“Surely 'twas all a dream, a fever dream.”
WHILE the venerable Beza was giving thanks to God for the deliverance of Geneva, armed bands of her citizens were scouring her environs lest any enemies, real or suspected, might be lurking there, or any hostile bands be seen approaching from the distance. Within the city, fifty-two bodies had been found, and many more in the fosse, or beneath the walls. Scaling ladders, siege artillery, armor of all sorts, offensive and defensive, whole or in fragments, were strewn about everywhere. It was like the scene of a great battle. But throughout the little territory that belonged to Geneva, not an enemy was found alive, "not a dog moved his tongue" against the stronghold of the Reformation.
The bands were in high spirits, rejoicing, even exultant at what seemed to them a miraculous deliverance. But one man, who had volunteered to accompany them, wore a very anxious and troubled face. This was Master Charles Bernard, to whose care Robert Musgrave had been committed by his father. The boy had been very happy with him and his, and was trusted by them fully—perhaps too fully. Bitterly did Charles Bernard repent of his laxity now. Of course neither he, nor any other, could have foreseen the occurrence of a night such as Geneva had never seen before, and it was to be hoped would never see again. Still, he felt that he should not have sanctioned an expedition which entailed any risk of Robert's not returning before nightfall.
Now he hoped against hope that his charge had been persuaded by the Bopparts to remain with them for the night. But, if not? If peradventure he had set out for home, and fallen into the hands of the Savoyards? "Rather than that," said good Master Bernard to himself, "I could wish a Savoyard sword had found my own heart.”
“Look, there's someone tied to you tree," said the man next him, interrupting his sorrowful thoughts.
They ran towards the spot. "'Tis a boy!" cried the first who reached it. "He is dead—those villains have killed him.”
All gathered round to look. "I see no wound," said another, "nor blood—I think he is frozen to death.”
Even while they spoke two men were cutting the thongs that bound him. But another fell on his knees beside the tree, overwhelmed with grief; for Charles Bernard recognized the fur cloak—and then saw the face. This was how he had kept his trust!
“Perchance he lives still," one whispered, doubtfully. Then louder, to Bernard, "Get up, man, and hold, him.”
Roused by the call to action, Bernard sprang to his feet, took the motionless figure in his arms, and held it to his warm breast. "He lives! I feel his breath," he cried, with sudden hope. "Quick—help me!”
He gave his burden to another for a moment while he threw off his own coat and laid it, with the coats of others, eagerly offered, on the ground. Then they laid Robert upon them, and Bernard opened the fur coat and laid himself down within it, holding the cold form in his arms to give it the only warmth available—that of his own body, preserved by all the garments his comrades could do heap upon them. Meanwhile the rest broke down branches from the trees and bound them hastily together. On this improvised litter they laid Robert, and bore him thus, back thus to the town. On they went, through the blood-stained streets, littered with the waste and wreckage of the past night's desperate strife-but he saw nothing of it all. They brought him to his own chamber in the house of the Bernards, and laid him in his own bed. One of the physicians, who had been all day attending to the wounded, was brought in from the street. Robert still lived. "But "—said the doctor—a shake of the head told the rest. Yet there was hope. The medical skill other e was, age was not great; but whatever Geneva had the best of, in this as in other matters. And that best was sure to be at the service of Robert Musgrave. He was sure, besides, of loving, skilful and patient nursing. Yet it was long before nurse or doctor saw any sign of returning consciousness.
But it came at last. From the dim, silent, far-off land—one of the shores of which most of us visit every night, but, oh! how differently!—Robert returned slowly, very slowly, to the world of living men. At first a horror, great and vague, brooded over him. He was still bound and helpless, while something terrible was being done which he could not lift hand or foot to prevent. He tried to look about him; Mme. Bernard was bending over him and put something to his lips.
A long time passed, as it seemed to him, but it was only a day or two afterward that someone came in softly and drew near the bed. Ah, Robert knew him well! It was M. Viret. There swept over him a sudden wave—of memory, not of feeling—he was too weak to feel much as yet, but he could think a little, and the power of speech was beginning to return. His words, though low and trembling, did not refuse to come. "I saw her," he said.
Viret's answer was a pitying look. He thought the boy's mind was wandering.
“I saw her," Robert repeated. "A bright spirit, going up to God. Tell her mother.”
Viret's grave face softened into a smile, which changed it marvelously. "She has not gone up to God," he said, "she is with us still.”
Had Robert been himself, he would have been overjoyed. As it was, he was only bewildered. "I don't understand," he murmured.
“Nor do we," said the thankful, but still half incredulous father. "It seems as if the storm which we thought would have quenched the feeble flame of her life, was used instead to fan it. She thought, dear child, that what all the noise and the tumult, and the ringing of bells must mean, was the coming of our Lord in glory to take His people to Himself. And the loud sound of the trumpet confirmed her thought. The joy of it so roused her that—only think of it, M. Robert!—it seems as though she was not going from us just yet.”
“How wonderful!" was all that Robert said. But he was thinking. “She and I—I thought we were going together, but now— God is good—very good—' we shall walk before Him in the light of the living!'”
That was his first feeling. He had been told already that Geneva was saved, but how was it? How could it be?—the effort to think was too much for him. His pulse quickened, his cheeks flushed, his eyes grew ominously bright. "I will go and see her," he said, reverting to Theodora.
“So you shall, when you are stronger," Viret returned, soothingly.
“Oh, I shall soon be strong now. And there is something else I have to do. I have a message for Jacques Mercier, and a token. He should have them at once." Then more feebly, as a quick, involuntary movement made him feel his weakness, "No, I can't go to him—yet. But I pray you, M. Viret, send him to me.”
“That I cannot," said the plain-spoken Genevan, who besides had not known that Robert and Mercier were such friends. "Jacques Mercier is one of those who has given his life a ransom for Geneva.”
“Oh, Jacques!—Jacques!" faltered Robert, with emotion too strong for his feeble frame.
“There now, M. Viret, see what you have done!" Mme. Bernard interposed, indignantly. "You had better go.”
“No—no," pleaded Robert. “Do not go.
Tell me—”
“When you hear, you will not mourn for him," Viret said. "No one of us but would have been proud to die as he did," and he told the story of how Jacques Mercier wrought deliverance. "The Porte Neuve," he added, "is the key of the town. Now I have said enough," he concluded at last. "I will go. Farewell.”
“Said enough? That you have, and a great deal too much," Mme. Bernard grumbled, as she hurried the imprudent visitor out of the room.
She was right. For a while however, the thoughts that raced through Robert's overexcited brain continued distinct and clear. Jacques Mercier died for Geneva; Jacques Mercier saved Geneva. He who thought he could do so little, who never dreamed of doing anything great, never even wanted to—only wanted to do his duty as it came to him—God gave him that for his duty. And he was ready—he did it. "While," thought Robert, "I, who dreamed of doing so much, have really done—nothing at all! God would not save Geneva by my hand. I suppose He thought—He knew—I was not worthy. Yet He knows I offered my life—I chose the sword, rather than the treason. He did not accept the offering. Still, He knows I was willing. After all, I am content with that. He knows. But no one else shall—not ever. It shall rest with me. Or rather, with Him and me." These were the last connected, reasonable thoughts Robert Musgrave had for a good many days. Excitement, added to the effects of exposure and exhaustion, brought on a fever; and he tossed in fiery dreams of desperate combats, wild adventures by field and flood, with a confused medley of other things, always vague and formless, and usually abhorrent and terrifying. Over the fancies that floated through his brain he had no control, or almost none. It was strange that, while he talked much and often, and as he thought, to many people, there was lurking still, in some dim recess of his disordered brain, a strong impression that he knew something he had promised himself never to talk of—and he did not.
Slowly the confusion lessened, the visions faded, the voices died away into low murmurs. And again the great enchanter sleep—sweet and natural sleep—waved his hand over the weary body and the clouded brain. Robert Musgrave was recovering.
At last there came a day when he looked about him with wide-open blue eyes that were tired eyes still, but had the light of life and reason in them once more.
Someone was sitting beside his bed, someone in doublet and hosen of fine cloth, though not after the fashion of those worn by wealthy burghers in Geneva. It was not M. Bernard, nor yet M. Viret. Who then? The dress had somehow a familiar look, a look that pleased him. But he did not care just then to think about it. It was too much trouble. Ah, but now his visitor had risen, had taken a cup in his hand, and was bending over him.
Then Robert Musgrave raised himself with a great effort, and stretched out his weak, thin arms, while the glad cry broke from his lips, "Father!—oh, father!”