“Hear, Father! hear thy faint afflicted dock
Cry to Thee from the desert and the rock;
While those, who seek to slay Thy children, hold
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold.”
BRYANT
THE full moon hung high in the silent midnight heaven, silvering the jagged contorted peaks of the Cévennes with the same light that shone over the stately palms and fragrant flowers of Eden. Here and there, in the narrow rocky glens, the dark and polished leaves of the evergreen oak gave back the light in glancing fragments of its beams, as did the waters of many a mountain stream, now running swiftly in its downward course now leaping over its stony bed, and ever and anon throwing back the light from its broken surface, till it reached the plain.
On this autumn night, strange visitors filled one of these usually silent and desolate ravines; strange voices rose to heaven from its solitude. A great multitude―men, women, and little ones―densely packed together, stood, or sat, or lay along the ground; their forms motionless, their faces eagerly looking upwards, and turned to the rocky pulpit where the preacher stood―a dark solitary figure―distinctly seen by all.
The “exercises” had already lasted long; yet they did not groom weary. No man talked to him who sat beside him; no eyelid drooped in slumber; none seemed to feel the keen frost of that autumn night― “The Word of the Lord was precious in those days.”
They had listened, after silent prayer, to the reading of that Word; had sent the psalm of praise with a thousand voices up to heaven; and then for one long hour and a quarter, in the still midnight, they hung upon the preacher’s lips as he told them how, in the desert, the Master fed the hungry and weary thousands, who were as sheep having no shepherd; and how He was still the same, furnishing a table in the wilderness with the Bread of Life, for all who came to Him.
Seventeen years had now gone by since Pasteur Jean Roux entered on his mission; and he had not ceased all that time faithfully to fulfill it; going up and down his native province with the message of life. He was no unauthorized preacher; he had his education at the Theological Seminary of Lausanne, and had been duly called and set apart for the ministry by the laying on of the hands of the Presbytery. In popular phraseology, this ordination went by another name― “Qualification for the gallows.” For the laws of France―laws that remained on the Statute Book until the very eve of the Revolution―doomed to the gibbet, every Protestant minister exercising within the realm any function of his calling. Yet were there found “names,” not “a few,” of those willing to suffer even this shame for the sake of Christ; and that of Jean Roux, pastor of the desert church in the Hautes Cévennes, is but taken from amongst a multitude of others―obscure names―which may “never ring through the trumpet of fame” on earth, but shall not miss their own purer fame and brighter glory at “the manifestation of the sons of God.”
The sermon over, a few infants were brought forward― amongst them the child of Isabel Chaumette―to receive the simple and solemn rite of Christian Baptism, in the form used by the Reformed Church: after which there followed a prayer, called an ecclesiastical prayer, wherein supplication was made for kings, and for all in authority (a duty always remembered by the persecuted Church), for persons in affliction, and for the churches in general. At this time, with special reference to the event they had met to commemorate, they entreated that the Lord, “the Eternal,” would remove from them the hand of his wrath. “Oh, Lord God of Hosts,” they cried, “how long wilt Thou be angry with Thy people that prayeth? Thou feedest them with the bread of tears, and givest them tears to drink in great measure. Turn us again, oh Lord of Hosts, and cause Thy face to shine, and we shall be saved.”
The prayer not yet concluded, part of the assembly seemed disturbed by the sudden approach of an unexpected arrival. The sensation caused by his appearance was that of fear; those nearest at first imagining that he was a sentinel coming to warn them of approaching danger. But the alarm subsided, and was changed to irritation when the missing son of Paul Plans was recognized; a tall, handsome, dark-eyed youth, the twin brother of the demure Jeannette, to whom, however, he bore no great resemblance. The remarks that greeted him when the prayer had ceased were far from complimentary “Est-ce toi, jeune étourdi?” (Is it you, young scapegrace?) “What mischief have you been about? Was it not bad enough to grieve and alarm your good father, without frightening us all to death, and making us think the dragoons were upon us? René Plans, you will come to an evil end if you do not mend your ways. You, the son of an elder, and of the best and holiest man in all the country!”
The culprit seemed embarrassed. He looked round for his father, to whom he appeared desirous of excusing self. But the two elders were near the pastor, assisting in the performance of his functions, and were now preparing to make the collection for the poor, never omitted on these occasions. When questioned by Madame Brissac, he answered thus: “In the inn at I met a very fine young gentleman, an officer of dragoons, who tried to enlist me, though I told him I was underage. He was going to Alais, and asked me to accompany him, and be his guide. I thought no harm to go with him to Argentiere, which was not out of my way; but he persuaded me to take him farther, a stage or two. I meant to return by a short cut, but unluckily it proved the longest I ever took. That was the delay. I am very sorry.” The conversation was interrupted by the collectors, who approached them, bag in hand. Each gave something, even the poorest. Mme. Brissac had two silver crowns in readiness, and René, heedless though he was, had withstood the temptations of the shops of Privas, to keep a livre for the occasion. With it he drew from his pocket, not intentionally, a broad piece of gold, which, when the collector passed, Madame Brissac questioned him about.
“It is not a coin, madame, but a medal, as you see,” he said, handing it to her. “The young officer gave it to me as we parted, saying, ‘Bring or send it to me if ever you have need of my assistance.’”
“Fine words and fine promises, such as fine gentlemen are lavish of―when they want anything from us. I should like to know what your officer of dragoons would do for you if you came into trouble about this night’s work?”
René defended his new friend with youthful ardor. “He would help me,” he insisted. “He was a very good comrade, full of kindness and not at all proud. You would have thought so yourself had you met him. I only hope I may see him again someday.”
“Did you see any of the sentinels as you passed?” asked one of Madame Brissac’s daughters.
“Yes; I saw Guillaume Vérien. He told me all was well: but I didn’t stay for further parley. I had lost too much of the night’s work already.”
“Hush! They are going to dismiss the assembly.”
As this was the day of a solemn commemorative fast, the pastor repeated, before the benediction, a brief exhortation, composed for such occasions by the father and restorer of the desert churches, the heroic Antoine Court. Thus he spake and prayed: “May God engrave upon your hearts and memories the salutary instructions He has been pleased to give you by my ministry, in a manner that shall never be effaced. May God grant that the fast we have celebrated today may not be merely an abstinence from food, but a denial of sin, of everything that may destroy us, and kindle the wrath of God against us. May God accept our humiliation, and permit our prayers to reach the throne of his mercy, so that they may cause to fall from his hand the rod He has lifted up to strike us, and obtain for us, and for our afflicted flocks, the riches of his grace, and the influences of his mercy. May God Himself strengthen us by his Spirit, and put his words into our mouth, that we may edify and disarm those who afflict us. May He sanctify and console your hearts; may He Himself touch, convert, and bless those who persecute his truth without knowing it; may He give us days of peace and consolation alter the days in which we have suffered so many evils; may He hear the cries and groans of our poor brethren who are prisoners, galley slaves, exiles, and fugitives, and give them cause for joy and consolation by delivering them from their sufferings. May He, at last, build again the walls of his poor Jerusalem; fill us with his most precious benediction, and bring us one day to eternal happiness in the palace of his glory. Oh, great God, who art the God of compassion and mercy, have pity on Thy poor dove, on this Thy Zion of France; soon put an end to her miseries and sufferings, hasten the day of Thy coming, and may the set time of our deliverance be at hand. Lord, Thy servants think upon her stones, and it pitieth them to see her in the dust.”
The last words were drowned in a prolonged cry of terror, in the rush and noise of flying feet, and more terrible than all, the sound of musketry. The assembly was surprised. Such things happened again and again in those days of peril. The scene that followed is not soon or easily to be described. The groups of worshippers suddenly dispersed―men, women, and children fleeing for life―scattered themselves over the mountains and through the glens on every side. The soldiers pursued some, and fired; yet they were not anxious for prisoners. The minister alone they desired to secure, for on his head a price of a thousand crowns was set; but the flock, even in this moment of terror, thought of their shepherd’s safety before their own.
René’s first impulse was to reach his father, or his sister, who was at some distance; but close beside him was poor old Madame Brissac, weak and helpless, separated from her husband and son, both near the pastor, and she alone, with none but terrified women around her. René made this unprotected group his charge. Fear was forgotten, manly strength nerved the boy’s arm, and manly courage filled his heart, as he helped, guided, sometimes almost carried one and another, while they trod the steep mountain paths that led towards their home.
Scarcely a word was spoken, save now and then a brief question asked or direction given about the way. At length they began to breathe more freely. No one was pursuing; no one even in sight. Had they exaggerated the danger? If only they could know the safety of fathers, husbands, sons, from whom they were separated! By-and-by they reached a steep descent from a hillside into a ravine, whence a tolerably easy path would lead them back to Trou.
“Not there―not there!” cried René, as one of the party, through inadvertence, was about to take a perilous―almost impracticable―path down the face of the rock. “I will show you an easy way, round by those rocks.”
He did so; and they had almost reached the glen below in safety, when a loud cry rang from above through the clear night air.
“René, René!”
All looked up eagerly, and Madame Brissac, recognizing through the moonlight the figure of her son, exclaimed, “‘Tis Jacques! God be praised! He has escaped, and is come in search of us.”
“We are all here, Jacques!” shouted René, cheerfully “Come down to us.”
Young Brissac came breathless, as one fleeing for his life; but when he reached them, his face seemed over spread with death-like paleness.
“What has happened?” exclaimed the women in alarm. “The pastor?”
“Safe, thank God!”
“And your father?” asked Madame Brissac, growing pale and faint. “Jacques, speak the truth, for God’s sake!”
“My father is safe and well. René, it is yours!”
“What!” cried René, grasping his arm. “Is he taken―or stricken?”
“Not taken, but stricken. He and others made a stand for a parley, to give the pastor time to retreat in safety. The soldiers fired, and a ball struck him in the breast―but he lives.”
An exceeding great and bitter cry from the lips of René woke an echo from every rock.
“René! Hush!” said Jacques. “Be strong, and hasten to him. You may be in time even yet.”
With the strength of ten, and feet that seemed like wings, René was seen that moment dashing up the face of the rock, which even he would not have dared to try at another time.
“Come down, René; come down! You will never reach the height by that path―come down!” the women shouted, their voices mingling with the scream of the wild birds startled from their nests in the rock. But René did not heed; he did not even hear; and when, by what seemed superhuman strength, he had reached and crowned the summit, he did not even know where to go, though instinctively he dashed at full speed towards the place where the assembly had been held.
He was right. Around the mouth of a cave, near the entrance of the valley, several men were standing. One came forward, and, taking him by the hand, led him in, without answering the question, “Is he yet living?”
The cave was lighted dimly by a torch of pine wood, which one was holding near the scene; and by the cold gray dawn now breaking and beginning to steal in. Jeannette was there, still and pale; Pere Brissac, too, and other friends from the village. But René saw none, save one white face he knew―yet he did not know, for it was changed. All had been done that love could do. The motionless form had been laid tenderly on a couch, made soft with their own garments; the deep wound staunched, wine and water borne to the pale lips; but all was vain. Death was near―nearer than the nearest now―nearer than René, though kneeling down by his father’s side, and taking the cold hand in his, he prayed, “Father, speak―speak to me. Only once more―only one word!” No word, only a pressure of the hand in answer to the voice. No word from lips silent till the voice from heaven call to awake the dead. Yet One was there―nearer even than Death; One whose word of promise― “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee” ―had been pledged, and who doubtless was now present to fulfill it, saying to the parting spirit, “Fear not; I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore; and have the keys of hell and of death.”