“That day his foot on highland heath
Had trod as free as air;
Or I, and all that bore my name,
Been laid around him there.”
THAT Te Deum was never finished. Scarce rose the words,― “When Thou hadst overcome the sharpness of death, Thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers,” ―in lofty strains and with universal voice to heaven, when a sudden arrest of sound in one quarter, to which instinctively the eyes of all were turned, hushed, in an instant, the ascending peal, and caused silence and panic to overspread the assembled mass. Hearts, ever awake to danger, were stirred to their depths with vague yet profound alarm. Treachery―discovery―the dragoons―each passed in tum through the thoughts of the swaying crowd; some fled instinctively from the scene of danger towards a place of safety, while others pressed in an opposite direction, and towards a common center, where a form well-known―a Protestara from a neighboring village―appeared amongst them. His pale and saddened countenance foretold his tidings, spoken in the brief, ominous words, “He is taken!”
It was a death-knell, prolonged as it passed from lip to lip through the mournful crowd, each one repeating successively, “He is taken!”
At first they refused to believe it. Already Majal had braved and escaped so many dangers, that they thought him, not unnaturally, the object of God’s special protecting care.
“But I have just seen him,” insisted the bearer of the mournful tidings, “in the midst of a guard of soldiers, with his hands bound, on the highway to Vernoux. Meniet of Mazel was with him; it was in his house he was taken―last night.”
Then there arose, from that great multitude, a voice of weeping and sore lamentation. Strong men sobbed aloud, like the women and little children beside them. Was not the pastor father, son, brother―to all? Not one was there who did not owe him somewhat―many owed him “even their own selves.”
At last a low and broken murmur, from feeble, aged lips, was caught up and repeated eagerly, because it expressed what was in the hearts of all. “Let us also go, that we may die with him,” sobbed the white-haired Cévennol, whose son he had comforted on his deathbed. “Yes, yes!” men, women, and little children echoed through their tears, “let us go, that we may die with him!”
There was a movement in the crowd, as the strong arm of Jean Desjours cleared a way through the midst. A fine elm tree had been cut down and hollowed out so as to form a rustic pulpit for the pastor. Upon this the young peasant sprang, and raised his voice so as to be heard by all. “Yes, my brothers,” he cried, “let us also go―not to die with him, but to save him from the bitter doom he has braved for our sakes. Is he in the fangs of wild beasts―in the den of lions? Yet we know who shut the mouths of lions, that they did no harm to his servant. Is that arm shortened now? or the pastor less dear to Him than Daniel or Paul? But he is not in the den of lions. He is only in the hands of men―men of like feelings with ourselves―men who know his worth, and the love we bear him. Let us go, therefore, not to fight―for that would grieve him―but to plead for him with tears and prayers; to tell them they may take our lives for his, for we will not live without him, who is the light of our Israel, God’s messenger and minister to us all; and in whom none has ever found occasion or fault, except concerning the law of his God. Who is there among us fearful and faint-hearted―afraid to venture his life in this cause? Let him tum back now, and go from us unblamed; we need him not. And to all the rest, friends and brothers, I give the word―A Vernoux!”
“Vernoux! Vernoux!―à Vernoux!” rang through the great assembly, with the electric thrill of a common passion and purpose. Then, as a mighty wave slowly lifts its crested head, and gathering force and volume, rolls with solemn cadence on the shore, so the surge of that vast multitude, bound together by one impulse and one love, rolled along towards the gate of Vernoux.
None forsook the ranks. None thought, “I can well be spared.” For what they had in view women and little children were strong as armed men; and the youngest and the weakest there believed that their Lord was suffering that day in His servant, and would miss the feeblest voice if it failed to mingle in the prayer for his release.
René kept with the foremost, near Desjours, the acknowledged leader. Amongst the confused and agitated thoughts that filled his heart were many memories of the happy home at Mazel, where sorrow and desolation were reigning now―of the father’s cheerful, generous hospitality, the children’s merry play and laughter, and their gentle mother’s quiet happiness. But there was one remembrance dearer yet the pastor’s calm face, and the song of trustful confidence with which he beguiled his way towards the sunset hills:
“The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green. He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.”
Were green pastures and quiet waters to be found in the dungeon’s gloom? Would the God in whom he trusted appear for him and deliver him?
“Today will decide,” thought René, perhaps too hastily.
The crowd lost nothing as it rolled onwards; but it received large additions. Every Protestant found along the line of march joined its ranks; and some Catholics did the same. Full tides of emotion overflow and hide the landmarks of creed and caste; and the pastor was sincerely loved by many who did not love his faith.
“Jean Desjours,” said one of the newcomers, “I have sorrowful tidings for you.”
“You can have no tidings I care for now.”
“Your friend, Étienne Gourdol, is lying dead―shot through the heart.”
Desjours started, and uttered the sacred name, used too freely even by these grave and pious peasants. Gourdol and he had been friends from childhood rivals, moreover, in those manly games and contests that proved the strength and courage for which both were remarkable.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“Others, beside you and your companions, were found willing to die for the pastor. Gourdol saw him led through Cluac, bound and guarded. He instantly called his friends, they ran after the escort, overtaking it in the wood of Brousse. ‘Give us back our pastor!’ said Gourdol. ‘You shall not have him!’ the officer replied. ‘But I shall!’ cried our brave brother, and, with a lion’s spring into the midst of the soldiers, he clasped the pastor in his arras, and dragged him off. But the officer gave the word ‘Fire!’ The soldiers fired. Gourdol and four others lay dead on the ground. After that it was easy to seize the pastor, and bind him again. He was wounded in the struggle with a bayonet, but he did not seem to heed it. Nor would you, had you seen him, for the sorrow in his face as he looked upon those five.”
Desjours was surprised into a few tears. “God be with thee, true friend!” he said. “A nobler death could no man wish than thine. Now, as ever, hast thou won the race, and gained the prize from me. My brothers, let us ring a psalm!”
He began the 80th:
“Hear, Israel’s Shepherd! like a flock
Thou that dost Joseph guide;
Shine forth, O Thou that dost between
The cherubims abide.
In Ephraim’s, and Benjamin’s,
And in Manasseh’s sight,
O come, for our salvation Stir up
Thy strength and might.”
The concluding words―
“Turn us again, O Lord of Hosts,
And upon us vouchsafe
To make Thy countenance to shine,
And so shall we be safe” ―
were yet lingering on their lips, when they found themselves at the gate of Vernoux. There they halted. They had no settled plan; they trusted all to the guidance of God, and to the impulse of the moment.
Presently the judge, M. Afforty, came out to meet them, clad in his robes, and attended by the magistrates of the little town. Desjours assumed the part of spokesman, and began to plead for his pastor’s life; but his strong, simple words were soon drowned in the sobs and wailings of the multitude, more eloquent than speech.
“What you ask cannot be granted,” said the judge. “Justice must take its course; and your minister undergo his punishment. As for yourselves, you must disperse, and that immediately.”
Whether M. Afforty’s heart was touched or no, mattered not, save to himself. He was the mouthpiece of the law: its voice, not his own, came from his lips.
Against that “cold, strong, passionless” barrier of law the crowd dashed itself in mad revolt. A moment of hesitation of wavering, of swaying to and fro, looked like a disposition to retreat. But it was only the recoil before a fiercer spring. Like a resistless tide the mass swept onwards, bearing in its current all that opposed it. With sobs changed into cries of rage, and prayers into threats of vengeance, the unarmed mixed multitude poured into the town, filled the main street, almost reached the prison, before anyone had asked his own heart what he meant to do.
René―still with the foremost, and absorbed in the thought that the prison was before him, and M. Majal there― suddenly became aware that men, and women too, were falling around him. From the windows of the houses the soldiers and Catholic townsmen were fixing upon the crowd, densely packed together in the narrow street.
“Come back, come back! Not one of us will be left alive,” cried Lorin, overtaking Desjours, and seizing his arm.
At the same moment René felt a sharp pang, and his sleeve was covered with blood. What matter! Nothing less than death should stop him, with that prison wall in sight.
But someone near him fell heavily, without groan or sigh, as if wounded mortally. It was Philippe Desjours, who had kept his place all day beside his injured cousin. Jean Desjours turned, stooped over him, seemed about to raise him.
“Come back, Jean; come back!” Lorin cried once more. “Are you mad?”
Desjours raised his head, and gazed a moment on the prison wall. There was a look in his face such as René had never seen before.
“Yes; we come!” he cried― “to place these in safety, and to find weapons. But God be so with us, in our direst need, as we return and save him yet.”
René saw him take his cousin in his arms, and turn towards the gate. He wished to follow, but grew suddenly faint and sick. The effort to keep pace with his friends, now in full retreat, proved utterly vain. Any support or resting place, even a doorstep or a wall, would be welcome. But everything, cave trampled, blood-stained snow, seemed far away. At last he thought the ground itself moved upwards―came to meet him; and alter that, he knew no more.