father of lies, shall conduct him to the camp of the enemy. Where is the man amongst us, I say, that, were there nothing to restrain him but the inward voice of conscience, would show himself so base as to abandon the faith of his fathers, in the hour of persecution? "But when we know that we are right, when the word of God is our warrant, when our faith in Christ is our stay, when the object before us is the glory of God and our own salvation, who would be fool enough to barter eternal condemnation for the tranquillity of a day? Who would not rather sell all that he has, and take up his cross and follow Christ, than linger by the flesh-pots of Egypt, and dwell in the tents of sin? "Christ foretold, my brethren, that those who followed him faithfully should endure persecution to the end of the earth. He won us not by the promises of earthly glory, he seduced us not by the allurements of worldly wealth, he held out no inducement to our ambition by the promises of power and authority, he bribed not our pride by the hope of man's respect and reverence. Oh, no; himself, The Word of God, which is but to say all in one word, Truth; he told us all things truly; he laid before us, as our lot below, poverty, contempt, and scorn, the world's reproach, the calumny of the evil, chains, tortures, and imprisonment, contumely, persecution, and death. These he set before us as our fate, these he suffered as our example, these he endured with patience for our atonement! Those who became followers of Christ knew well the burden that they took up; saw the load that they had here to bear; and, strengthened by faith and by the Holy Spirit, shrunk not from the task, groaned not under the weight of the cross. They saw before their eyes the exceeding great reward,--the reward that was promised to them, the reward that is promised to us, the reward that is promised to all who shall endure unto the last,--to enter into the joy of our Master, to become a partaker of the kingdom reserved for him from before all worlds. "We must therefore, my brethren, endure; we must endure unto the last; but we must endure with patience, and with forbearance, and with meekness, and with gentleness; and 'it shall turn to us for a testimony,' it shall produce for us a reward. They may smite us here, and they may slay us, and they may bring us down to the dust of death; but he has promised that not a hair of our heads shall perish, and that in our patience shall we possess our souls. "The woe that he denounced against Jerusalem, did it not fall upon it? When the day of vengeance came, that all things written were to be fulfilled, did not armies compass it about, and desolation draw nigh unto it, and was not distress great in the land and wrath upon the people, and did not millions fall by the sword, and were not millions led away captives into all nations, and was not Jerusalem trodden down of the Gentiles, and was there one stone left upon another? "If, then, God, the God of mercy, so fulfilled each word, when kindled to exercise wrath; how much more shall he fulfil every tittle of his gracious promises to those that serve him? If, then, the prophecies of destruction have been fulfilled, so, also, shall be the prophecies of grace and glory, by Him whose words pass not away, though heaven and earth may pass away. For sorrows and endurance in time, he has promised us glory and peace in eternity; and for the persecutions which we now suffer, he gives to those, who endure unto the last, the recompence of his eternal joy. "With endurance we shall live, and with patience we shall possess our souls; and we--if we so do, serving God in this life under all adversities--shall have peace, the peace of God which passeth all understanding; joy, the joy of the Lord, who has trodden down his enemies; glory, the glory of the knowledge of God, when he cometh with clouds and great glory, and every eye shall see him, and they, also, which pierced him, and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him. Even so, Amen." The words of the preacher were poured forth rather than spoken. It seemed less like eloquence than like inspiration. His full, round, clear voice was heard through every part of his large auditory; not a word was lost, not a tone was indistinct, and the people listened with that deep stern silence which causes a general rustle, like the sighing of the wind, to take place through the multitude when he paused for a moment in his discourse, and every one drew deep the long-suppressed breath. In the same strain, and with the same powers of voice and gesture, Claude de l'Estang was going on with his sermon, when some sounds were heard at the farther part of the crowd, towards the spot where the scene was sheltered by the stunted wood we have mentioned: As those sounds were scarcely sufficient to give any interruption to the minister, being merely those apparently of some other persons arriving, the Count de Morseiul, and almost every one on that side of the preacher, remained gazing upon him as he went on with the same energy, and did not turn their heads to see what occasioned the noise. Those, however, who were on the opposite side, and who, when looking towards the minister, had at the same time in view the spot from which the sounds proceeded, were seen to gaze sternly from time to time in that direction; and once or twice, notwithstanding the solemn words they heard, stooped down their heads together, and spoke in whispering consultation. These appearances at length induced the Count de Morseiul to turn his eyes that way; when he beheld a sight, which at once made his blood boil, but made him thankful also that he had come in such guise as even to act as a restraint upon himself, having no arms of any kind upon him. At the skirt of the crowd were collected a party of eighteen or twenty dragoons, who were forcing their horses slowly in amongst the people, who drew back, and gazed upon them with looks of stern determined hatred. The purpose of the soldiers, indeed, seemed to be simply to insult and to annoy, for they did not proceed to any overt act of violence, and were so far separated from each other, in a disorderly manner, that it could only be supposed they came thither to find themselves sport, rather than to disperse the congregation by any lawful authority. The foremost of the whole party was the young Marquis de Hericourt, and Albert of Morseiul conceived, perhaps not unreasonably, that there might be some intention of giving him personal annoyance at the bottom of that young officer's conduct. Distinguished from the rest of the people by his dress, the Count was very plainly to be seen from the spot where De Hericourt was, and the young dragoon slowly made his way towards him through the press, looking at the people on either side with but ill-concealed signs of contempt upon his countenance. The Count determined, as far as possible, to set an example of patience; and when the rash youth came close up to him, saying aloud, "Ha, Monsieur de Morseiul, a lucky opportunity! I have long wished to hear a prêche," the Count merely raised his hand as a sign for the young man to keep silence, and pointed with his right hand to the pastor, who with an undisturbed demeanour and steady voice pursued his sermon as if not the slightest interruption had occurred, although the young dragoon on horseback in the midst of his people, was at that moment before him. De Hericourt was bent upon mischief, however. Rash to the pitch of folly, he had neither inquired nor considered whether the people were armed or not, but having heard that one of the preachings in the desert was to take place, he had come, unauthorised, for the purpose of disturbing and dispersing the congregation, not by the force of law, but by insult and annoyance, which he thought the Protestants would not dare to resist. He listened, then, for a moment or two to the words of Claude de l'Estang, seeming, for an instant, somewhat struck with the impressive manner of the old man; but he soon got tired, and, turning the bridle of his horse, as if to pass round the Count de Morseiul, he said again, aloud, "You've got a number of women here, Monsieur de Morseiul; pretty little heretics, I've no doubt! I should like to have a look at their faces." So saying, he spurred on unceremoniously, driving back five or six people before him, and caught hold of one of the women--whom we have noticed as standing not very far from the Count de Morseiul--trying, at the same time, to pull back the thick veil which was over her face. The Count could endure no longer, more especially as, in the grey cloak and the veil with which the person assailed by the dragoon was covered, he thought he recognised the dress of the lady he had formerly seen at the house of Claude de l'Estang. Starting forward then instantly to her side, he seized the bridle of De Hericourt's horse, and forced the animal back almost upon his haunches. The young officer stooped forward over his saddle bow, seeking for a pistol in his holster, and at the same moment addressing an insulting and contemptuous term to the Count. No sooner was it uttered, however, than he received one single buffet from the hand of Albert of Morseiul, which cast him headlong from his horse into the midst of the people. Every one was rushing upon him; his dragoons were striving to force their way forward to the spot; the voice of Claude de l'Estang, though exerted to its utmost power, was unheard; and in another instant the rash young man would have been literally torn to pieces by the people he had insulted. But with stern and cool self-possession the Count de Morseiul strode over him, and held back those that were rushing forward, with his powerful arms, exclaiming, in a voice of thunder,-- "Stand back, my friends, stand back! This is a private quarrel. I must have no odds against an adversary and a fellow-soldier. Stand back, I say! We are here man to man, and whoever dares to take him out of my hands is my enemy, not my friend. Rise, Monsieur de Hericourt," he said in a lower voice, "rise, mount your horse, and be gone. I cannot protect you a minute longer." Some of the Count's servants, who had been standing near, had by this time made their way up to him, and with their help he cleared the space around, shouting to the dragoons who were striving to come up, and had not clearly seen the transaction which had taken place, "Keep back, keep back!--I will answer for his life! If you come up there will be bloodshed!" In the mean time the young man had sprung upon his feet, his dress soiled by the fall, his face glowing like fire, and fury flashing from his eyes. "You have struck me," he cried, glaring upon the Count; "you have struck me, and I will have your blood." "Hush, Sir," said the Count, calmly. "Do not show yourself quite a madman. Mount your horse, and begone while you may! I shall be at the château of Morseiul till twelve o'clock tomorrow," he added in a lower voice. "Mount, mount!" he proceeded in a quicker manner, seeing some movements on the other side of the crowd of a very menacing kind; "Mount, if you would live and keep your soldiers' lives another minute!" De Hericourt sprang into the saddle, and, while the Count, in that tone of command which was seldom disobeyed, exclaimed, "Make way for him there; let no one impede him;" he spurred on quickly through the crowd, gathering his men together as he went. All eyes were turned to look after him, but the moment he and his troop were free from the people at the extreme edge of the crowd, he was seen to speak a word to the man at the head of the file. The soldiers immediately halted, faced round, and, carrying fire-arms as they did, coolly unslung their carbines. The first impulse of that part of the crowd nearest to the dragoons, was to press back, while those on the opposite side strove to get forward, headed by Virlay and Armand Herval. The crush in the centre was consequently tremendous, but the Count de Morseiul succeeded in casting himself between the female he had saved and the troopers. At the very moment that he did so, the dragoons raised their fusees to their shoulders, and fired at once into the midst of the compact mass of people. Every shot told; and one unfortunate young man, about two paces from the Count de Morseiul, received no less than four shots in his head and throat. A mingled yell of rage and agony rose up from the people, while a loud exulting laugh broke from the soldiery. But their triumph was only for a moment, for they were instantly assailed by a shower of immense stones which knocked one of the troopers off his horse, and killed him on the spot. Herval and Virlay, too, made their way round behind the rock on which the clergyman had been standing, and it now became apparent that, in that part of the crowd at least, arms were not wanting, for flash after flash broke from the dense mass of the advancing multitude, and swords and pikes were seen gleaming in the air. The troopers at length turned their horses and fled, but not before they had suffered tremendously. The Huguenots pursued, and with peculiar skill and knowledge of the country, drove them hither and thither over the moor. Some having mounted the horses which brought them thither, pursued them into spots that they could not pass, while some on foot defended the passes and ravines. The Count de Morseiul and his servants mounted instantly, and rode far and wide over the place, attempting to stop the effusion of blood, and being, in many instances, successful in rescuing some of the soldiery from the hands of the people and from the death they well deserved. Thus passed more than an hour, till seeing that the light was beginning to fail, and that the last spot of the sun was just above the horizon, the Count turned back to the scene of that day's unfortunate meeting, in the hope of rendering some aid and assistance to the wounded who had been left behind. He had by this time but one servant with him, and when he came to the spot where the meeting had been held, he found it quite deserted. The wounded and the dead had been carried away by those who remained; and, of the rest of the people who had been there, the greater part had been scattered abroad in pursuit of the fugitive soldiers, while part had fled in fear to their own homes. There was nothing but the cold grey rock, and the brown moor stained here and there with blood, and the dark purple streaks of the evening sky, and the east wind whistling mournfully through the thin trees. "I think, Sir," said the servant, after his master had paused for some moments in melancholy mood, gazing on the scene around, "I think, Sir, that I hear voices down by the water, where we put up the stork as we came." The Count listened, and heard voices too, and he instantly turned his horse thither. By the side of that dark water he found a melancholy group, consisting of none other but Claude de l'Estang and two female figures, all kneeling round or supporting the form of a third person, also a female, who seemed severely hurt. This was the sight which presented itself to the eyes of the Count from the top of the bank above; and, dismounting, he sprang down to render what assistance he could. His first attention was turned, of course, almost entirely to the wounded girl, whose head and shoulders were supported on the knee of one of the other women, while the pastor was pouring into her ear, in solemn tones, the words of hope and consolation--but they were words of hope and consolation referring to another world. The hand that lay upon her knee was fair and soft, the form seemed young and graceful; and, though the Count as he descended could not see her face, the novice's veil that hung from her head told him a sad tale in regard to the story of her life. He doubted not, from all he saw, that she was dying; and his heart sickened when he thought of the unhappy man who had brought her thither, and of what would be the feelings of his fierce and vehement heart when he heard the fate that had befallen her. He had scarcely time to think of it, for, ere he had well reached the bottom of the descent, the sound of a horse coming furiously along was heard, and Armand Herval paused on the opposite side of the dell, and gazed down upon the group below. It seemed as if instinct told him that there was what he sought; for, without going on to the moor, he turned his horse's rein down the descent, though it was steep and dangerous, and in a moment had sprung from the beast's back and was kneeling by her he had loved. It is scarcely to be told whether she was conscious of his presence or not, for the hand of death was strong upon her; but it is certain that, as he printed upon her hands the burning kisses of love in agony, and quenched them with his tears, it is certain that a smile came over her countenance before that last awful shudder with which the soul parted from the body for ever. After it was all over he gazed at her for a single instant without speaking. Every one present saw that he acted as if of right, and let him do what he would; and unpinning the veil from her long beautiful hair, he took and steeped it in the blood that was still, notwithstanding all that had been done to stanch it, welling from a deep wound in her breast, till every part of the fabric was wet with gore. He then took the veil, placed it in his brown, scarred bosom--upon his heart;--and raising his eyes and one hand to Heaven, murmured some words that were not distinctly heard. He had not uttered one audible sentence since he came up, but he now turned, and with a tone of intreaty addressed Claude de l'Estang. "The spirit will bless you, Sir," he said, "for giving her comfort in the hour of death! May I bear her to your house till eleven o'clock to-night, when I may remove her to her own abode?" "I must not refuse you, my poor young man," replied the clergyman. "But I fear that my house will be no safe resting-place, even for the dead, just now." Herval grasped his arm, and said, in a low but emphatic tone, "It is safe, Sir, against all the troops in Poitou. How long it may be so, I cannot tell; but as long as this arm can wield a sword, it shall not want defence. My Lord Count," he added, pointing to the dead body, "did I not hear that you meet her murderer to-morrow at noon?" "I know not the hour or place he may appoint," replied the Count in a low deep voice; "but we do meet! and there are things that call aloud for vengeance, Herval, which even I cannot forgive." The man laughed aloud, but that laugh was no voice of merriment. It was dreary, boding, horrible, and in good accordance with the circumstances and the scene. He replied nothing to the words of the Count, however, turning to the pastor and saying, "Now, Sir, now! If you will give shelter to the dead for but an hour or two, you shall win deep gratitude of the living." "Willingly," replied the pastor. "But then," he added, turning to one of the other two women who were present, "Who shall protect you home, dear lady?" "That will I do, at the risk of my life," said the Count; and the other woman, whom the pastor had not addressed, replied, "It will be better so. We have been too long absent already." Armand Herval had not noticed the brief words that were spoken, for he was gazing with an intense and eager look upon the fair countenance of the dead, with bitter anguish written in every line of his face. The pastor touched his arm gently, saying, "Now, my son, let me and you carry the body. We can pass through the wood unseen." But the other put him by, with his hand, saying, in a sad tone, "I need no help;" and then kneeled down by her side, he put his arms around her, saying, "Let me bear thee in my bosom, sweet child, once only, once before the grave parteth us, and ere it shall unite us again. Oh, Claire, Claire," he added, kissing her cold lips passionately, "Oh, Claire, Claire, was it for this I taught thee a purer faith, and brought thee hither to see the worship of the persecuted followers of the cross? Was it for this I bent down my nature, and became soft as a woman to suit my heart to yours? Oh, Claire, Claire, if I have brought thee to death, I will avenge thy death; and for every drop that falls from my eyes, I will have a drop of blood." "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!" the old man said in a low tone; "but let us haste, my son, for night is coming on fast. Farewell, lady. Albert, I trust them to thee. We shall meet again--if not here, in heaven!" Armand Herval took the corpse of the fair girl who had fallen, in his powerful arms, and bore her after the pastor towards the wood we have mentioned, while his horse, trained so to do, followed him with a regular pace, and entered the road through the copse immediately after him. Albert of Morseiul remained alone with the two ladies, his interposition in favour of one of whom had brought on the sad events which we have detailed. As soon as the pastor was gone, he advanced towards her, and held out both his hands with deep emotion. "I cannot be mistaken," he said. "The disguise might deceive any other eyes, but it cannot mine. Clémence! it must be Clémence! Am I not right?" She put her hands in his in return, saying, "Oh, yes, you are right! But what, what shall I do, Monsieur de Morseuil? I am faint and weary with agitation, and all this terrible scene. I have left the carriage that brought me hither at two or three miles' distance, and, perhaps, it too has gone away on the report of the fliers from this awful place." "I will send up my servant immediately," said the Count, "to see, and in the mean time rest here, Clémence. In this deep hollow we shall escape all passing eyes till his return, and you will have more shelter than any where else.--Where can the servant find the carriage?" Clémence, who had raised her veil, looked towards her companion to explain more fully than she could do. But her attendant, Maria--for such was the person who accompanied her--judging, perhaps, that a word spoken at such a moment between two people, situated as were Clémence de Marly and the Count de Morseiul, might have more effect than whole hours of conversation at another time, took upon herself the task of telling the servant, saying, "I can direct him, my Lord, better than any one. It were as well to bring your horse down here before he goes." The Count assented, and with a slow step she proceeded to fulfil her errand. "Clémence de Marly trembled not a little. She felt that the moment for the decision of her fate for life was come. She felt that her heart and her faith must be plighted to Albert of Morseiul at that moment, or, perhaps, never. She felt that if she did so plight it, she plighted herself to care, to grief, to anxiety, to danger,--perhaps to destruction,--perhaps to desolation. But that very feeling took away all hesitation, all scruple, and made her, in a moment, make up her mind to let him see her heart as it really was, to cast away from her every vain and every proud feeling, and to stand, before him she loved, without disguise. The Count, too, felt, and felt strongly, that this was a moment which must not be let pass; and the instant the attendant had quitted them, he raised the lady's hand to his lips, pressing on it a warm and passionate kiss. "Tell me, Clémence, tell me, dear Clémence," he said, "what is the meaning of this. What is the meaning of your presence here? Is it, is it that the only barrier which existed between us is removed? Is it that you are of the same faith as I am?" "Is that the only barrier, Albert?" she said, shaking her head somewhat reproachfully. "Is that the only barrier? You spoke of many." "I spoke of only one insurmountable," replied the Count, "and I believed that to be insurmountable, Clémence, for I was even then aware of the decree, which did not appear till afterwards, but which forbade the marriage of Catholics and Protestants." "And was that the only insurmountable one?" she demanded. "Was that the only insurmountable barrier to our union?--What, if I had previously loved another?" "And is it so, then?" demanded the Count, with somewhat of sadness in his tone. "And have you before loved another?" "No, no!" exclaimed Clémence eagerly, and placing the hand which she had withdrawn in his again; "No, no! The woman was coming over me once more, but I will conquer the woman. No, I never did love another. Even if I had fancied it, I should now know, Albert, by what I feel at this moment, how idle such a fancy had been. But I never did fancy it. I never did believe it, even in the least degree; and now that I have said all that I can say, whatever may happen, never doubt me, Albert. Whatever you see, never entertain a suspicion. I have never loved another, and I can say nothing more." "Yes, yes! Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, "you can say more, Clémence. Say that you love me." She bent down her head, and Albert of Morseiul drew her gently to his bosom. "Say it! Say it, dear Clémence!" he said. Clémence hesitated, but at length she murmured something that no other ear but his could have heard, had it been ever so close. But he heard, and heard aright, that her reply was, "But too well!" The Count sealed the words upon her lips with his, and Clémence de Marly hid her eyes upon his shoulder, for they were full of tears. "And now," she added, raising them after a moment with one of her own sparkling smiles, "and now, having said those awful words, of course I am henceforth a slave. But this is no scene for jest, Albert. Desolation and destruction is round us on every side, I fear." "It matters not," replied the Count, "if thy faith is the same as mine is----" "It is, it is!" cried Clémence. "It may have wavered, Albert; but, thanks to yon good creature who has just left us, the light has never been wholly extinguished in my mind. My mother was a Protestant, and in that faith she brought me up. She then, knowing that I must fall into other hands, left Maria with me, with charges to me never to let her quit me. I was but a child then," she continued, "and they forced me to abjure. But their triumph lasted not an hour, for though I dared not show my feelings, I always felt that the path on which they would lead me was wrong, and strove, whenever I could, to return to a better way. To-day I came here at all risks, but I fear very much, Albert, I fear that destruction, and oppression, and grief, surround us on every side." "If thy faith be the same as mine, Clémence," said the Count, "if thy heart be united with mine, I will fear nothing, I will dare all. If they will not suffer us to live in peace in this our native land, fortunately I have just transmitted to another country enough to support us in peace, and tranquillity, and ease.--And yet, oh yet, Clémence," he continued, his tone becoming sadder and his countenance losing its look of hope, "and yet, oh yet, Clémence, when I think of that unhappy man who has just left us, and of the fair girl whose corpse he has now borne away in his arms;--when I remember that scarcely more than eight days have passed since he was animated with the same hopes that I am, founding those hopes upon the same schemes of flight, and trusting more than I have ever trusted to the bright hereafter,--when I think of that, and of his present fate, the agony that must now be wringing his heart, the dark obscurity of his bitter despair, I tremble to dream of the future, not for myself, but for thee, sweet girl. But we must fall upon some plan both of communicating when we will, and of acting constantly on one scheme and for one object. Here comes your faithful attendant. She must know our situation and our plans--only one word more. You have promised me this," he continued, once more raising her hand to his lips. "When and where you will," replied Clémence. "And you will fly with me, whenever I find the opportunity of doing so?" "I will," she answered. The attendant had now approached, and the Count took a step towards her, still holding Clémence by the hand, as if he feared to lose the precious boon she had bestowed upon him. "She is mine, Madame," he said, addressing the attendant. "She is mine, by every promise that can bind one human being to another." "And you are hers?" demanded the attendant solemnly. "And you are hers, my Lord Count, by the same promises?" "I am, by every thing I hold sacred," said the Count, raising his hand towards Heaven, "now and for ever, till death take me from her. But ere we can be united, I fear, I fear that many things must be undergone. Alas, that I should recommend it! but she must even conceal her faith: for, from the cruel measures of the court, even now death or perpetual imprisonment in some unknown dungeon is the only fate reserved for the relapsed convert, as they call those who have been driven to embrace a false religion, and quitted it in renewed disgust. But I must trust to you to afford me the means of communicating with her at all times. The only chance for us, I fear, is flight." "It is the only one! it is the only one!" replied the maid. "Fly with her to England, my Lord. Fly with her as speedily as possible. Be warned, my Lord, and neither delay nor hesitate. The edge of the net is just falling on you. If you take your resolution at once, and quit the land before a week be over, you may be safe; but if you stay longer, every port in France will be closed against you." "I will make no delay," replied the Count. "Her happiness and her safety are now committed to my charge; inestimable trusts, which I must on no account risk. But I have some followers and dependants to provide for, even here. I have some friends to defend; and I must not show myself remiss in that; or she herself would hardly love me. It were easy, methinks, however, for you and your mistress to make your escape at once to England, and for me to join you there hereafter." "Oh no, my lord, I fear not!" replied the maid. "I do not think Monsieur de Rouvré himself would object to her marrying you and flying. He shrewdly suspects, I think, that she is Protestant at heart; but he would never yield to her flying herself. But, hark! I hear horses coming. Let us draw back and be quiet." "There is no sound of carriage-wheels, I fear," said Clémence, listening. "Oh, Albert, all this day's sad events have quite overpowered me; and I dread the slightest sound." The Count pressed her hand in his, and, as was usual with him in moments of danger, turned his eyes towards his sword-belt, forgetting that the blade was gone. The sound of horses' feet approaching rapidly, however, still continued; and, at length, a party of four persons, whose faces could not be well distinguished in the increasing darkness, stopped exactly opposite the spot where a little rough road led down into the hollow where the lovers were. One of the riders sprang to the ground in a moment, and, leaving his horse with the others, advanced, exclaiming aloud,-- "Hollo! Ho! Albert de Morseiul! Hollo! where are you?" "It is the voice of the Chevalier d'Evran," cried Clémence, clinging closer to her lover, as if with some degree of fear. "I think it is," said the Count; "but fear not! He is friendly to us all. Draw down your veil, however, my beloved; it is not necessary that he should see and know you." With the same shout the Chevalier continued to advance towards them, and the Count took a step or two forward to meet him. But, shaking his friend warmly by the hand, the Chevalier passed on at once to the lady, and, to the surprise of the Count, addressed her immediately by her name: "Very pretty, indeed, Mademoiselle Clémence!" he said; "this is as dangerous a jest, I think, as ever was practised." Clémence hesitated not a moment, but replied at once, "It is no jest, Sir! It is a dangerous reality, if you will." "Poo, poo, silly girl," cried the Chevalier. "By the Lord that lives, you will get yourself into the castle of Pignerol, or the Bastille, or some such pleasant abode! I have come at full speed to bring you back." "Stay yet a minute, Louis," said the Count somewhat gravely. "There is another person to be consulted in this business, whom you do not seem to recollect. Mademoiselle de Marly is, for the time, under my protection; and you know we delegate such a duty to no one." "My dear Count," replied the Chevalier, "the good Duc de Rouvré will doubtless be infinitely obliged to you for the protection you have given to this fair lady; but having sent me to find her and bring her back, I must do so at once; and will only beg her to be wise enough to make no rash confessions as she goes. The affair, as far as she is concerned, is a jest at present: it is likely, I hear, to prove a serious jest to others. I left your man, who directed me hither, to bring up the carriage as far as possible: and now, Mademoiselle Clémence, we will go, with your good pleasure." The tone of authority in which the Chevalier spoke by no means pleased Albert of Morseiul, who felt strong in his heart the newly acquired right of mutual love to protect Clémence de Marly himself. He was not of a character, however, to quarrel with his friend lightly, and he replied, "Louis, we are too old friends for you to make me angry. As your proposal of conveying Mademoiselle de Marly back in her own carriage, coincides with what we had previously arranged, of course I shall not oppose it; but equally, of course, I accompany her to Ruffigny." "I am afraid that cannot be, Albert," answered the Chevalier; and the resolute words, "It must be!" had just been uttered in reply, when Clémence interfered. "It is very amusing, gentlemen," she said in her ordinary tone of scornful playfulness, "it is very amusing, indeed, to hear you calmly and quietly settling a matter that does not in the least depend upon yourselves. You forget that I am here, and that the decision must be mine. Monsieur le Chevalier, be so good as not to look authoritative, for, depend upon it, you have no more power here than that old hawthorn stump. Monsieur de Rouvré cannot delegate what he does not possess; and as I have never yet suffered any one to rule me, I shall not commence that bad practice to-night. You may now tell me, in secret, what are your motives in this business; but, depend upon it, that my own high judgment will decide in the end." "Let it!" replied the Chevalier; and bending down his head, he whispered a few words to Clémence in a quick and eager manner. She listened attentively, and when he had done, turned at once to the Count de Morseiul, struggling to keep up the same light manner, but in vain. "I fear," she said, "Monsieur de Morseiul, that I must decide for the plan of the Chevalier, and that I must lay my potent commands upon you not to accompany or follow me. Nay more, I will forbid your coming to Ruffigny tomorrow; but the day after, unless you hear from me to the contrary, you may be permitted to inquire after my health." Albert of Morseiul was deeply mortified; too much so, indeed, to reply in any other manner than by a stately bow. Clémence saw that he was hurt; and, though some unexplained motive prevented her from changing her resolution, she cast off reserve at once, and holding out her hand to him, said aloud, notwithstanding the presence of the Chevalier, "Do you forgive me, Albert?" Though unable to account for her conduct, the Count felt that he loved her deeply still, and he pressed his lips upon her hand warmly and eagerly, while Clémence added in a lower tone, but by no means one inaudible to those around who chose to listen, "Have confidence in me, Albert! Have confidence in me, and remember you have promised never to doubt me whatever may happen. Oh, Albert, having once given my affection, believe me utterly incapable of trifling with yours even by a single thought." "I will try, Clémence," he replied; "but you must own there is something here to be explained." "There is!" she said, "there is; and it shall be explained as soon as possible; but, in the mean time, trust me! Here comes the servant, I think: the carriage must be near." It was as she supposed; and the Count gave her his arm to assist her in climbing back to the level ground above, saying, at the same time in a tone of some coldness which he could not conquer, "As the lady has herself decided, Chevalier, I shall not of course press my attendance farther than to the carriage door; but have you men enough with you to insure her safety? It is now completely dark." "Quite enough!" replied the Chevalier, "quite enough, Albert;" and he fell into silence till they reached the side of the vehicle, dropping, however, a few yards behind Clémence and her lover. Every moment of existence is certainly precious, as a part of the irrevocable sum of time written against us in the book of life; but there is no occasion on which the full value of each instant is so entirely felt, in which every minute is so dear, so treasured, so inestimable in our eyes, as when we are about to part with her we love. Albert of Morseuil felt that it was so; and in the few short moments that passed ere they reached the carriage, words were spoken in a low murmuring tone, which, in the intensity of the feelings they expressed and excited, wrought more deeply on his heart and hers, than could the passage of long indifferent years. They were of those few words spoken in life that remain in the ear of memory for ever. The fiery hand that, at the impious feast, wrote the fate of the Assyrian in characters of flame, left them to go out extinguished when the announcement was complete; but the words that the hand of deep and intense passion writes upon firm, high, and energetic hearts, remain for ever, even unto the grave itself. Those moments were brief, however, and Clémence and her attendant were soon upon their way; the Chevalier sprang upon his horse, and then held out his hand frankly to the Count. "Albert," he said, laughing, "I have never yet beheld so great a change of Love's making as that which the truant boy has wrought in thee. Thou wouldst even quarrel with thy oldest and dearest companion--thou who art no way quarrelsome. You have known me now long, Albert; love me well still. If you have ever seen me do a dishonest act, cast me off; if not, as I heard Clémence say just now--trust me!" and thus saying, he galloped off, without waiting for any reply. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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