'The heart is never satisfied, the life is incomplete,
And the symphonies of sorrow wake no cadence calm and sweet;
And the earthlight never leads us beyond the shadows dim,
And the lone heart never resteth, till it findeth rest in Him.
F. R. H.
Very much alone Béril felt, as the minutes grew into hours, and still she was a prisoner.
She tried to piece together the fragments of the conversation she had overheard.
If they meant anything at all, they meant that some danger was threatening, from which Marie had hoped to save Greta, her friend, and the substitution of herself was evidently not only a disappointment, but an embarrassment.
The great thing that troubled her was this. If some danger was threatening those at home could she warn them or was it already too late?
The first thing to be done was to make her escape, if possible. She examined the room closely, but without result. The door resisted all her efforts. The window looked into a narrow yard, and was far too high for her to risk a leap.
Unwillingly, she gave up all idea of flight. Within the house absolute silence reigned she felt certain that she had it to herself; but from without unwonted mysterious sounds reached her. The heavy booming of the alarm bell woke vague, but very real, forebodings within.
But Béril had a refuge Greta did not possess. She could pray. Furthermore, her mind had been stored during the last few months with passages from the Word of God. She began to repeat them aloud now, and, as glorious promise after promise rose to her lips, her voice grew stronger, she was not lonely any longer, the silence was not oppressive any more.
She even plucked up heart to sing at last, hymns that brought happy, hallowed memories of the meetings they had had together round the Word of God. Danger might be threatening—vague and unseen —but after all God was above, and He loved them. They were safe in His Hand, whether in life or death.
All at once a new sound was heard—very familiar, and, best of all, very near.
Béril's song broke off abruptly, and she darted to the window. There was no mistaking that sound—it was Bruno's triumphant bark!
The tears came suddenly to her eyes for the first time. Yes, there was no mistake, Bruno himself came bounding into the yard, and began to scratch at the door below, and to ask her as plainly as a dog knew how, to let him in.
But Bruno was not alone. A moment later Gerard Gravont had followed him into the yard.
Béril gave no thought to possible listeners, her only fear was he might go away without seeing her; so, throwing caution to the winds, she tapped with both hands on the window.
“Gerard, Gerard," she called, appealingly. "Don't go away. I am here!”
The boy's face lit up.
“But how came you here?" he demanded.
“I can hardly tell you," she explained. "I was seized and brought here, but I know not why, except that I was mistaken for Mademoiselle Morand, and she was to be saved from some danger. When they found out their mistake one counseled I should be set free, but the others were for keeping me here, lest I should betray something—but I know not what.”
Gerard had been scanning the windows anxiously for any sign of life while she spoke. The house appeared deserted, and, indeed, it was not unlikely, for surely the whole population of Geneva was in the streets that day.
“Be careful, mademoiselle;" he said, warningly. "Someone may hear you.”
“There has been no sound since I was brought here," Béril said, her lips quivering. "I am sure the house is empty. But they may return ere long. Oh! Gerard, you will not leave me, will you? I am so lonely, so terrified. Do help me to escape.”
“It is what I am here for, mademoiselle," the boy said simply.
His brain was working busily. Quick to detect possible foothold, he saw at once that he could scramble up by outbuildings and projections up to the roof and from thence drop on to the window sill, but what good would that do? Mademoiselle could not come back that way, he was sure of it, even with his help; besides, in broad daylight such an escapade must surely attract the attention of anyone who by chance might remain in any of the adjacent buildings.
No, that plan would not do, and as he put it aside, another occurred to him that took his breath away by its simplicity, though its whole success depended on the correctness of Béril's conviction that the house was empty.
What was there to prevent his entering by the window close to which he stood. The room into which he looked was empty, at all events.
For a moment the fastening of the window resisted his efforts, but one of the wood-carving instruments, which he always carried in his belt, made short work of that; he crawled through as best he could, and lighted noiselessly upon the tiled floor.
The first thing to do was to remove his shoes, then, holding them in his left hand, he stole noiselessly through the house.
Béril was right. Not a sound greeted his ear. The house was evidently empty.
He had noted carefully the position of the window, and so went straight to the top floor, but as he entered the only door at the top of the stairs he received a momentary check.
For the room was as empty as the rest of the house. There was no sign of an occupant.
“Mademoiselle, then, where are you?" he cried.
The girl's voice answered him, and guided by the sound, he sprang across and pushed back a heavy curtain. There was a small door behind it locked and bolted.
It was a few minutes' work to force these, and the door was open.
“I will tell you all presently, mademoiselle," he said, as the girl sprang towards him, full of bewildered thanks and questionings.
“For the present, we must just make our escape without a moment's loss of time. One minute might make all the difference. The house is empty, I think, but one cannot be too silent—too careful. Besides, at any instant they may return.
They crept down the staircase silently, hand in hand, and a wonderful comfort the clasp of that rough, slender hand was to poor little Béril. Every sound made them start and shrink back, but no one appeared in the silent house, and they reached the kitchen in safety. Béril's one idea was to escape; she made no demur when Gerard pointed out the very small exit to her, but before he would let her climb up to it, he insisted on pinning to her dress a laurel leaf, like the one he himself wore.
“Why do you waste time over this now?" she asked, rebelliously.
But Gerard have her no answer.
She little guessed that it was to that leaf they owed the impunity with which they passed through the streets. They did not meet many people, for Gerard chose the least frequented ways; besides the bulk of the populace was gathered in the Molard. The few passersby they did encounter glanced at their badges, and let them pass.
Gerard told Béril a good deal of what was happening as they sped along the streets, but he did not tell her that the laurel leaves were the badges given to the Catholics at the Cathedral who pledged themselves to the "Holy War.”
The girl listened, dazed and horror-stricken.
“The others—where are they?" she questioned. "This, of course, explains what the Verniers did. They wanted to save Greta. Oh, Gerard! do you think they are safe?”
“I think so. They are in Master Baudichon's house. We are nearly there," he said.
They had reached the end of a narrow passage, an open space was before them. Gerard placed the girl in the shelter of a deep porch and went forward to reconnoiter.
He was away so long that Béril began to wonder. When he came back his face was very white and he pointed to the way they had come.
“Not this way, we must go back. You must not go to Baudichon's house," he said, hoarsely. He hurried her along, giving her no time for protest. "Will you trust me, mademoiselle? I must take you to my garret. I have nowhere else to take you.”
“But why cannot I go to the others?" Béril demanded, when at length they reached the house, and she could get breath.
“Would to God they had never gone," he said hoarsely. “Mademoiselle, it is almost too horrible to believe, yet this is what they say, that Canon Veichy is on his way to surround the house and set it on fire.
Béril gave a cry of unutterable grief and horror. Could any heart conceive a plan of such diabolical cruelty? Could such a thing be done—and that in the name of God?
She thought of the women and the children who had taken shelter there, girl-mothers with their first-born in their arms, gray-haired women, bowed with a life of patient toil and self-sacrifice; little ones like Aimee and Irene, whose only crime was that their parents read the God-given Book forbidden by the priests, and strove to obey what they found there.
Very pitifully Gerard took the sorrow stricken girl up to his garret.
“You are safe here," he said gently. "And you must not grieve. It may not be true. And the magistrates may yet be able to save them. They would fain put a stop to all this, but the priests have maddened the people, and there is no controlling them. If you will promise to remain here, I will go and discover what I can.”
He whispered something to Mignonne, who was looking on with startled eyes, and the child put aside her shyness and, creeping to Béril's side, slipped a timid hand into hers.
Béril did not utter a word, but she caught the tiny figure into her arms and held her close.
“I know you," Mignonne whispered.
“You are the demoiselle that said God loves us.”
Béril started.
“Gerard said it was not true," she went on, anxiously. "It is true, isn't it?"
"Quite true.”
“I know the words you taught the others, 'Herein is love, not that we loved God but that He loved us and gave His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.' Why are you crying? Have I not said it right?”
For Béril's stony calm had broken down. She put her head on the child's shoulder and the tears came as a fountain flows again when the sun's rays have thawed its frozen heart.
How could she have forgotten? There they stood, and all around them and above them was love, God's illimitable love, love that not only sheltered the threatened heretics, but reached out to their persecutors.
It was a very different face that greeted Gerard on his return, tear-stained though it was. He came racing upstairs with a step that was a veritable promise of good news.
“They are safe, mademoiselle!" he cried. "A magistrate, I heard not his name, overthrew one band on the Rhone Bridge; Aimé Levet's shop has been wrecked, but no one is hurt, and from there he marched towards Baudichon's house. Canon Veichy was warned that he lay in wait for him, and he dared not face his troops alone, so he marched straight to the Molard instead. It was a sorry welcome he got from his friends there, they began calling him "coward," and "traitor," and the like, but I waited not to hear more. I came to let you know that Baudichon's house is saved for the present, and that the Huguenots be arming to defend their wives and children.
“Will there be fighting, think you?" Béril questioned, divided between joy and fear.
“That I know not, they be all in battle array in the Molard," Gerard said, unwillingly. "But at present I hear nothing. We shall hear soon enough if they do fall to fighting.”
This was a self-evident fact, so there was nothing to do but wait.
Gerard busied himself with his wood carving, and Bern devoted herself to Mignonne. She even ventured downstairs on a foraging expedition to Greta's stores, and spread such a meal as the garret had never witnessed before, which Mignonne, at least, appreciated.
And still they listened in vain for the booming of the cannon in the square.
Mignonne nestled in Béril's arms, and talked in soft undertones.
“I had a mother once, your arms hold me like hers," she told her. "Gerard nurses me sometimes, but not often, because he must do his carving for M. Bruyere.”
“I never saw such lovely carving," Béril said slowly.
She wondered what had led Gerard to his choice of subject. He was at work upon a panel—Christ crucified, with the priests mocking and triumphant in the background, the careless soldiers, and the heartbroken women.
Their figures stood out with a wonderful individuality, and yet all led to, and gave prominence to, the one central figure. The face and figure were so perfect, yet so full of agony, that Béril could not keep the tears from her eyes as she looked at it.
“Gerard," she said. "I think you must love the Savior, or you could never picture Him like that.”
The boy looked up fiercely.
“I do not know what love means," he said, with a sullen flush. "I love nobody—except Mignonne belike.”
“Poor Gerard—to love not Christ," Béril said, sorrowfully. Then her face brightened. "But He loves you," she said.
“Never," the boy said, bitterly. "He loves not such as me.”
“He loves you, Gerard," the girl repeated. “God Himself loves you. Ah! believe it, for it is true. Even little Mignonne can tell you that. 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us'—us—you and me, Gerard.”
“You, perhaps, not me," the boy said, harshly. "God may love the rich and the great, those who can build Him great churches and beauteous shrines, and fill the coffers of His priests to overflowing. These can buy the pardon of their sins, and a place in His heaven, but not such as me—”
“Oh, Gerard! but that is just where you mistake," she put in quickly. "We cannot give to Him. It is God that gives. What are our gold and jewels and gifts to Him?”
“It is not for these things He loves us. We are sinful and helpless, and without Him we must die. He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Oh, He must love us, we know He does by that. Think of it, Gerard. He gave His Son—His Beloved—to die for us.”
She drew out her Testament, and began turning over the pages.
“Perhaps no one ever told you," she said, pitifully. "May I read it all, Gerard?”
Without waiting for his reply, she began. The tool slipped from his hand before long, but Béril read on.
When at length she raised her eyes—the story told of love Divine and fathomless, of a perfect sacrifice, and sin atoned for, and Satan met and vanquished—the boy was sitting with his face buried in his hands. His shoulders quivered.
“No," she hardly recognized his voice.
“No one ever told me that before.”
The girl crept to his side.
“Gerard, will you carve some words upon this panel," she asked.
“Words, what words?" was the sharp reply.
“Two words only," Béril said, gently.
“For me.”
There was a long pause, and then the boy's brown hand reached for his tool.
“I will," he said, with a glad ring in his new voice. "Thank God it was for me!”