Chapter 1:
THE SHADOW OF DEATH
ON A SULTRY SUMMER'S DAY, seven hundred years ago, a little girl stood at a street door in one of the close, narrow alleys of a Flemish town. Her dress indicated poverty, though not neglect.
Other children were playing near. She heard their voices, and looked at them for a few moments with curiosity and interest in her large blue eyes, but apparently she had no wish to join their sports.
Far more earnestly she gazed to the right, where the long alley terminated in a broader street, where a stream of intense vivid sunlight illuminated a corner of the shaded alley, with' a Madonna in her niche, as well as the quaint carvings that adorned the house of rich Messer Andreas the weaver. What would little Arlette have given to see one figure that she knew turn from the sunshine into the shadow! Young as she was, she had already learned one of woman's saddest lessons— watching.
"Child, where art thou?" moaned a faint voice from within the house.
In another instant she stood by the bedside of her dying mother. All too surely had. Death, that great king, sealed those wasted features with his own signet, that the purpose might not be changed concerning her.
Yet, to judge by the calm that overspread them, he was in this instance no king of terrors— no king, but a servant rather, a herald of the "King immortal, invisible," sent from. His presence to summon one of His children home.
“Thou seest no one, child?”
“No, Mother. Tomorrow— perhaps tomorrow he will come.”
But the child's faith in tomorrow failed to communicate itself to the dying woman.
“No one," she continued, without heeding the words of Arlette, "no one,— and it is well. Though long and sore has been the conflict, I can now say it is well. My child, when he comes, tell him we shall meet above;— tell him that I waited— waited just to look in his face once more, and to say good-by; but now the call has come, and I must go. As for thee—”
She paused, and a look of exhaustion passed over her face. The little girl did not weep but maintained the quiet self-possession of an older person.
“Arlette, I must ask thee a hard thing. Wilt thou do it for me?" She raised herself slightly, and fixed her dark eyes earnestly on the sorrowing child.
“Mother, I will do anything— anything!”
“My child, listen to me. Look in my face, and tell me that if I grow worse, as it must be, thou wilt not fear.”
“Fear what, Mother?”
“Fear to stand thus beside me quite alone— thy hand in mine— none other with us save the great God above who is with us always.”
Arlette did not speak. Her face was very pale and her lips were compressed.
“Promise me, child of my heart, promise me that happen what may, thou wilt call no one, bring no one here.”
Arlette looked up quickly. "Save our good neighbor, the Vrow Cristine, who hath been so kind and helpful to us?”
“No, child, not even Cristine. Thou canst not understand. And yet perchance thou canst, for sorrow hath been thy teacher, and she teaches well and quickly. If Cristine comes to sit beside me when I lie senseless she will say within herself, 'Now I can fetch the priest and make all right for my poor neighbor. And he will come and pray his blasphemous prayers and pour his useless oil upon my brow. Then, Arlette, we shall have touched the accursed thing, and when thy father knows it, it will break his heart.”
Arlette did not answer immediately. She stood pale and motionless, her eyes fixed on her mother's face. At last she said in a low resolved tone, "That shall never be, Mother.”
And as she spoke, the self-command so unnatural for her years gave way, and with true childlike sorrow she wept and wailed, "Mother! Mother!”
“Poor child, poor little one," said the mother soothingly.
The child soon conquered her tears and sobs, and sat down quietly in the dark corner beside her mother's couch. But her frame still quivered with suppressed emotion. What a long, long day it was, and how unlike any other day in her brief experience of life!
Her mother slumbered uneasily from time to time, and would then talk of strange things that she could not understand, sometimes speaking to the absent father as if he were near her, and again wailing feebly that he would not come. But happily for Arlette, these wanderings, which filled her with terror, did not continue. As evenings drew on, the dying woman lay calm and still. At last sleep came, not like the feverish slumbers of the day, but quiet and restful, "as if upon the spirit worn distilled some healing balm.”
The little watcher kept her place, from which, for some hours, she had only moved to smooth her mother's pillow or to bring a cooling drink to her lips. And now she feared to disturb her by a motion or a breath.
The kind-hearted Cristine, wife of their neighbor the fuller, came to the door with inquiries, which Arlette answered in a low voice.
“She sleeps, sayest thou?" said the hearty, good-natured Vrow in a tolerably loud whisper, and pushing the door a little more open. "Poor child, art thou not lonely and afraid? Let me come in and sit with thee awhile.”
In her heart Arlette longed' to accept the proffered companionship, but mindful of her promise she declined it firmly though gratefully.
“Is there naught I can do for thee? Wouldst thou not have me call the leech? He is a good man and right friendly to the poor. Bless thee, child, if thy mother feared' to summon him because she had little to give, Messer Franz would rather leave a mark behind him with such as thou than take it from thee.”
“He hath been here," returned Arlette sadly. "He came this morning, and said there was nothing more that he could do now.”
“Ah, I see." As softly as she could the good woman stepped into the room. When she beheld the white, still face on the pillow, the expression of her own changed, and she sighed and shook her head. She spoke again to Arlette, but without looking at her. "My little one, it were well, methinks, to fetch the holy father, that he may pray beside her, and do what is right for her poor soul. There, there," seeing that the child looked pale and frightened, "I did not mean to grieve thee; but we must think of the soul that has to live forever.”
“My father is coming home," said the child timidly. "We must wait for him.”
“Thy father!" repeated Vrow Cristine in some surprise. "God grant he may come, but, my poor child—”
“There is one nigh that wilt not wait for him," she was about to add, but unwillingness to terrify Arlette kept her silent.
After, making her promise to call her if she needed help, she withdrew to consult with her husband whether they might not take her to their own home, when a few short hours had made her an orphan.
Meanwhile the light of the long summer day began to fade, and in the dusk Arlette trembled with vague terror. All the familiar objects in the little room looked strange and ghastly in the uncertain twilight. When she turned from them to gaze at the dear face on the pillow, gleaming white through the darkness, that too seemed changed. Was it indeed her mother— her own mother, that she loved, and from whom she had never been separated? Would she not speak to her, look at her again? Was she— she could not for worlds have uttered the word that was in her thoughts. Her heart almost stood still in its terror. She bowed her head and hid her face in the coverlet, not only in sorrow, but in fear— an awful fear that seemed to oppress her like a heavy weight, and stifled a cry that had almost passed her lips unawares.
Beyond utterance was the sense of relief with which she heard footsteps, supposing the kind Vrow Cristine was coming once more to offer help and companionship. Surely, just for a little while, she might let her stay.
“But no," she thought immediately, "it is a man's footstep— perhaps it is the fuller, Cristine's husband." Anyone would have been welcome now, any one save perhaps a dark-robed priest.
It was neither priest nor fuller nor physician. A few hasty strides brought into the room a tall, gaunt man, long robed, wearing wooden sandals, to whose arms Arlette sprang with a passionate cry, "My father!"
Chapter 2:
THE VOICE OF THE PAST
ON THE EVENING OF THE, NEXT DAY, Robert the Wanderer (for such was the name by which Arlette's father was generally known), sat in that little room, as silent and nearly as motionless as the form that lay, draped in, spotless white, on the couch before him. His eye might have rested, at the same moment upon the treasure God had recalled and the treasure He had still left him; for Arlette, worn out by watching and by tears, had sunk to sleep beside her mother, the warm cheek of the living almost touching the cold features of the dead.
Robert did look on her long and thoughtfully; in mourning for the dead he mourned also for the living. Bitter self-reproach mingled with his sorrow. There was some ground for the feeling, though not so much as in the anguish of his first hour of bereavement he fancied.
Robert the Wanderer was the son of a prosperous tradesman of Ghent. His father destined him for the Church, and being naturally studious and thoughtful he gladly acquiesced in the plan. He had nearly completed the necessary course of preparation, when he formed the acquaintance of a stranger from southern Germany, an earnest, eloquent man, resembling in his dress a wandering monk, yet with some differences, in his manners simple, austere and grave, and speaking of invisible realities as one who had felt their power.
With this friend (who in truth belonged to the sect then called the Cathari), young Robert held long conferences, and finally borrowed from him his most precious treasure, a manuscript copy of the Gospels, which he usually kept concealed beneath his robe of dark serge. In his lonely chamber the student perused this volume, and often he wept and prayed over its contents in sorrowful perplexity until the night was far advanced. For all the ideas of his childhood and youth had received a mighty shock. From the conversations of his friend and the lessons of his book he began to suspect that the vast superstructure which he called "the Church" was built upon a shifting foundation of sand.
God gave him courage and honesty (it was no small gift) not at this point to close the book and to stifle the misgivings that tortured his soul, but rather steadfastly to resolve that he would sift the matter to the bottom, that he would follow on to know the truth and then abide in it. Thus the distinguishing tenets of Romanism— purgatory, penance, image-worship, invocation of saints, justification by works— were one by one loosened and cast off from his spirit, "like worn-out fetters.”
But then arose the question, So much cast away, what should he retain as truth? Was all faith superstition? Was certainty impossible to man? Was he indeed doomed to doubt and perplexity, or might he somewhere discover a "great rock foundation," upon which he might safely build his hopes of immortality?
It has been said that, "when the mortal, in the moment between his first sigh and his last smile, between the lightning of life and the thunder of death, finds his Christ, he is already at the goal and has lived enough." Some such feeling filled the soul of Robert, when he found in the person of Christ all that his nature needed— truth to satisfy his intellect, love to fill his heart.
He accepted Christ as his Savior, his Guide and his Teacher, relying on the promise, "He that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life"; thus following, he was taught to choose the good and to refuse the evil, good meaning with him that which sprang from Christ as its center and led to Him as its end, and evil being all that came from self or terminated in self. His friend aided him by his counsels and his prayers, and rejoiced with him when he found light and peace.
“And now," he said, as Robert joyfully confessed his faith, "what wilt thou do, my friend?”
The young disciple was not prepared with an answer to this inquiry. It had not indeed occurred to him that any particular course of action was a necessary consequence of his change. But as he pondered, he felt that it would now be impossible for him to live as he would otherwise have done, and that he must choose his part, or else prove a traitor to Him whom he loved and desired to serve.
Kneeling in his chamber, he prayed, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?" Events, which Pascal calls "masters sent to us from the hand of God," answered the question for him.
His absence from the rites of the Church brought him under suspicion. He was questioned by his family, and felt himself obliged to avow his faith. "Heresy" was then a new and strange phenomenon to the good people of Ghent, but they regarded it with vague horror. To save his life, the suspected one was forced to fly. In company with his friend, the German missionary, Robert quit his native city forever, and determined to devote the remainder of his life to the task of imparting the truths he had found so precious.
“As a son with a father," he labored with his aged companion in the gospel, passing from town to town and from village to village sowing the good seed "here a little and there a little.”
After some years he chanced to become acquainted at Bruges with 'a man who proved to be a native of his own city, and also a fellow-craftsman and friend of his father's. While traveling homewards with his family, this man had been detained at Bruges by an infectious fever, one of those pestilences which so often walked on their silent deadly way through the ill-cleansed and ill-ventilated alleys of the medieval cities. His wife and two sons fell victims to the disorder, and not long afterward the broken-hearted father followed them to the grave, not, however, until through the teaching of Robert he was enabled to rejoice in a hope full of immortality.
A fair and gentle girl was thus left the sole survivor of the family. Friendless and unprotected in a strange city, what could she do but weep and pray that if the prayer were not a sinful one, she might soon be permitted to rejoin her parents? She had some relatives in Ghent, but the short journey was then more formidable, more impracticable for a lonely girl than a voyage to the ends of the earth would be in the present day.
Robert showed unwearied kindness and sought in every way to aid and comfort her and from the compassion that prompted these efforts the transition to a different sentiment is proverbially easy. He might, if he had so desired, have found means to send her safely to her friends in Ghent, but another course of action occurred to his mind, which he so far preferred that he found no difficulty in persuading himself that he ought to adopt it. No vow bound him. The laws of Rome forbidding marriage he regarded as vain traditions of men, and considered the strongest ties of human affection by no means inconsistent with his calling as a laborer in the vineyard of the Lord.
Robert, the wanderer and the outcast, who knew not and must never know the true meaning of the word home, needed no other commentary upon the declaration, "such shall have trouble in the flesh," than that supplied by the short sad life of her who lay before him in her shroud. The missionary's wife had been happier even in distress and danger, in manifold perplexities and anxieties, than had she possessed all the wealth and enjoyment that earth could give. Sometimes, when his heart was cast down within him, he had been told so with loving words and looks, of which the remembrance almost brought a tear to his burning eyelids.
At another hour he would feel and understand that this was indeed but the simple truth, but now his heart was too sorrowful to be just to itself. Forgetting the joy they two had had together, and even the blessed knowledge he had been privileged to impart to his beloved one, he only remembered the perils into which he had drawn her, and the many cares she had endured for him, which perchance had shortened as well as embittered her life.
And the living link that still remained between him and the dead, his child— his precious beautiful child— as he gazed on her sleeping form his trouble "did not pass but grew," the clouds of sorrow waxed darker and darker around him. Arlette, the missionary's child, was not wanted in the world! Well would it be if she joined her mother in that home where there are "many mansions," for elsewhere there seemed to be no place for her.
The kind Vrow Cristine, when she came into the darkened room that morning to perform the last sad Offices for the departed, had indeed more than hinted that the child was welcome to share the home and the bread of her little ones as long as her father wished; but how could he consent to this? How could he surrender her to the care of those who professed a soul-destroying faith, of those whose 'mistaken kindness would lead them to induce her to submit to influences which he regarded with abhorrence the most intense? Rather a thousand times would he see her laid in the grave beside her mother than thus peril the interests of her immortal soul. Another alternative remained. He considered it long and anxiously, and finally resolved that, with God's good help, he would embrace it.
“Arlette, my child, awake; thou hast slumbered long enough." The little sleeper started; and looked up; it 'Was her father's voice that spoke, and her father's form that bent lovingly over her. Her first sensation was one of joy at his return.
“Yes," she thought, "he is here indeed, the long-watched-for, the beloved; he will not leave us again, we are safe now in his care— We!”—
In a moment all the anguish of the past came over her, and she knew too surely that her mother was no more.
“Mother! Mother!" she cried from the depths of her heart. Weeping, sobbing, shivering, she threw herself upon the dead. Tenderly and silently her father raised her, clasped her in his strong arms and held her close to his heart. There at last the passion of her grief spent itself, and she grew calm, though almost exhausted. She began to observe his dress, the room, the shadows on the wall, and in a weary half listless way to wonder why he did not weep too. With an effort she raised herself a little, and looked up in his face. It was white and rigid, and terrible as the face of one who has seen a horror he can never reveal and never forget.
As he spoke to her, and in a low quiet voice, the dread she felt vanished quite away before the dear familiar tones, which seemed gentler than ever. He said, "By-and-by I will bring thee to thy friend Vrow Cristine. Thou, shalt stay with her to-night.”
“Why so, Father? I would rather stay with thee.”
“Not now, my child. I have— I have work to do." The words were spoken with an evident effort, and the strong man trembled.
“Bid farewell to Cristine and to thy little playfellows, Arlette, for tomorrow thou shalt go hence with me.”
She looked up with, surprise and interest. "Yes, my poor child. God has left us two alone in the world, and with His good help nothing but death shall part us.”
“And wilt thou take me with thee to the strange lands where thou goest, my father?”
“Even so. It will be a rough uncertain life for such as thou, but if love and care can make it easy to thee, God knows they shall not fail. Thou art my sole treasure now." A burning tear fell on the child's forehead. With a child's art she answered by a kiss. Carefully instructed in the Scriptures, it was not unnatural that the story of Ruth should occur to her at the moment.
“I will be thy Ruth to thee, Father," she said softly. 'Where thou goest, I will go; where thou lodgest, I will lodge.'”
“And thy father's God shall be thine, my precious child.”
“There is more in the verse, Father. Let me say it all. 'Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”
“God forbid!" escaped almost involuntarily from the lips of Robert. But he added a moment afterward, "Yet His will be done.. He knoweth what is best for thee and me." After a short interval the good-natured face of Cristine appeared at the door. "So please you, neighbor, I have come for the she said, "and my husband hath summoned thy friend as thou desiredst. He will be here soon.”
“God reward thee, my kind friend," replied Robert heartily, as he took her hand.
The good woman hesitated for a moment, and then said in a tone of mild, almost deferential expostulation, "I know well, Master Robert, that thou art a wise man, and I am only a simple woman. Still the neighbors will talk amongst themselves even if I keep silence, and in good sooth, master, 'twould be hard to disprove what they whisper, when never a priest—”
“No more of this now, good Cristine, as thou pitiest my sorrow," Robert interrupted. "But ere I leave this place, for leave it I must tomorrow, if I may, I would talk for an hour with thee and thy husband.”
“And right welcome, neighbor. Now, my pretty one, come with me. The children have wanted thee all day.”
“Father, dear Father," whispered Arlette, "may I not stay?”
“It cannot be, my child. Go now with Cristine. I will come for thee very early tomorrow, I promise it.”
Thanks to the strong habit of obedience, Arlette almost instinctively and without a perceptible effort put her hand within Cristine's, and quietly left the room. Had she guessed why they wished her to go, not so calmly would she have turned away without even one last look at the face of the dead.
Yet it was better that she should be spared the agonizing farewell, the bitter parting with the precious dust, even though the empty room looked so strangely cold and desolate next morning, and the sad surprise cost her more tears than she had ever wept before.
Chapter 3:
THE END
ALL THROUGH THE LONG SUMMER DAY the rain poured heavily and without intermission. Not far from what was even then the flourishing city of Cologne, in' a very lonely spot, which could be reached only by intricate by-paths', stood a deserted and' partly ruined barn. Its desolate appearance, and the silence that reigned undisturbed daring the day-time, together with the unfrequency of light streaming through its windows in hours of darkness, would have given rise 'to no suspicions that it was used as a dwelling-place. Such was the case, although its only occupant was Arlette. She was one year older than when she watched beside her dying mother. She has mourned her mother, not alone as some children mourn, with sudden sharp gushes of sorrow, but also with quiet inner thoughts and silent tears, an utter loneliness stealing over her sometimes amidst her play, or when she looked at beautiful scenes or places, or even when she felt very happy. For she was still a child, and not seldom a happy and playful child.
Her father's watchful love had shielded her as much as possible from the dangers and hardships of their wandering life, and for a thoughtful and imaginative nature like hers, that life had its own' peculiar and exquisite enjoyments.
Even the necessity of passing whole days in solitude did not press very heavily upon her. There were weary and sorrowful hours, but there were many bright ones too, for she belonged to that class of children who can surround themselves at pleasure with a fairy world of their own creation.
As she sat on a bench in a corner of that strange and crude dwelling, she busied herself with a goodly heap of field flowers, gathered on the previous day before the rain had begun to fall. She did not merely arrange them, nor did she throw them aimlessly about as children so often do. They were rather her playfellows than her playthings. She talked to them, with them, for them, invested them with ideal characters, made them the heroes and heroines of a little drama, which, to judge by her earnest face and kindling eyes, she acted out with intense interest.
Suddenly recalled from her imaginary world to that of reality (though the one was to her nearly as unreal as the other), Arlette threw the flowers from her lap and rushed to the door. Two men, in dark serge robes and sandals, stood outside in the drenching rain.
She admitted them at once, though with a look of disappointment soon followed by an eager question, "Where is my father?”
“He comes soon, my little one," answered the elder, kindly. "Stand aside, child, lest we make thee as wet as ourselves.”
“Ah, Father Heinz," replied the little girl, "I would I might have kindled a fire ere your return, but I durst not.”
“Right, my child; it is not for such as thou to meddle with flint and fire.”
“Not so," returned Arlette with a look of intelligence. "Oft have I kindled a fire; but my father said he feared the light might betray us.”
“True, Brother Robert is always prudent. He would not have us venture the fire.”
“Except in cases of necessity," said his companion, who stood yet upon the threshold wringing out his drenched garments.
“Cold winter nights were worse than this. What we bore then we can bear now," returned Heinz, betaking himself to the same employment, while Arlette hurried within to make, what little preparations she could for their comfort.
“On such a night as, this the flame could scarce be seen," rejoined Wilhelm, the younger of the two; "and we know not of any special cause for alarm.”
Heinz shook his head. "Better to suffer wet and cold for a few hours, than to fall into the cruel hands of the townsfolk of Cologne.”
“Better neither," said Wilhelm, who was still a young man, light-hearted and sometimes rather imprudent.
“Wait at least for Robert and for Father Johan, and let us hear their minds," said Heinz.
“Nay," returned his companion, "let us do it at once if it is to be done at all.”
Heinz was accustomed to permit Wilhelm to take the lead in trifling matters, so after one more doubtful remonstrance, he allowed him to follow his own course, and the fire was soon blazing cheerily. If indeed there was danger, it seemed but slight and distant, while the comfort was present and very real. Wilhelm did not like discomfort. He would have borne torture and death without a murmur, rather, than sacrifice one iota, of what he believed to be the truth. But he felt keenly, and did not always so unmurmuringly, endure, the lesser trials of his wandering life, the daily privations that had nothing in them sublime or heroic, and which 'he sometimes forgot were just as much ingredients in the cup appointed for him as the dungeon or the stake.
They had not stood long drying their garments at the fire, and talking over their missionary work in the streets and alleys of the great town and the more secluded hamlets around, when the watchful Arlette sprang once' more to the door, and joyfully admitted her father with the aged Johan, the missionary who had been the means of his conversion at Ghent, and who was, in fact, the patriarch of the little band.
Quick to observe the changes of the face she so loved, the little girl thought her father looked unusually grave and sad. He kissed her affectionately, but was very silent, scarcely speaking until their frugal supper was over, and they were all seated beside the fire.
Arlette was on his knee, Heinz sat nearest to him, and they soon began to converse in a low voice.
“Hast thou heard aught new today, brother?”
“No," returned Robert, "save that the townsfolk say—" It was' not intended that Arlette should hear what the townsfolk said, for her father leaned over towards his companion and spoke in a whisper.
“Thinkest thou they have discovered our retreat?" A shade of alarm was visible in the speaker's face.
“I do not," said Robert quietly. "Yet it is possible.”
“We ought then to abandon it without delay, and to seek another place of refuge.”
“Such also is in my mind; for should they continue their search as they appear to have begun it, I have little hope they can fail in tracking us hither. At least, we are not safe.”
“We are safe nowhere until the grave receives us," replied Robert sadly. But his countenance brightened as he added, "Rather should I say that nowhere are we aught but safe, since our Father reigns in Heaven, and the whole earth is His.”
“True, but amidst our life of constant peril does thy heart never fail thee, Robert?”
“Cast down I have been sometimes, forsaken, never yet. And consider, friend, what comforts are given us, even in the midst of sorrow and disquietude. Consider the joy of bearing glad tidings to those who are pining in darkness and the shadow of death.
“Brother, today my footsteps trod for the first time the threshold of a lowly dwelling, one of the meanest in yonder great city. I found there alone, lying on a couch of straw, in a room more bare of comforts than even this, a poor girl, on whom death seemed to have already laid his hand. I spoke to her with sympathy and compassion, pitied her loneliness, and asked if she had no friend to watch by her side.
She said her sister tended her, but was obliged to spend the day in earning daily bread for both. So I knew there was time for me to speak and for her to listen, and I sat down beside her. I talked first of her bodily disease, of her symptoms and her sufferings, that I might unlock her lips and win her confidence.
Then we spoke of that other malady— the fatal sickness of the soul— and to my surprise and pleasure she understood me at once. God had shown her the great reality of sin, already. He had taken her by the hand and led her into the darkness after which the light cometh.
But she was seeking rest in prayers, in penances, and in all the mummeries of Rome and, of course, seeking it in vain. Thou knowest too, that men are not invited to buy the good things of the Church's providing `without money and without price,' and with the awful fears of a soul conscious of unpardoned sin, and soon to stand in the presence of God, there mingled sordid calculations, mournful to hear, of how many nails could be wrung from their deep poverty to secure the good offices of the mass-priest.
Silver and gold, in truth, I had not; but 'what I had I gave her. Yet not I— what was I but the cup, the 'earthen vessel,' in which God was pleased to convey the living water to her parched lips? I told her the Savior pardoned freely, that the redemption of her soul indeed was precious, but that He had paid its price, even to the last mite; and that, therefore, He could give remission of sins to those that came to Him. Hope and joy lighted up her wasted features as she seemed to grasp the great truth, that all was done for her. God willing, I shall see her again tomorrow; for, if I guess right, she has not many days to live.”
He stopped rather abruptly, for the eager Wilhelm was detailing an interesting discussion he had held that day with an intelligent tradesman in the city, upon the virtue of relics and the use of pilgrimages. Whilst her father spoke, little Arlette drank in every word, and gave childhood's quick sympathy to the poor dying girl in Cologne. But she had not the same interest in Wilhelm's controversies, and soon her head pressed Robert's shoulder more heavily, and she sank into a sound and dreamless sleep.
Unwilling to be disturbed, she heard through her slumber confused noises around, and more than one low whisper close to her ear. But she soon started into full and terrified consciousness. Strange men, with scowling faces and drawn swords, seemed to fill the room, and with a cry of terror she clung to her father for protection. The look with which he met her frightened gaze awed and silenced her. It brought her back in thought to the room where her dead mother had lain and to her father's face as she had seen it then, full of an anguish unutterable, and to her incomprehensible. As in a dream she heard the rude voices of the soldiers, who poured in rapidly, and surrounded the little band of confessors.
“So we have stolen a march on ye at last, heretics," said one of the foremost among them. "Ye did not expect a visit tonight, I imagine, or ye would scarce have kindled you fire to guide us.”
She saw the unresisting Father Johan, his mild countenance calm as ever, seized and bound. She saw the impetuous Wilhelm almost throw himself among his captors, while with eager words he protested his readiness not to be bound only, but also to die for the Word of God and the truth of the gospel. She saw Heinz and her father standing side by side, with clasped hands, quietly awaiting the result, and as she looked once more on her father's face she saw that he saw only hers.
Could they touch him?
Then in a moment the thought flashed across her mind that this was martyrdom. Many times had she listened to stirring tales of those who for the Savior’s sake had borne and had patience even to the suffering of death. Many times did her young heart beat quick and fast, not with fear but with kindling enthusiasm, as the thought arose, "and I, too, may be a martyr.”
And now the hour was come. Jesus would be with her, she knew. He had promised it, and she believed His word. Her father, too, would be there; she would hold his hand to the last. She had no terror therefore, save that these cruel men would let her live, would tear her away from him and leave her alone in that desolate place. One of them spoke in a low voice, "And this babe, what can she know of heresy? We care not to slay children.”
“Oh, sir, take me with my father!" cried Arlette.
Robert's steadfast heart was wrung with anguish for her. He knew not what fate to dread most. It may have been he thought it best for her to accompany them to the city, and was not without a hope that her innocence might touch the hearts of their judges.
So, held fast by him, she passed out into the darkness with the rest, after looking for one moment at the heap of withering flowers, for which an hour before she had cared so much. An hour was it? or a year, or many years? Or was it quite a different child, some little girl she had once known, but scarcely remembered now, who sat there in the barn playing with wild flowers. "I shall never play again," she thought, "for I am going to Jesus.”
Then she was treading the long wet grass, the rain almost over, only now and then pleasantly touching her brow as if with a light cool finger. The way was dark as midnight could make it; but she felt quite safe, for she was holding her father's hand. It was all so strange, a wondrous dream, but on the whole a happy one.
“I am going to Jesus," still she thought; and although she felt vaguely that something very dreadful lay between— pain, death to be passed through, the river of death she had heard it called— she knew Jesus would bear her safely across, for was it not written, "He will gather the lambs in his arms"? Her ideas of suffering and death were indistinct and unreal, and her mind soon turned from them to the happiness and the glory beyond. And now they were treading narrow miry lanes. Arlette grew weary, but cared little for that. Now they saw lights gleaming through the darkness before them. They were drawing near the city. Robert stooped down and spoke a few words of soothing and comfort to his little girl. She liked to hear his voice, but was too tired to answer.
In a little while the lights were all around them, shining from many a casement in the high houses, and reflected back from the wet, uneven street. At last they passed beneath a broad dark archway. They climbed a flight of steps. A door opened to receive them; then another door, which was closed and bolted as soon as they were admitted. They could rest, and not too soon for one of the party, who was scarcely conscious of anything save sleep. She was in her father's arms. She did not know he laid her gently down, and in hardly more than a minute, hope and fear, joy and sorrow, were all alike forgotten by her. No other closed in slumber in that prison room.
Two or three days afterward, a plot of waste ground just outside the gates of Cologne was the scene of an impressive ceremonial. Thither the eager citizens crowded from every quarter of the town, some among them fierce and cruel, bigoted in their attachment to the Church, and rejoicing that the crime of heresy was that day to be purged With fire from their Catholic city; many without a distinct idea, simply wondering at all they saw, and many more— yes, they were many, though they were scattered here and there in obscure places, and not for the most part known even to each other— sympathized with the innocent sufferers; some, indeed, would have given their own lives to rescue them. In vain, the priests were then all-powerful in Cologne, and they had their will.
Whatever the various sentiments of the dense crowd might be, there was a great silence as every eye turned to gaze on the victims, who were led bound towards the pile which had been erected in the midst of the place. Their demeanor, fearless but perfectly quiet and gentle, prepossessed the spectators in their favor.
“God help them," "God have mercy on their souls," was uttered aloud or breathed low by many voices.
“Waste not thy breath in prayers for you heretic dogs," said a black monk to a woman near whom he stood, for there were many women in that crowd.
“Heretics or no," she answered stoutly, "they were good men and kind to the poor. My dying sister"—
"I would pity them as thou dust, good wife," interrupted a man, "had they been condemned by the council and the clergy for rash words uttered unawares, and without a chance for their lives. But the priests say they have each and all been offered a free pardon if they would but forsake their heresy. Yet are they obstinate enough to prefer death of the body and the soul together to leading Christian lives as good Catholics.”
“Thou sayest truly, friend," rejoined the monk, "but what of thy sister, woman?”
“One of those clerks hath visited her, and spoken such good words of God and our Savior that her heart was comforted within her. I think it was yonder tall, dark man with— blessed saints! what have they the poor child among them for? They cannot— no, they surely cannot intend that she should die!”
For little fair-haired Arlette stood among those doomed men, pale and calm, in her place beside her father, her hand clasped in his. After all it might be said that he endured the martyrdom for both. How could she comprehend or imagine its bitterness? At most it would be but a brief hour of anguish for her, perhaps not even that, for the good Shepherd indeed sometimes carries the lambs in His arms, so that their feet do not touch the waters of the dark river.
And now the hour had come, the pile was lit, and not one heart in the steadfast group gave way. In that crowd there were fathers and mothers too, in whose homes were loved and tender little ones like the martyr's child.
They could not— they would not— see her perish.
An indignant murmur rose, nearer and nearer pressed the people, and at last strong arms seized the child, just in time, and dragged her from her place as the flames began to spread among the fagots.
“She is safe— thank God, she is safe!" "Make the sign of the cross, poor child, and thank the saints for thy life.”
“I cannot, I cannot! Let me go to my father!" wailed Arlette, while with all her little strength she struggled, struggled for death as others might have done for life.
“Where he dies, I must also die. Let me go, I cannot give up the Faith!" and an exceeding bitter cry accompanied the words.
“Back, back, good people! ye come too near the pile," shouted two or three of the officials, who were probably not unwilling to connive at the child's escape. But in the recoil that followed this order some confusion naturally occurred. The man who held Arlette, being rudely pushed by a neighbor, raised his hand to strike him. One moment's freedom for the child, and it was enough. With marvelous quickness she seized it. She reached the burning pile. She clasped her father's hand once more— yet once more— and now like a shroud the flames wrapped them around. A few minutes and all was over.
So Arlette won the victory, and so those five faithful martyrs of Jesus Christ passed that day to the crown prepared for them in Heaven.