“So, no more of this shall be; heart-blood weighs too heavily,
And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave,
Piled around and over me.”
E. B. BROWNING.
“LET him go! I pray of you, let him go!”
“Let him go, rebel? I arrest him in the king’s name!”
These were the first sounds that fell upon the ears of René as he returned to consciousness. Above him stood Jacques Brissac unarmed, vainly contending with a gendarme, who, violently thrusting him from him, struck him with the butt end of his matchlock, and seizing René by the arm dragged him, yet faint and bleeding, to prison.
René was glad to be allowed to throw himself on a rough wooden settle in the guard room. A fire burned before him, and a group of soldiers stood around it. The gendarme, joining his companions, and pointing to René, said, “‘Ce petit jeune homme’ was scarcely worth the trouble of taking.”
“Why bring him in, then?” said one whom René gathered from his dress to be a ‘caporal.’ “Why bring him in, and exasperate men at whose mercy we may find ourselves by tomorrow night?”
“The saints forbid we should be at their mercy!” a third exclaimed. “Camisard mercy leaves a bitter taste behind “The saints may forbid it, if they can,” another added. “But we have rough work before us. The country is up; and our numbers are―”
“Hush!” said the officer, glancing at René.
“Ay, caporal, he may hear; but he’ll not tell.”
“Perhaps he may tell M. le Commandant something worth hearing, though. Go and report him, Jean Favre. And, some of you, give him a little brandy, and staunch his wound. You see the lad is faint and pale.”
“I am not much hurt,” said René, raising himself up, and trying to assume a look of indifference.
He took the cordial, however, though he shrank from the touch of hands red with the blood of his friends. But it was with difficulty he sustained his position; the laughs and jeers of the soldiers irritated him beyond endurance, and the slow minutes dragged wearily along, until deliverance came. A gray-haired jailor entered, in whom, to his great relief, he recognized a friend of the Lorins, and one suspected of a secret “Nicodemism.” The official silently led the young prisoner to a small cell, dimly lighted, and furnished with a chair, a table, and a pallet of straw, upon which he bade him lie, and left him, saying he would return shortly.
He did so; bringing lint, linen, and fresh water; an inkhorn, also, with pen and paper. The lint and linen he used first, and to good purpose; so that René felt much relieved.
“The wound is not severe. Your arm will soon serve you as well as ever,” he said, in an encouraging voice.
“Ah!” sighed René; “I would it could serve me now.”
“Patience, boy―and silence! Think you there is no one here, save yourself, who cannot use his arms as he would?” Then, seating himself at the table, with pen and paper before him, he inquired briefly, “What is your name?” as though he knew it not―which he did, having met him with the Lorins. “What is your name?” “René Plans,” answered the youth.
“Your age?”
“Sixteen―not quite.”
“Your place of abode?”
“Trou, near Tanargues, in the Hautes Cévennes.”
“Your occupation?”
“Keeping sheep, and tilling the ground.”
“Your religion?”
“I am a Protestant.”
The jailor entered “new Catholic,” for there were then, according to the law, no Protestants in France; in all official documents they were styled “new Catholics,” or “new converts.”
“Your parents,” the jailor resumed; “are they living or dead?”
“Both dead.”
“Any relations―brothers or sisters?”
“One sister.”
“You should have thought of her before exposing yourself to this,” said the jailor, looking up for a moment. Then, resuming his measured official tone, “What was your object in entering the town with violence and clamor, and in defiance of the law?”
“To plead for the release of M. le Pasteur,” answered René with simplicity.
“For the release of M. Désubas, you mean,” responded the jailor; “and I shall enter it so. That will do. Can you read and write?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Then look over this paper, and, if correct, affix your signature.”
René did so, and inquired, “For whom is this information intended? For the magistrates?”
The question was asked in the hope that it might find its way to Pierre Lorin’s father-in-law, who, he knew, would befriend him to the utmost of his ability.
“Magistrates, forsooth!” observed the jailor. “Magistrates and judges are of small account here just now. Everything goes to M. le Commandant. Messieurs les dragons are everywhere, turning the world upside down for their own pleasure and convenience. One would think they had a beast of prey to guard, or a brigand from the mountains.”
“And are they invincible?” René ventured to question.
“Not quite,” resumed the jailor; and, lowering his voice, he added, “No one here, Catholic or Protestant, soldier or civilian, doubts that your friends will make good their threats, and, ere tomorrow’s sun is down, your minister be free as air. Everyone will be glad for his sake, save the villain who betrayed him; and few will pity him for the loss of his traitor’s reward, or grieve that he is a thousand crowns the poorer.” It was not rare for Catholics to express their hatred and contempt for traitors: the very agents of the government sometimes drove from their presence, with abuse and execrations, the men who came to make their legal claim to rewards offered for services such as these. “And there is that poor M. Meniet,” the jailor continued, “for whom one’s heart bleeds. Is it not hard that a man should go to the galleys because he would not refuse his own wife’s brother a morsel of bread and a night’s shelter?”
“Can you tell me,” asked René, “how many of our people suffered today?”
“Not exactly; nearly all the dead and wounded were carried away by their friends. But ‘tis said that thirty were killed, and a far larger number wounded.”
“Ah! that is terrible. How it will grieve M. le Pasteur!”
“Terrible?” said the jailor. “Tomorrow’s work will be far more terrible. And we who stand between two fires are in evil case. When your brethren come down from the mountains with weapons in their hands, they will make small distinction between the enemies who fired on them from the windows, and the friends who would have wished them God-speed if they dared.”
With these words, the jailor withdrew. René rose, and paced his narrow cell in angry impatience. Feverish restlessness and excitement would not allow him to sit still. His imprisonment gave him small concern; for he confidently hoped that the morrow would end it. But he was chafed and vexed at heart to be debarred from taking part in the work―so earnestly coveted―of rescuing the pastor. This empty, idle right hand―could it but grasp his grandfather’s sword, the weapon stained with the blood of Chayla! What joy it would give him to renew the heroic struggles and wild vengeance of the “Enfans de Dieu,” of whom he had heard such glorious and wonderful tales in his childhood!
In the course of the evening, food was given him, and he sought intelligence from the warder, but could obtain none. As night drew on, he knelt to pray. Gentler feelings stole over him as he breathed the familiar words, “Our Father, which art in heaven.” They brought him back to his father’s grave among the hills, and recalled the holy lessons learned there from him who was now in such sore need and peril. He tried to plead for him, but felt himself unworthy.
In broken slumbers and struggles to control his impatient heart, the almost interminable night wore away. As the day advanced, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The door of his cell was unlocked, and the jailor appeared, accompanied by a person in a handsome military undress, whom he introduced with much formality to René, saying,
“Monsieur le Commandant!”
René rose and bowed.
“You are René Plans?” said the officer, to which René bowed assent.
“Your youth and inexperience,” continued the speaker, with a manner grave, yet not unkind, “may be pleaded in excuse for your conduct―reckless and seditious, and such as exposes you to the severest penalties of the law. Your minister has pleaded them, and interceded earnestly on your behalf; and I have taken on myself the responsibility of your release.”
René looked amazed and confounded, not understanding how the pastor, himself a prisoner, and appointed to death, could successfully intercede on his behalf.
“M. Majal desires to see you,” said the commandant. “He has asked as a favor, and obtained permission from me, to send a communication to his friends by your hands. Follow me.”
René’s heart beat violently as he followed the commandant. That he was about to see the face of Majal once more―the face of him for whose life he would joyfully have laid down his own―that each onward step brought him nearer and nearer to that presence―was almost more than he could bear just then.
M. le Commandant led the way to the most retired and strongest part of the prison. They reached the cell; the warder unlocked, unbarred, and rolled back the massive door, whose heavy grating sound, and the cold, chilling atmosphere of the vaulted room, struck René’s heart as though he had been entering the region of the dead.
Majal was seated at the table; his feet were fettered, but his hands free; while a loose overcoat, covering his body, concealed the traces of his wound.
He rose as they entered the cell, and bowed to the commandant. Even through the gloom, that fair young face shone, as though touched by the finger of God, with a grace and beauty of which the memory lingers still in legend and popular song. There was no fear there, no apprehension; only a profound and patient sorrow. He looked like one who had been gazing all night upon some dear, dead face. Perhaps he had been weeping―such tears as brave men weep unblamed―for others. To Majal it seemed natural and right that the shepherd should give his life for the sheep. But that the sheep should die for the shepherd seemed a strange thing―a bitter, unexpected anguish.
“Here, monsieur,” said the commandant, after a pause, “is the lad for whom you interceded. You desire to speak with him?”
“I thank you, M. le Commandant,” said the pastor, extending his hand to René, who raised it to his lips. “And you, too, have suffered!” he added, with a quick glance at the wounded arm.
“The hurt is nothing, monsieur,” René said quickly, regretting it for the first time that moment.
“M. le Commandant has generously promised to set you at liberty,” the pastor resumed. “This is a joy to me, René. Once before you faithfully performed an errand for me. Will you do as much again?”
“With my whole heart, monsieur!”
“You promise, in God’s hearing?”
René was grieved by the doubt this insistence seemed to imply. “You may trust me, monsieur,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion.
“I do trust you―unto death. To you I give the task of bearing to those who love me my last earnest entreaty. It is written here.” He gave him a slip of paper, carefully folded. As René took it, an icy dart of apprehension thrilled his heart. Why this solemn charge―that strange word “last?” Did he not know they would save him tomorrow? Half unconsciously he made a motion as though to look at the paper; but Majal placed his hand on his. “Not now,” he said gently. “Wait till you are free. One word more, René. Bear my greeting to the dear friends who have done and dared so much for me. Tell them He will recompense them who has said, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me.’ Ask them to pray for us, and to care for my sister and her children. Now, farewell. Go in peace, dear boy.” He looked at him a moment, wistfully―almost sadly―as though he would have said more; but they were not alone. M. le Commandant de Davèze, though a courteous gentleman, was a stern soldier, and could not allow a moment’s unwitnessed intercourse to the friends. Then, turning to Davèze, he said, “M. le Commandant, my friend may go forth now, may he not?”
“Certainly, monsieur; he shall be released immediately. But he must give his parole that from this time forward he will behave peaceably, and submit himself to the laws.”
Nothing could be farther from René’s desire than to give such a promise, since he intended, the moment he left the town, to prepare for an armed resistance to the laws. He hesitated; but the pastor said, looking at him kindly, “I will answer for him.”
“That is quite sufficient, monsieur,” returned Davèze, courteously. “Now, my lad,” he added, “the warder waits. He will conduct you to the gate, and you can rejoin your friends.”
Believing that the morrow would reunite them, René would have been content with a grateful farewell look, and an “all revoir” spoken in his heart to the pastor. But Majal drew him towards him, embraced him, and kissed him lip to lip. “There is the seal of thy commission,” he said. “God go with thee, my son.”
René’s apprehensions returned. Was this the parting of those who should meet on the morrow? Did some terrible, unknown sorrow lie before them? But he dared not speak; a strong spell seemed laid upon him, a solemn reverent awe filled his soul. Davèze motioned him quickly out of the cell, and he obeyed without a word.
Davèze himself turned back, and closed the door. The soldier was silent now; it was the gentleman―nay, the man―who spoke, and from a generous impulse. His honor, in the world’s estimation, would be tarnished if his captive were torn from him; but might there not be better things even than honor? “M. Majal,” he said, “I have permitted you to do this thing; but I neither like nor approve it. I tell you frankly, it gives me no pleasure to see a brave man put his neck in the halter. You save us trouble and danger; but you throw your own life away. Be advised: recall your messenger (I give you leave―nay, I desire it); destroy your note; and let the God of battles decide your fate tomorrow.”
A bright, almost triumphant smile lit up the captive’s noble countenance. “The God of peace shall decide,” he said. “There shall no more blood be shed for me.”