Robert Musgrave's Adventure: A Story of Old Geneva
Deborah Alcock
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: a Scholar in Old Geneva
“I seemed left alive
Like a sea-jelly weak on Patmos strand,
To tell dry sea-beach gazers how I fared,
When there was mid-sea, and the mighty things.”
-BROWNING.
IT was the morning of the 11th of December, 1602. Over old Geneva, Queen of Lake Leman, light snow-clouds rested; and in the narrow, sunless streets the cold was intense and bitter. So thought the crowd of young scholars who poured out, book and tablet in hand, into the Rue Verdaine through the gateway of the Academy -that gateway which bears upon its keystone,. "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." The great Cathedral clock, the clock of St. Peter's, was just tolling the tenth hour. So they were, going to dinner, for in the Geneva of that day men dined at 10 or 11 a.m., or at latest at noon. There was far less noise and uproar than there would be now in such a scene. These Genevan youths were born to a destiny austere and high, and they learned early to take life seriously. Still they were cheerful and healthy, and to their vigorous young frames the cold was only a pleasant stimulus. All were clad very plainly, most of them in frocks or "blouses" of frieze, black, brown, or gray—a few in more substantial broadcloth.
Among these last was a fair-haired lad from England, with a bright, open face, who ran, without drawing breath, from the Rue Verdaine to the Rue des Chanoines, where he paused at the door of one of the plain, high houses. Seeing that it was not quite shut he pushed it open, and softly entered a room on the ground floor.
It was a common room, plainly furnished, and that which it contained was very common also. In every city in the world, and in every age and time, has the hand of disease so often spared the old to strike the young, and called the parents, reversing the order of nature, to weep for their children.
On a low bed in the midst lay a young girl, scarcely more than a child. She was very white and still, but not unconscious, for her wide-opened eyes were bright with intelligence, and full of wistful, anxious thought. As the boy entered, a long-robed person, evidently a physician, gently withdrew the hand with which he had been feeling her pulse, and looked sadly at her father, who was standing by him. On the other side of the bed the mother stood, a cup in her hand, and her face turned aside lest her tears should fall into it. A servant girl was there too, and a young man named Mercier, a friend of the family. The English scholar made one more, where already there were too many in the room for the patient's good. As special efforts had been made to exclude the outer air, and a fire of charcoal burned on the hearth, the atmosphere, according to our modern notions, was stifling.
“How is she?" the boy whispered to the young man beside him.
Jacques Mercier shook his head.
“The bleeding has returned," he answered in the same tone. The foe that was sapping the young life of Theodora Viret wore what is, for us, a too familiar face. Even to our Saxon forefathers it was already known as lung ail." There was then but little protection for ailing lungs against the climate of Geneva, often severe in winter. Fires, except in the kitchens, had sometimes been, proscribed by law, and were always discouraged by custom. There, as elsewhere in that age, the houses "were one great draft from attic to cellar"; and luxury in warm clothing, like all other luxuries, was looked upon with an unfriendly eye. Even the loved and cherished, if they were the feeble also, had a hard time of it; and the law of the survival of the fittest must have been in active operation.
This girl was dearly loved, and fondly cherished. Young Robert Musgrave could not take his eyes from the face of the father—a hard face, long and narrow, with stern, strong features, which had in them a depth of silent sorrow that struck into the boy's heart a sort of awe, and held him like a spell.
Suddenly everyone bent forward, and the physician raised his hand. The sick girl was trying to speak. Regardless of the forbidding gesture, the words came—two brief syllables slowly but clearly uttered, "J' ai peur " ("I am afraid"). That anxious, questioning look in the young eyes sought, one after another, the faces round. At last it rested, pleadingly, on her father's. He answered the mute appeal, cleared his throat, tried to speak, failed, tried again—"Jesus said: ' Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.'”
“I know," the weak voice said again, "I believe—but—I am afraid—to die."
“My child, you must not speak," the physician interposed, with gentle decision. "Hush! Not a word!”
“' There is, therefore, now no condemnation,' the father resumed;" ' no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus.' For ' the sting of death is sin.'”
“I do not fear death," the child murmured."
I fear—dying." At all costs, she would be understood.
But those around her could not understand. It did not enter into their conception that the fear was mainly physical, the instinctive shrinking of life from its "enemy" death. A look of keen distress disturbed the settled sorrow in the father's face, and the mother sobbed aloud.
At this moment someone knocked gently with a stick upon the outer door. The young scholar, who stood nearest, went out quietly and opened it.
A stately old man, in a doctor's fur-trimmed robe, and with a doctor's cap on his snow-white head, stood without, leaning on a staff.
“How is my dear god-daughter?" he asked, in the trembling voice of age.
Robert Musgrave bowed low as he answered, "Very ill, sir. I fear, dying.”
He had to repeat his words, for the old man was hard of hearing. But he did not repeat the last. "Will it please you, sir, to come in?" he added instead.
No light cause had brought Dr. Theodore Beza, worn with the weight of his more than fourscore years, from the shelter of his own roof on this snowy day. Fourscore years, moreover, weighed more heavily then than now. But his god-daughter—the grand child of his friend and fellow-worker, Pastor Viret, was very dear to him.
As he entered the room every eye turned towards him. In youth he had been strikingly handsome, and the beauty of an ideal old age transcends even the beauty of youth. There is, on earth, no crown of glory like the hoary head, found in the way of righteousness. An ample forehead, which many of his contemporaries might have matched in height but few approached in breadth, surmounted blue eyes still full of intelligence, though something of the fire of former days had gone, and the calm, out looking gaze of age had come instead. A flowing silver beard concealed the sunken lips, and gave an added grace to the venerable aspect of the last of the Reformers, the sole survivor of the bygone mighty years, when there were giants in the earth.
“The Lord bless you and keep you, dear brethren and sisters," he said, removing his doctor's cap.
They made way for him to approach the bed. For a few moments he stood in silence, looking sadly on the wasted face of the sweet child he had caressed and taught—
“The old eyes searching, dim with life,
The young eyes dim with death.”
He, at least, thought he saw death there, Very gently he spoke to her—"My little lamb, thou art in the arms of the Good Shepherd. He is putting thee to sleep and while thou sleepest, He will carry thee over the river, which is Death. Thou shalt wake presently, the pin and danger all past, to see His face above thee.”
She looked up, with a smile so bright and sweet that those around her wondered. Her father's set face changed, and his strong lips quivered. But who had told the Doctor the poor child's unreasoning dread? None had told him; it is a fact that those who live very near to God, and ask Him to give them words wherewith to reach the hearts of others, are often guided to meet the needs of which they themselves know nothing.
“Let us pray," the old man said again. All knelt reverently, save the two whom age or sickness prevented. In words strong and tender, though few, the sufferer and the mourners were commended to the God of all grace and consolation. When they rose again, the two women were sobbing, and there was a mist of gathering tears in the father's eyes. The old man stretched out his hands with the words of ancient benediction, "The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine on you and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”
Then silently he turned to go. The scholar followed, opened the door for him, and asked "Sir, will it please you to lean on me?”
“I thank thee, my child," said Beza, laying his left hand on the boy's shoulder—his right held the staff.
They went in silence up the street, till they passed a house which bore the number 122. Here Beza paused, and looked. Robert Musgrave, like every other boy in Geneva, knew why. In that house John Calvin had lived and labored, and thence he "went to God," as the Genevan register `path it. That was eight-and-thirty years ago; but the friend of his soul, who had loved him living and ministered to him dying, never passed that house without a thought of the years of the Right Hand of the Most High—
“When there was mid-sea and the mighty things.”
Young Musgrave looked also, and doffed his cap in reverence. Then Beza spoke, either to him, or more likely to himself. "With him the way was long and hard; in the dark valley the shadows of pain fell heavily. For he was strong in soul, and God had much glory in the faith and patience, of His servant. But with the weak He, deals tenderly. ‘So He giveth His beloved sleep '—or, it may be, ' in sleep.' Which rendering Master Calvin accepted, I do not now remember. I have forgotten many things. But I know it is often His way to take us over that which we fear, or to give" us that which we long for—to deliver or to bless us—while we sleep.”
Robert was far too shy to speak, but he laid up the words in his memory. They went on again in silence But as he neared',.; his own door, a kindly thought for his young companion crossed the old man's mind, and he asked, "What is thy name, my lad? know thy face, but I forget—I forget.”
“Robert Musgrave, to serve you, sir.”
“Ah!" with a brightened look. "Yes, of a surety I should have known. Thou art, then, the son of my good friend Master Musgrave, who came here during the persecution of Queen Mary—was a man of note in the English congregation, and a friend of Master John Knox. He was given the Freedom of the City. A good man, and chosen of the Lord.”
“I am his grandson, sir. My father, who is now Sir John Musgrave, was sent by him for education here, and was also made a citizen of Geneva. I, too, I am a child of Geneva, and when I grow to man's estate, I should be right glad to be enrolled.”
The boy raised his head proudly. To the men of the Reformation, the Genevan citizenship was a kind of patent of nobility. Many of the Protestant Faith, from every country in Europe, used in those days to send their sons to Geneva for their education.
“In the meantime, my boy, how dost thou in the schools?" Beza asked, with interest. He had himself been Rector of the Academy, until his age and infirmities obliged him to resign.
“Pretty well, sir," Robert answered, modestly. "I am yet in the third class, but I hope next ' Promotions ' to be advanced to the second, and perhaps to be made a dizenier" (monitor having charge of ten).
“That is well, Master Robert. Dost love thy book?”
“I love Virgil and Horace, sir. I am not, as yet, far enough advanced in Greek to love those who wrote in it.”
“An honest answer. But tell me, dost thou, like thy grandfather, love the Book, which is thine, and mine, and every man's, because it comes from the heart of the God who made us, and who knows therefore all that is in ours?”
“I think, sir, I do," Robert Musgrave answered thoughtfully.
As he spoke, they reached the door of the Reformer's modest dwelling. He withdrew his hand gently from the boy's shoulder, said a pleasant word of thanks and farewell, and passed in.
Chapter 2: a Willing Messenger
“He did God's will, to him all one,
If on the earth or in the sun."
—BROWNING.
YOUNG Musgrave ran back again from the doorstep of Beza's dwelling to the house of the Virets. He wanted to hear the very last tidings of the sick girl before he went to his own lodgings in another part of the town, just to snatch a mouthful of food before going to the riding-school in the Corraterie, as he usually did after dinner on Saturdays. Snow was not falling then, but the day was intensely cold, and brooding snow-clouds hid the crests of the grand and distant mountains that keep watch from their thrones over the City of the Lake. As Robert drew near the house he saw Jacques Mercier come forth. Mercier was his friend as well as that of the Virets, and he questioned him eagerly.
“They are counting her life by hours," Mercier replied; "still, the physician thinks she may last till tonight, or haply a day or two.”
They walked on together in silence. That the young English gentleman and the working goldsmith should be very good friends was not strange in democratic Geneva. They had made acquaintance in the Plainpalais, where the Genevan youth used to practice the manly sports and exercises which, in those perilous times, were so necessary a part of their training. Mercier had occasionally helped Robert out of difficulties into which his rather reckless daring had brought him, or shown him how "we of Geneva do these things," which was not always quite the same way as that of "you others of England.”
His plain, honest, intelligent face was clouded just then with perplexity. "M. Robin," he said, pronouncing the name as if it were French, "I am in a strait.”
“Why so, Jacques?”
“You know that M. Viret is in the city Watch, as I am. He should take his turn at the Porte Neuve tonight, beginning early in the afternoon. Could I bid him leave his dying child?”
“'Tis not you, but the Syndic of the Guard who does that. But I suppose he would give him leave.”
Mercier shook his head. "There's a rule against that," he said. "But if I take the turn for him, nothing will be said. M. Robin, could I do less than offer?”
“Well-no, when it is but for four-and' twenty hours. That is not such a hardship." "No hardship at all, save for one thing, which you do not know." Jacques paused a moment, then said with hesitation, "M. Robin, you know I am betrothed?”
“Oh, yes, Jacques, of course I do. Don't you remember you showed me your Madelon in the great market last September, when the Savoyards came with their farm-produce and so forth, and put up booths in the Plainpalais? I bought grapes from her, and figs. I think you settled matters then. You showed your taste, friend Jacques, for she is a right pretty girl.”
“No doubt of my taste, monsieur. It is hers which is in question." With a very gloomy look, Mercier went on, "She and I are not of a mind just now.”
M. Robin was quite too young for the comprehension of lovers' quarrels. If he found himself "not of a mind" with a school friend, he was enough of an English boy to settle the matter straightway with his good right hand; but he knew such a course would not be possible here, and he could think of nothing better to suggest, so he wisely held his tongue.
Jacques continued sadly, "And today, it is her fete. I was going to see her.”
“But we do not keep fete-days here," Robert said.
“That is just how the trouble came," Mercier answered, ruefully. “She is a Savoyard, you know, but a Protestant in heart, which goes, without saying, or else I—” After an expressive pause he went on: "Her parents also are well inclined to the Faith, and will give us their blessing, when the right time comes. Ah me, if—if—. But they do not understand-as how should they?—our strictness about some things. When she bade me to the fete and the merry-making, I said it had a savor of superstition,' being at present in Popish countries, as it used to be here, the day of the saint after whom one was named, and who was to be one's patron—so that I, for that reason, would have naught to do with it. Thereupon she was sore angered, and made answer unto me—"But Mercier had not the heart to repeat the flouting words of his betrothed. He stood in sorrowful silence, his eyes on the ground.
“Marry and indeed, I think you were not over-courteous," said the boy." I would keep the feast of my lady-love in all gladness, and let the Romish superstitions alone.”
“Bitterly have I rued that hasty speech of mine, M. Robin. But I could not tell her so—then. The words would not come to me. She left me in anger. It was her last word, that if I cared not for her fete, it was clear I cared little enough for herself. That was a fair challenge. I need not take part in dance or merry-making, if such should be, but if I do not go to Bernie today and hold speech with her—the truth is, I care not a brass denier what happens to me tomorrow." “Tell you what, Mercier, I'll take the watch at the Porte Neuve for you.”
“Bless your kind heart, M. Robin! But that would never do. You must wait a matter of three years or so ere you don the hauberk and take up the arquebus.”
“Not quite three years, Jacques. A man might serve at seventeen. Stay, though, I have a better thought. Where does your Madelon live?”
“Quite too far, monsieur, for me to go and return before I must report myself at our Quarter; you know the watch is set now an hour after sunset. Her people are Savoyards, as I said; they have a pretty little vineyard of their own, by way of Saconnet, which they call Bernie. It used to be ill going there, for us of the city, on account of the manifold robberies and violence’s of the men of Savoy, the enemies of our Faith, who compass us about like bees, as the Psalmist says. But there is more quiet now on account of the Peace, and besides, the Bopparts got some promise of protection from the lord of their land, who holds them in favor, and who keeps the roads in his estate clear of robbers.”
“Can I not go thither and bring your message?” Robin asked, eagerly." I should love to do it. I have never been so far from the city. It would be a brave adventure and a merry play for me, both at once.”
Mercier's eyes shone, and his whole face was transfigured. "Will you—oh, how good of you! But"— his looks darkened again—"it would not do. The way is long; and besides, M. Robin—your school?”
“Being Saturday afternoon, when the ill scholars are chastised, I have leave of absence. I do not go to the Academy, but to the riding-school, whence also I shall take holiday just for once. But how am I to go?”
“Easily enough. The way is plain, though it is long. You cross the bridge of the Arve, and follow the course of the river till you come to a little hamlet half ruined in the war, and an inn with three cross-bows for a sign. Ask there the way to Bernie, where is the vineyard of one Boppart, and any man will guide you. But it will take you all the time you have, and more, between this and, the shutting of the gates— much more, if you stay awhile to rest, as after such a tramp you needs must.”
“Well, I shall come to the Porte Neuve, and you will let me in.”
“Yes, I can see to that. These times, all that road is very safe and quiet, as I have said, else be sure I would not let you go. God bless and reward you for it, M. Robin.”
“What shall I tell your Madelon for you, Jacques?”
“Just tell her, monsieur, the cause that keeps me from her today; and she, who has the kindest heart in the world, will more than pardon me. And, monsieur, if it please you, will you give her this? It is for her fête, as she calls it.”
He took from his capacious pocket a small box of polished wood, beautifully inlaid, and with a little silver key tied to the handle. Robin was enough of a boy to want to know what was inside; so Jacques opened it, and showed him all the requisites for sewing— scissors, thimble, needles, pins, all of the best kind then known. The Genevans were skilled in the manufacture of these things, many of the best artificers from Catholic countries having come to them as refugees.
Robert exclaimed at what, under the circumstances, was a very costly present. "There is only my mother and myself," Jacques said, apologetically, " and I earn good money in my craft.”
“But why, since thou art a worker in gold, dost thou not give her a brooch or a ring, or something which thou hast made thyself?”
Mercier shook his head. "Girls of our degree do not wear gold," he said. “But they sew, and that right skillfully—so I think she will like that gift of mine. Tell her my heart goes with it.”
“That I will, and now I am off, like an arrow from the bow. Only I must first run home, and tell the Bernards not to expect me until they see me.”
The Bernards were a respected family of Genevan burghers, with whom the father of Robert had arranged for the board and lodging of his son during his residence in Geneva. They were supposed also to exercise a sort of supervision over him out of school hours; but it must be confessed that they held the reins very loosely. Nor had it ever been necessary to do otherwise, as the boy's conduct hitherto had been irreproachable.
"And, M. Robin, see that you take with you a warm outer garment. The cold is bitter," said Mercier.
Robert nodded. "My father gave me a warm coat, lined and trimmed with fur," he said. "I cannot wear it in the town, for such is not allowed to us who are scholars. But once I get beyond the gate I can put it on. I will bring it.”
“God go with you, sir, and may He protect and prosper you.”
“Oh, there's no need," said Robert. Then, correcting himself, "I mean, there's no danger. Save, indeed, from the dark night we are like to have. But I'll make the Bernards lend me a lantern. As to the Savoyards, since the Peace was made they are quite civil. Master Bernard was saying it is because they want to trade with us. I say to thee, Jacques Mercier"—boy-like, he could not help stopping to utter the thought that seized him at the moment, great as was his hurry to "run home" and be set free to start on his adventure—
"I say to thee, I've often caught myself wishing the old times back again. When I sit in my place in the Academy, I sometimes miss my turn for the thoughts that come to me of those who sat there not so long ago—whom Dr. Beza remembers so well, and used to talk about. Indeed the Rector does too, and so do the Pastors—they tell us of the scholars that learned the Truth from Master Calvin's own lips, and went forth to die for it, in France, in Savoy, in the Netherlands— everywhere. He said to them, ' Go and die! ‘and they died. But that was glory, joy and glory! Even the heathen knew it was sweet for a man to die for his country. How much more the Christian!”
So spoke the, child of Geneva, the pupil of the Academy from whose gates John Calvin had sent forth many candidates for the crown of martyrdom. What wonder if their memory and their spirit lingered yet in the very atmosphere of what might well have been called the School of Martyrs!
Mercier looked at him in surprise. "Bless you, M. Robin, what has come to you?" he asked. “You look as if you, you yourself, would like—”
“And I just should!” Robert blazed out." What glory like that? Or—the next best thing—to die in battle for the Right. I had an uncle who died so—when I was a babe in arms—at sea, fighting the great Armada. Since I knew anything I knew about him, and was proud of him. But I must not stay talking. I am off to the Rue Cornavin. Au revoir.”
Mercier looked after him admiringly. His thoughts were something like this, though he did not give them definite words. “There goes a brave lad, God bless him! He will do great things some day. There be folk God chooses for that—elects, as the pastors say.
I suppose that goes into everything, great and small. For nothing is too great for Him, and nothing too small. 'Twould not be wrong to say even, He has elected me to watch at the Porte Neuve tonight. So I must go to work at once that I may be well ready for it, and with a willing heart.”
Chapter 3: a Midnight March
“With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death march of that host begun;
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands,
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands,
And they gave no battle shout.”
THE December night did not close as early over the banks of the Arve as it does over those of the Thames or the Severn. Yet it closed far too soon over the young wayfarer who tramped along steadily, with his face set towards Geneva, singing as he went, out of the sheer gladness of his heart. For he carried, safe hidden beneath his doublet, Madelon's "token" for her lover. His mission had been entirely, delightfully successful. Madelon, no doubt, was only longing for an excuse to make up the quarrel. She pitied the sick girl, praised Jacques Mercier's kind heart and admired his present, to the full content of the young ambassador, who was petted and made much of, not by her alone, but by all her kith and kin, in a way very flattering to the sensibilities of his fifteen years.
In the eyes of his hosts, who were well-to-do peasants with a little vineyard of their own, the handsome young gentleman, in his costly fur coat, was a being of superior order, worthy of homage and reverence, as well as of admiration.
The hospitalities that were, very respectfully, pressed upon him, made it hard to go; and when at last he took his leave, two brothers of Madelon's set him on his way, and gave him anxious and detailed directions about a short cut by which he might avoid a bend in the river.
It would have been better for him if he had declined to listen, instead of carefully laying up all they said in his memory. For the proverb sometimes come true, and the traveler finds to his cost that "the longest way round" would have been for him, "the shortest way home.”
“It will be a black night, as well as a cold one," thought the boy, as he buttoned his fur-lined coat more closely round him. He had not cared, after all, to ask the Bernards for a lantern, as it might have led them to fear he would be out very late, and to refuse him the leave he wanted, and the Bopparts did not possess one. Still he had set out in good heart, and kept on bravely, though the darkness deepened more and more, and as it seemed to him, with unusual rapidity.
No moon, no star, was visible through the thick clouds that veiled the sky. Robert rather felt his way than saw it; but the murmur of the river close at hand was a valuable guide, and his stick, which he used as a blind man would, kept him from stumbling over obstacles or falling into ditches.
For some time the path led between the river and the vineyards beside it, but at length, in an evil hour, he espied among these vineyards a light which seemed to be on some hill or rising ground. Surely here was the promised short cut, marked by what Jeannot Boppart called "La Maison Greve," an old inn and dwelling-house, half demolished in some local disturbance, but now inhabited again. Jeannot had told him that a path which would save him a long detour ran by it, all the way over the hill. Might he not venture it? And—yes, there, dimly seen, was the opening of the path—a narrow way through a vineyard. Once in it, he had only to go straight on, "as the crow flies," and the light from the house would guide him.
He did not bargain for a speedy loss of the guiding light, through a turn in the path. Still, thinking that, with the vines on each side of him, he could scarcely go wrong, he pushed on. On and on he went, through the numbing cold and the dreary darkness, till he began to grow disheartened, fearing that, after all, he must have taken the wrong way. Still, how could he? Surely that light must have been from the house which the Bopparts had described; but if so, whither had house and light vanished together?
He went a little farther, then stopped short in blank dismay, struck suddenly by a fearful thought. He was being "pixie led.”
That light was kindled by no mortal hand; it was the work of some malicious, or at best of some tricksy spirit, bent on luring him to destruction. That sense of nearness to the unseen—to the spirit world—which made our forefathers in some ways so marvelously strong, had its other side; if supernatural help was always at hand, supernatural terrors were very present also. In spite of the freezing cold, drops stood upon Robert's brow. The foes he dreaded now were not foes of flesh and blood, whom he could fight or flee. Would they were!
Rallying his forces, and saying a brief prayer for help, he went on still. The path between the vines came to an end at last, and he thought he saw in the darkness the outline of a house against the sky. But the light, if light there had been from it, was extinguished now. While he stood looking and wondering, his desire for foes of flesh and blood was granted, only too well. There was a noise of furious barking and howling, and of footsteps tearing towards him. He had no time for hesitation or delay. Putting out his hand, he felt a low wall near him, leaped over it, and dashed at full speed through the vineyards, down the hill.
When at last he paused to draw breath, he found that he had escaped the dogs, but hopelessly lost his way. Even his sense of direction was at fault; if he stirred a step, he might be turning his back upon Geneva. Bitterly did he rue his folly in abandoning the straight road.
Better, perhaps, to stay where he was, and await the morning light, the rather as he was now far less conscious of the cold. All he felt was a sense of extreme fatigue, and a kind of drowsiness stealing over him. This grew upon him rapidly, while he stood and pondered. Why not lie down among the vines, and sleep until the breaking of the day? Already his eyes began to close. He would—he must sleep.
With a start of terror he woke up. In Geneva, he had often talked with exiles from the Waldensian valleys, who had crossed the mountains in snow and ice; and they told him how their comrades, who yielded to the irresistible inclination to lie down and sleep, had slept to wake no more. Then he saw as in a vision the lighted hall of his English home, with Yule logs blazing cheerily on the hearth, and the red light shining on happy faces—the faces of his father and mother, his young brothers and his sister. No, he would not lie down in the snow, and die like a coward. He would live to go back to them;—and he knew his only chance was to keep moving, so he walked on and on, till at last his limbs seemed to move mechanically, with no impulse from his will. The only desire of which he was conscious was to get somewhere, or at least to get out upon the road, where he might hear the friendly voice of the river, and perhaps see the city lights before him. A dull wonder grew upon him, if the vineyards through which he was walking would ever end; they seemed interminable. How long had he been walking there—a night, two nights, or three? He could not tell.
Suddenly he stopped and listened. Surely he heard voices and footsteps. Not irregular, dropping footsteps, as of ordinary wayfarers, but the measured, rhythmic tread of men who march in order. He was by this time dazed with excessive weariness, so that it scarcely occurred to him to wonder how such men could be marching at midnight, either to Geneva or from it. If he thought about it at all, he supposed they were some band of exiles for the Faith. At all events they were men, and any human companionship would be more than welcome. So he moved as quickly as he could in the direction of the sound.
Presently he came to another low wall, the boundary of the vineyard he was in. He climbed to the top to look. Yes—there, no doubt, was the road. Dim lights were moving along it, and the sound of marching footsteps seemed close at hand. There must be many men, quite an army. What had brought them there? Changing his position slightly to see better, he displaced a loose stone which, carrying others with it, fell noisily to the ground.
There was a flash, a sharp sound, and something whizzed by him, close to his ear. The noise he made had been heard, and someone had fired into the darkness.
“What a hurry they are in!" thought Robert. “They might have waited to see whether I was friend or foe. But if that is their sort, they shall have none of my company.”
He dropped down from the wall at the inner side, and crouched among the vines. But he was quite close to the road, and the marching footsteps seemed to sound in his very ears. So did an angry oath, and a few rapid words, spoken in the patois of the Savoyards. This Robert understood very well, as it was used by many of the lower classes in Geneva. The words meant, "Why did you make that accursed noise?”
Then, all at once, he came to himself. This was a hostile army, marching upon Geneva under cover of the night. It was a time of peace; the great enemy of the Genevans, the Duke of Savoy, was bound by a solemn treaty, to which he had sworn. But what did that signify? The Pope could absolve from all broken oaths. The Genevan of that age lived like Damocles, with the sword of Rome and of Rome's vassals suspended over his head; and Robert Musgrave knew that night that he saw the sword in the act of descending.
The young, true heart had room for no thought but one. "How can I save Geneva?" Languor vanished from his limbs and dullness from his brain, as the answer thrilled through and through him, "I will go with them unobserved, raise the alarm—and die for it!”
In that thick darkness no man might recognize his fellow. To join the soldiers unperceived, and to march on as one of them, would be the easiest thing in the world. There was only one thing that would be better—to outrun them, and get first to the town. But that was impracticable. He must do what he could, not what he would. Later, if any chance, or any good guidance of God, should enable him to get on to the front and outstrip them, he would take it.
The first step was quickly made. Almost ere he knew it himself he was a part of the long, black, snaky thing, with spots of dim red here and there, that was gliding on—silent, stealthy, venomous—towards the sleeping town. Whilst himself keeping well in the shade, he could see, in the flickering lantern light, black cuirasses—helmets, muskets, and men carrying strange burdens, things of rope and wood and iron, of which he could not guess the use.
All ear, and all watchfulness for a chance to get towards the front, Robert marched on, his fatigue forgotten, step for step with the rest. The darkness grew a little thicker, if that were possible, when they passed under the great elms that fringed the road as it drew near the city. Their frosty branches shivered in the wind with a chill, "eerie" sound, which mingled with the dull murmur of the river. Robert overheard muttered prayers to the Virgin and the Saints from those near him, and presently one whispered to him in the Savoyard patois, "Would we were safe out of this business, comrade!”
Afraid to answer, lest his voice should betray him, Robert tried a groan, which might mean either sympathy or fear. Almost at the same moment, the melancholy hoot of an owl was heard in the branches overhead. He felt the start of the man beside him, while another muttered in his ear, “I doubt the devil, whom these heretics serve, knows how to take care of his own.” Then louder," Heard ye that, my companions? 'Twas no mortal made that noise, and it came from above our heads.”
“Silence!" cried the voice of authority." Shut off your lights! "The dim red spots died out, or seemed to do so, as they were obscured by the sliding panels of the lanterns." Now, move on!”
The band moved on, in grim, fearful, palpitating silence, and almost in utter darkness. They seemed to be going into the pit of hell. Robert felt as though he had been walking thus for half his lifetime, side by side with these men of Belial, these midnight assassins and destroyers. Like one in a nightmare he knew all, but he could not act or speak. Was the town close at hand? Was it the Plainpalais they were passing through now? He could see nothing but the back of the man behind whom he walked, nor that, save in dim outline.
At last came the word of command: "Halt! Form in line!" Then someone drew the slide of a lantern, and Robert saw distinctly two figures—a very stout man, with a plumed helmet, and beside him a monk in hood and frock. These were the leaders of the band.
Now was his time. There were trees close to him, and the darkness was thick beneath them. He would slip into it, and make as best he could for the nearest city gate.
Just an instant too late! God would not save Geneva that night by the hand of Robert Musgrave. As he slipped off, he was seized, collared and dragged into the light. "I know thee well, Ragazzo," his captor said; "ever a coward, thou hast no taste for climbing the ladder of rope. So thou wouldst slip off and hide, while we are getting ready. —Keep quiet, my lad! Thou must to Captain Brunaulieu, for all thy struggling.”
Robert answered him by a shout that he thought would wake the dead. But the shrill, boyish treble died uselessly away; and presently he stood in the dim light before the two leaders of the band. Despair was in his heart. Now indeed all was lost. His one faint hope was to delay the foe for a few moments, when every moment might mean a chance. He soon found himself standing before the bulky figure of a man whose enormous frame enshrined the qualities of a very brave and able leader.
“Who are you?" asked Captain Brunaulieu.
“I am an Englishman, by name Robert Musgrave.”
“That is enough," the captain interrupted sternly. "The watchword?”
Robert was silent.
“Thou hast it not? Very well. Manzone, string him up to you tree. No! that takes time and rope, two things we cannot spare. Run him through with your sword.”
“Si, signor.”
A quick thought flashed through Robert's brain. "I am going to a strange place, but there's One there who will look after me.”
Then he heard another voice: "I pray you, sir, leave him to me. He may do us a service," and, to his immense astonishment, the same voice went on in English—or, to speak more exactly, in good Scotch, "Look up, laddie, dinna be fear't. Ye're naebut a halflins callant, after a'.”
Robert looked up. The shrewd, ascetic face of a monk gazed steadily into his. "I am not afraid," he said, with a touch of indignation.
“Nae doot, laddie, nae doot. Ye're a soldier's bairn, belike, and think some day to be a soldier yersel'?”
Robert looked from him to the captain, who had already dismissed him from his thoughts, and stood, sword in hand, haranguing his men, promising them everlasting glory, and riches "beyond the dream of avarice" from the plunder of the heretic city.
It was a weird and striking scene, the dim light flashing fitfully on sword and musket and morion, or on the faces of determined men, and the strange things they carried—coils of rope, ladders which some were piecing deftly together, petards, great pincers, hurdles. But Robert looked away from all these, and again at the captain's face. "Rather than be a soldier like you, and do work like this," he said deliberately, "I will go to my God tonight.”
“Ca' canny, my lad, ca' canny," interposed the friar. “Though I'll no deny I like ye the better for having a bit o' pluck o' yer ain. But ye may see for yersel' we're bound to win this time. We've got a' things richt and ready, and neither yett nor wa' can keep us oot. Speer o' yersel', for I dootna ye're a wise-like laddie, gin it's better for ye to die here like a rat in a hole, and nane o' yer folk se mickle as to ken what's come to ye, or to hear reason and show us the way. Gif ye play us fair, by this crucifix I swear to ye, we'll not only make a man o' ye, but what aiblins ye'll better like, we'll gie ye the life of ilka man, woman and bairn ye can say is a freend o' yours.”
Robert paused a moment. Then his face lighted up. "Yes," he said, "I will go with you.”
“That's a wise bairn. I'll see to it ye'll no be sorry. Now stan' by, while I speak to the lads. Bide a wee, though." He took out of his capacious sleeve something long and white, and stepped up close to Robert.
To his horror the boy saw that he was to be gagged. "That I will not bear!" he said, defiantly, pushing him away.
The monk laughed. "Div' ye think we were going to trust ye?" he asked. "Na, na, lad! Ye're ower guid stuff for that. Ye'd just gie the cry to your friends and let us de our worst to ye afterward. Se ye maun tak' yer choice, the gag or the sword.”
“Tryon silence me, how can I tell you the way?”
“Ye can tell it to the captain, wha will loose ye for the purpose. At after, ye can point to it wi' yer hand.”
“Thank you, sir. I choose the sword.”
“Weel, aweel! A willful man maun gang his ain gait. Naebut I'm fashed—for ye're a brave callant, at that. Still, it maun be done. Here, some o' ye—Na, na just yet. Let's gi'e him a chance, and see how he'll look tomorrow when we come forth as conquerors, wha ha'e stickit a' his freends in their naked beds. Ye doited gowks, ha'e ye never a belt amang ye a'?" Then, suddenly remembering that he was talking broad Scotch to the Savoyards, he changed to the tongue they knew. “My lads, he is English, and, as I take it from his costly coat of fur, of no mean degree. Just tie him up out of harm's way for tonight, and tomorrow, when we come forth of the town with our work done, he that lists may loose him, and put him to ransom.”
A dozen hands were laid upon the struggling boy, and he was bound securely to the nearest tree.
“Shall we gag him?" someone asked.
“No," the monk answered. "Let him cry his loudest, there are none of his friends within earshot now." Then, as if already he had wasted too much time on so slight a thing, he turned quickly to the business of the hour. Holding up the crucifix until the light fell full upon the glittering metal, he besought each soldier of the cross to play the man that night, not so much for gold or glory, as for the honor of God and of His holy Mother. Those who fell— if indeed there should any fall—would go straight to the joys of Paradise. Taken by surprise, in their sleep, at the dead of night, how could the heretics fight for their lives? They could only die beneath the hands of the Faithful, who would mow them down as the mower mows the grass. Yet, to make all sure, here were medals, blessed by His Holiness himself. He would give one to each man, from the great love he bore them, and his zeal for the Catholic Faith. No harm could happen to the wearer of a pledge so precious and so holy.
Thus far Father Alexander, the Scottish friar, whose name and whose nationality history has preserved. Yet the fanatic who anticipated with delight the slaughter of an unarmed and innocent multitude because they were heretics, interfered to save the life of one heretic boy! For the multitude he had never seen were but a name to him, while the boy's brave young eyes had looked into his, and his voice had sounded in his ears.
Small thanks had he from Robert Musgrave. At first, like the boy he was, he cried aloud and struggled hard against his bitter fate. Then, as its exceeding bitterness came over him and pierced his very soul, cry and struggle ceased. He was beyond all that. His heart was broken. Silent and dry-eyed, he heard all that passed. There went a murmur through the band that one “Sonas" had come back from reconnoitering the town, and reported that all was still and silent there. Again, that it was "all right" about the main army waiting at Champel to follow up their success—"Trust old D'Albigny to finish the work for God and the saints." Then there was a mingling of many voices, though all somehow seemed subdued and stifled. Great, bulky things were dragged, pulled about and put together, though still in that strange, ominous silence; men glided here and there like shadows; lights gleamed and faded; words of command were given and answered. At last the band began to move on. Of a surety the last hour of Geneva—the city of the Reformation, the stronghold of Protestantism—was striking now. Robert closed his eyes, and wished he might never open them again.
Still, he could pray. He tried to do it. "Oh, God, save Geneva!" he cried aloud. There he stopped, but with the sense that there was something he should add—what was it? Had he dared to utter the voice of his heart it would have been, “If Thou can't.”
At last there came to him a thought of comfort. “But He can do all things, and 'He that keepeth Israel slumbers not nor sleeps.' I can't think any more, or pray—everything is going from me. I suppose this is—Death. I do not fear—who was it said that?— ‘I do not fear Death—I fear dying.’” Then he knew who it was, and a vision came to him. He saw once more the face of Theodora Viret, but not as he had seen it last on the white pillow, looking whiter still. What he saw now was a radiant face, and a form wrapped in soft, rainbow-colored light, like a robe: It seemed a little away from him, above him and yet near. And a gleaming hand was stretched out as if to beckon him. The last thing he felt was a wish to follow it.
Chapter 4: the Great Deliverance
“Red is the cup they drink, but not with wine,
Awake and watch tonight, or see no morning shine.”
—CAMPBELL.
“SHE is no worse, certainly she is no worse." So Viret said, standing at the door of his house, to Jacques Mercier, who called to inquire ere he went to take the father's place, as he had promised, for his four-and-twenty hours in the city watch. "There has been no return of the hemorrhage. Not that we are daring to hope—oh, no! But still, so far as it goes—. God bless thee, Jacques, for this good deed of thine, to me and to her." He wrung the youth's hand, and then turned silently into the house.
With the father's blessing warm at his heart, Mercier wended his way to his post at the Porte Neuve. “It was but a little thing to do," he thought," just to take his turn in the watch. 'Twere nothing, indeed, but for the trouble about Madelon, and good M. Robin has helped me there.
“Ah, well, there be people who can do great things for God, or suffer great things for Him, as M. Robin was saying, like the holy martyrs. Still, perhaps it may also be pleasing in His sight to do little things for Him, if one does them willingly. Here I am. Plenty of time I shall have to think about Madelon, since there is never the least thing, now-a-days, for us twenty men of the city guard to do. Save and except for the look of the thing, we might as well be about our lawful business all the evening, and asleep in our beds at night.—Good evening, Captain; good evening, Guillaume; good evening, Lefranc. 'Tis a cold afternoon.”
“Ay, and like to be a bitter night and a dark one," returned a comrade.
The watch was set as usual, and the guard settled down to a dull evening, to be followed by a long and weary night of chill discomfort and wakefulness, without, as they thought, even the stimulus of danger.
Slowly the evening wore on, and then the night set in. All was just as usual.
It was about three o'clock in the morning when the guard at the Porte Neuve, barely keeping awake in their dull monotonous watch, found themselves suddenly beset with foes. Out of the utter silence and the thick darkness came the flash of steel—blows, thrusts, a soldier's death. The enemy was upon them—a hundred—a thousand—an army—who could tell?
In that moment of panic they contrived to discharge their arquebuses, thus giving the alarm. Then they ran for their lives.
There were three however who did not run, but climbed instead in the darkness to the top of the great stone gate-post. One of them was Jacques Mercier. He crouched on the ledge near the top and looked down on the enemy. The light of a lantern was turned full upon the gate, and men were dragging forward some heavy thing. He knew what it was—a petard. They were going to blow up the gate.
And he knew what to do. He snatched a long knife from his girdle, and stooping low, severed a cord. A winch flew round, and then, with thundering noise and clangor, down crashed the ponderous iron portcullis. Jacques Mercier's work was done; the Porte Neuve was the key of the city. Geneva was saved.
For one supreme moment, worth years of our common life—he knew it. Then the inevitable bullet found his heart, and he knew something far better—something you and I know not yet, heirs of all the ages though we be.
- - -
Meanwhile, in one quiet room of the doomed city, a father and mother kept watch by the bedside of their child, dreaming of no foe, fearing no danger, save the fading of that feeble spark of life. But Theodora slept peacefully, only waking from time to time to smile at her parents, and to take the nourishment they gave.
So it was, until about three o'clock in the morning, when a medley of strange noises broke upon the sleeping town. The sick girl did not heed them, but the watchers looked at each other, wondering. There were hurrying footsteps, cries, shouts, and presently the sharp rattle of musketry. Then the great bell of St. Peter's tolled its loudest, echoed by the other bells of the city.
At last Theodora opened her eyes, though without alarm or agitation. "What hour is it?" she asked, quietly. "I thought it was the middle of the night. But all the bells are ringing. Is it for prayers?”
“It is, no doubt, for prayer," Viret answered, controlling his wonder and alarm. "My child, ask God to have us all in His good keeping—you too, my wife. As for me, I must go forth and see what is doing. Have no fear. As soon as may be I will come to you again." For the duty of a Genevan citizen was plain, whatever his domestic circumstances might be.
Viret donned hastily the cap and cuirass of the city guard, seized his arquebus, and ran to the town hall. As the alarm had found him awake and dressed, he was among the first to reach it, but a crowd of citizens accompanied or followed him, or ran to their several "quarters," half dressed, wholly amazed and bewildered, yet strong and resolute to fight to the death for their city and their Faith.
Meanwhile the enemy, though baffled at the Porte Neuve, had forced the gates of La Terrasse and La Monnaie, and some had scaled the wall. The watching mother and daughter could see nothing of what happened, and wondered at the noise and confusion outside without realizing the awful peril that beset them. The mother thought there must be a fire somewhere—perhaps one of the churches, perhaps the cathedral itself, already burned more than once, was again in danger. The daughter had no special thought about it, and no fear. The good God, and the Syndics, and her father, would take care of the town.
Presently a trumpet sounded, long and loud. Then indeed the mother's heart failed her for fear, for she knew it was the call to arms. Being very much frightened herself, of course she said to Theodora, "Dear child, be not afraid.”
To her surprise, almost to her terror, the look on the sick girl's face was one of pure gladness. Eye and lip smiled together as she repeated softly, "Afraid? Oh, mother, is it not the Trump our Lord told us should sound when He came again?—I shall not have to go alone, and leave you. He will take us all together. Thank God!" Then she paused, silent with joy, as her mother was with awe and wonder.
Presently she spoke again, very calmly, "I ought to be so glad—so glad! Only, somehow I cannot take it in. I cannot feel all the glory and the joy. I can only feel I am at rest—satisfied. He will not mind my not going forth to meet Him. He knows I would—only I am sick, and so tired.”
Had she not been too weak, physically, to realize all the meaning of the thought that had come to her, she would probably have "gone to meet Him" in another way, for joy can kill as well as grief. But to the very ill, as to the very old, great things come softly. There are still raptures, as well as stormy ones. As the deepest love is silent, so well may be the deepest joy. Such was the joy that enfolded Theodora Viret that night, and her heart rested in it, at peace.
At that very moment the father who loved her was praying she might die. For the streets of Geneva were ringing with the cry, "Vive Savoie! Vive Espagne! Kill! Kill!" In every street the foe had entered, wild and desperate fights-separate but simultaneous, in the dark or lit fitfully by torches—were going on.
The Savoyards had forced the gate of La Terrasse, but the citizens defended with their lives the passage that gave entrance to the town. Viret was amongst them, and saw the brave old Syndic, Jean Canal, the captain of his quarter, who had been led out, at his own earnest request, to strike one last blow for God and for Geneva. He did not see him fall. Little indeed could friend or foe see of each other in that strange midnight battle—or rather, those many battles. Only the torches which the Genevans had fixed at the corners of the streets shed a dim, smoky, flickering light on the swaying forms, and the furious, desperate faces of the combatants.
Meanwhile, from the houses that overlooked the ramparts, and the streets the Savoyards had entered, a sharp fire of musketry was kept up upon them. Women even, and children, did their part, throwing down whatever missiles came to hand. It is especially recorded that one woman killed a Savoyard in this way with an iron pot.
So the combats raged-hand to hand, foot to foot, each citizen standing on his own spot of free Genevan soil, and in his heart the one thought of keeping it from the murderous foe. Long was it ere each understood that the cause of all was won. At every point resistance had become pursuit, almost before the pursuers knew it themselves. Cries of "Vive Espagne! Vive Savoie!" were heard still, but they were mixed with the hoarse, despairing shouts of the captains, who tried in vain to rally their men, adjuring them to stand for God and for Savoy. Already the Savoyards were taking to the ladders, when a cannoneer who had managed to get his gun in place upon the rampart, sent a ball among them, breaking one of the ladders and precipitating the fugitives into the fosse beneath. This completed the panic; the retreat became a flight, the flight a stampede. The formidable army—composed of Savoyards, Spaniards, Corsicans— who were stationed on the rising grounds of Champel to follow up the victory of the escalading corps, advanced indeed upon the town, but only to share the panic of the rest, and to be put to flight, without striking a blow, by their own fears and the bullets of the Genevans. Brunaulieu, too large and heavy to attempt an escape, sought a soldier's death and found it on the rampart. Many another Savoyard came back no more from that night's wild conflict.
Geneva was saved!
There was in Geneva one man, and in all probability only one, who knew nothing of that night's terror and confusion. God's aged servant, Theodore Beza, slept in peace throughout; kept from fear and danger "in the hollow of His hand." When morning came, those around him poured eagerly into his dulled ear the story of their peril and their deliverance. He was bewildered, amazed, incredulous; he could not take it in. Later in the day, however, they led him to the ramparts and showed him the traces of the past night's desperate conflict—armor and weapons strewed about, dead lying unburied, the gate broken down and the shattered fragments of a ladder still hanging from the wall. Then he knew that, while he slumbered, God had saved Geneva. He had carried him tenderly over the peril and the conflict, in the arms of His messenger —Sleep. Nothing remained for him now save the giving of thanks. Lifting up his feeble hands to heaven, he found a voice for his wonder and his praise in the words spoken for Israel long ago:
“If it had not been the Lord who was on our side, now may Israel say;
If it had not been the Lord who was on our side, when men rose up against us;
Then they had swallowed us up quick, when their wrath was kindled against us;
Then the waters had overflowed us, the stream had gone over our soul.
Blessed be the Lord, who hath not given us as a prey to their teeth.
Our soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowlers: the snare is broken, and we are escaped.
Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”
Chapter 5: After the Combat
“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!”
Chapter 6: "Geneva Does Not Forget."
“Thou didst well in that it was in thy heart.”
THREE hundred years ago this world of ours was a great deal larger than it is today. Not, of course, as measured by miles, but very certainly as measured by hours and days. Yet even three hundred years ago the voice of rumor rang out fast and far the story of the danger and deliverance of Geneva; and it was swelled by wrath and horror at the shameless perfidy of the Savoyards and their allies of Spain. These feelings, though naturally strongest in the Protestant communities, were not wholly confined to them: there are certain unwritten international laws necessary to the very existence of civilization, and when these are flagrantly outraged, the common instincts of humanity arise in protest.
But in those days the rumor of great events very far out-ran the full details of them. These last, if they came at all, came lagging after, very slowly; either through the haphazard public posts (where such existed) or, often with better speed, through the hands of merchants, or of private persons traveling for business or pleasure.
When Sir John Musgrave, knight and gentleman of Dorset, heard in his peaceful Manor House the story of the Escalade, it meant the more to him because Robert was in Geneva, but he did not greatly apprehend any danger to Robert himself. All was changed, however, when a belated letter reached his hands at last. It was from Charles Bernard—brief, candid, and to the point. With a contrition which was much more real than his measured words betrayed, Bernard acknowledged his fault in having permitted the boy to go out of the town on that fatal day—told where and how he had been found again, and plainly acknowledged that he was still lying between life and death— the issue in God's hands, and in His alone.
Whereupon Sir John Musgrave did what nine fathers out of ten would do today, but what scarcely one out of ten would, or could, have done then. With a well-filled purse and one trusty attendant, he crossed the Channel in some chance vessel bound for Havre—hired good horses in every town he passed, and thus with ease and what was then considered rapidity, made his way to the city on the shore of Lake Leman. And Robert's heart rejoiced and was glad at the sight of his father's face.
It was his best medicine. The days were restful now, and the nights all too short for sleep. As he grew stronger, his father talked with him, giving him news of home—news indeed of many kinds, domestic and political. The latest news was of the failing health of the Queen, the "great Elizabeth," whom both father and son looked at through a sort of golden haze, a mixture of loyalty and chivalry. Often Sir John read the Bible to his son, either in French or in English; and occasionally, to Robert's great delight, he read also a wonderful new book, "The Faerie Queen," which he had brought with him.
Many friends remembered Sir John Musgrave, who had himself been educated in Geneva, and in later years had brought his son thither. These gathered round him now, and Robert's schoolfellows also paid him visits. Once the venerable Dr. Beza came himself, with words of faith and hope and kindly sympathy; but much to Robert's regret, that was before he was well enough to profit by the visit.
Though his convalescence was a peaceful and happy time, it was not undimmed by sorrowful thoughts. As soon as he thought himself able to go out, he entreated his father's permission to do so.
“Father," said he, "I am quite well now, and there are those I must go and see. I cannot rest till I do.”
“Who are they, Robert?”
“The mother of Jacques Mercier, for one."
"She would come to see you.”
“No, father, I pray you. Is it not right I should wait upon her, not she upon me? She is old, and 3 am young; she is desolate, and I have everything left me.”
“Well said, my son. And who is the other?”
“Demoiselle Theodora Viret. You know her father says she is better, but while the winter lasts she cannot leave the house.”
“There, too," said Sir John, smiling, "I own thou art in the right. It is the gentleman's devoir to wait upon the lady. Though I did not know she was a friend of thine.”
Robert made no answer. In spite of all their close communion, he had never told his father the story of his adventures on the awful night of the Escalade. If asked about them, he would make some brief general answer, and let the subject drop. His father, thinking the remembrance distressed him, respected his wishes, and forbore to press him. This eldest son of his was dear to him as the apple of his eye. He treated him with a thoughtfulness and consideration not usual from parents to children, in those days of stern authority and implicit obedience.
Soon, however, he had to tell him what he feared would be accounted evil tidings. It was with some reluctance that Lady Musgrave had given her consent to the father's plan for his son's education in Geneva. Yet, as a dutiful wife, she had yielded to his wishes. Was it not reasonable then that, as a loving mother, she should plead for his recall, when Geneva proved to be a place where the inhabitants might be murdered in their beds at the dead of night, by a horde of Savoyard and Papist desperadoes? Under the circumstances, Sir John felt himself obliged to give way.
Robert, when he told him, did not say much either for or against. Geneva, and the life there, "liked him well," or as we should say now, he liked them well; but, especially since his illness, his heart yearned for the sight of his mother's face and the sound of his mother's voice; so that on the whole, he was content.
At last, on a sunny morning towards the end of January, father and son went forth together. Robert wore the fur coat which no doubt had saved his life on the night of the Escalade.
As they passed down the street, he looked about him with the keen delight and interest of the convalescent, to whom the common sights and sounds of life come back with the freshness of pleasant novelties. There were not many people about at that hour. It was still early; the men were busy in their shops or workrooms, the women about their household matters. But in passing from the Coratterie into the Place Neuve, they came upon a couple of the Town Guard, who seemed to be forcing along with them, in spite of his resistance by word and deed, a lad in the dress of a Savoyard peasant, a "gray-foot," as the Genevans called them. The citizens were brave men, with hard heads and stout hearts, but it was not many weeks since Savoyards in the dead of night had broken into their town, with murderous intent—was it wonderful they did not welcome their visits? In fact, at that time the city gates were kept shut for the most part, by day as well as by night, and watched by a strong guard. The lad looked angry rather than frightened. He was crying out in his Savoyard patois—" Let me alone, and I'll go with you—only tell me where! I have lawful business. I demand to be taken—" Then suddenly catching sight of Robert Musgrave, he broke away from the men with one mighty wrench, sprang towards him, and threw himself at his feet.
“Oh, M. Robin—M. Robin!" he cried. "It is you And you are alive! Thank God—and all the Saints!”
“Jeannot Boppart!" Robert exclaimed, in almost equal astonishment. "But get up, man. Don't kneel!" Then to the guard, "What are you doing to the lad? Let him go. He's an honest fellow. I know him.”
Sir John knew French perfectly, but not the patois of the Savoyards. At his son's words he interposed, and in the voice of one who expected to be obeyed, “If my son answers for this young man, it ought to be sufficient. What were you going to do to him?”
“Only to thrust him forth out of the town," said the nearest man, capping respectfully to the" egregious "foreigner. (The Genevans used" egregious ' in the sense of "distinguished").
“He must have slipped in through the negligence of someone," added the other. "We want no gray- feet’ here.”
“I have business," the "gray-foot" began, but broke off to kiss the hand Robert extended to him, and to say once more, as if he could scarce believe in the wonder, "You are alive!”
“So it seems, at least," said Robert, with a laugh—checked immediately as he thought of the sad tale Jeannot would have to carry back to Madelon Boppart. Boy-like, he shrank from the thought of telling him.
Sir John spoke gravely. "It were ill-advised, as well as churlish, to thrust out one who comes on plea of business and unarmed, desiring only to be heard. He may have tidings, or information, which would be of service to the town. You should bring him to someone in authority, who will hear his story and deal with him accordingly.”
The men acquiesced. "You are right, monsieur," said one. "We will take him to the Hall. The ' Little Council ' sits this morning. It is early yet; but there will be someone there who can hear what the fellow has to say.”
“I pray you, father, let us come with them," said Robert aside to his father. "I want to hear what he comes for. And—I must speak with him.”
“As thou wilt," returned Sir John, whose own curiosity was excited. "But how dost know the lad?”
“He is the brother of Jacques Mercier's betrothed. And oh, father, it will be hard!" Sir John, of course, knew Mercier's story already, with all the other incidents of the Escalade. "Best not to tell him," he said, "until his own story is told." Then to the others, "Lead on, my men; we will go with you to the Council.”
The "Little Council," or "Council of Twenty-five"—which in ordinary times, under the Presidency of the four Syndics, ruled the city—used to hold its sittings in the noble hall of what had been the Franciscan Monastery. When the party entered it, the Syndics had not yet arrived, but several members of the Council were there. They welcomed Sir John with much respect, and spoke very kindly to Robert, congratulating him on his recovery, and asking if he was quite restored.
He acknowledged their courtesy, and answered, with a proud and happy glance at the tall form beside him, "Quite—and so quickly, thanks to the coming of my father.”
Meanwhile, Sir John, having noticed amongst the Councilors a burgher of the higher class with a grave and sorrowful face, whose name he knew to be Vandel, approached him and asked if he was not the son of the brave old Syndic who had given his life for Geneva on the night of the Escalade.
“No, sir," said Burgher Vandel, "I am only his nephew." Then, pointing to the four stately carved chairs at the upper end of the Hall where the Syndics were wont to sit, he said sadly, "One of those will be empty today.”
“Which was his?" asked Sir John. "One is higher than the others, and it appears to be more elaborately carved.”
“Not that. His was the one next it at this side. That one used in the old times to be the chair of state where the Franciscan Prior sat during the Chapter. It is now the seat of our first Syndic, Master Michel Roset. But your son looks pale. I doubt his strength has not yet returned. You will both please to sit down for a little, Master Roset and our other friends will be glad to greet you ere you go.”
He found them comfortable seats, but they had scarcely sat down when a loud cry, followed by heavy sobs, smote on their ears. One of the members of the Council, at the request of the guards, had spoken to Jeannot and inquired his business; adding, kindly enough, that if he was an honest lad and meant no harm, he had nothing to fear. Thus encouraged, Jeannot ventured to say that he knew a man in the town that would speak for him if they asked him—one Jacques Mercier, a journeyman goldsmith, and also in the city watch. Mercier's story was told him, and the poor country lad, unused to self-control, broke down completely, weeping and sobbing like a child. "My sister!" he wailed, "my poor sister! She will die of grief.”
Robert went to him at once, and tried to comfort him. "You may tell her," he said, “that Jacques Mercier died bravely—nobly. He saved Geneva. Anyone might be proud of such a death. I have often wished myself in his place," he added.
"You, sir!" said Jeannot, his sobs ceasing for the moment. "Why, no man could have done better than you did.”
At this point a member of the Council, who had been sitting a little apart from the rest, rose and joined the group. "Did I hear thee speak of Jacques Mercier?" he asked the Savoyard.
“Yes, master," said the lad, and one of the men added, "He says he knew him, sir. And he is much concerned for him, as you see.”
“I was aware he had friends outside our boundaries." Then to Jeannot, "My poor lad, I was his master. And never had master a more trusted servitor, or a better pupil in his craft. Didst come here to ask news of him? And why?”
“No, Master," said Jeannot, trying to speak calmly to the "Worshipful burgher." “For we never dreamed of harm coming to him. Why should it? I came to ask if aught had been heard of Master Robert here.”
“I understand," said Amblarde, the goldsmith, and master of Mercier. "My—my friend, for he was that, had no secrets from me. He told me the errand the young English gentleman had undertaken for him. And you, knowing what had happened here, you thought he might, in returning to the town, have fallen in with the enemy and come to harm?”
“'Twas not thinking, Master: we knew all about it," said Jeannot, waxing bolder as he saw he was listened to with attention. So he was, and not by Amblarde alone; others in the room were growing silent and turning towards the group, which was also joined by those who came newly in. To most Genevans the patois of the Savoyards was familiar.
“But how couldst thou know?" asked Amblarde.
“This way, Master. A good many of the soldiers—more than we wanted, Heaven knows!—came along. Ay, and forced us too to give them food and drink of the best —and little good may it do them! Their wounded, I think, they left for the most part to die, save and except they were men of note. But some who came to us brought with them a poor young gentleman, an officer, who was wounded sore, and in grievous pain. His servant said he could go no further, or he would die. In fact, they compelled us to take him in. We were loath enough; but what must be, must be. So we had him, and his man too, and we did our best for them.”
“Out of love, of course, being Savoyard and Catholic," put in one of his audience.
“Little love in the business, but no love at all for having our house burned over our heads, which was just what those ill companions would have done if we had said them nay. Not that M. de Saleve was so bad, after all, save when the pain was on him; and his man Josef was well enough, and grew quite friendly with us all. 'Twas thus we heard of M. Robin.”
“Well, and what didst hear of him?” asked more voices than one.
But here came an interruption. It was almost time for the Council. More members entered, amongst them the venerable Michel Roset, who had filled the office of first Syndic without interruption, being re-elected at every vacancy, for two-and-forty years of an honored and useful life. He took his seat in the chair of the Old Franciscan Prior, and laid his baton of office on the table before him. So did the other two Syndics who followed him.
Michel Roset bared his white head in salutation of all present, with a special and friendly recognition of Sir John Musgrave, whom he had known first as a boy in the Academy. Then, replacing his hat, as the custom was, he looked inquiringly at the company gathered around Jeannot. Amblarde briefly explained what was passing, and the Syndic bade the Savoyard proceed with his tale, which he did, carried out of his sorrow, and out of himself, by the miracle of finding all those proud, masterful Genevan burghers listening to him with attention-even hanging on his words. A burgher who sat close to Sir John had noticed the baffled eagerness in his face as he failed to catch the sense of the Savoyard patois, and how it grew to intensity when "M. Robin's" name was mentioned. So he began, in a low voice, to interpret for him.
“Josef—the servant, ye know," said Jeannot, "told us how the soldiers of Captain Brunaulieu's corps, as they came to a halt outside the town, found amongst them a boy who was evidently a Genevan. They seized him, and brought him to the Captain. He said he was an Englishman, which, I suppose, is another kind of heretic—oh, I crave pardon of your Worthinesses—”
“Never mind our Worthinesses, but go on with thy story," said someone.
“The Captain would have had him run through at once. But the holy Friar who was with them—Friar Alexander the Scotchman, they called him—bade spare him, as he might be of use in the town for a guide. 'Twas just then that Josef, who told us the tale, came up, being sent on a message by his lord to the Captain. He saw all the rest. The Friar asked the Captain to let him deal with M. Robin. He told him then what they wanted him to do. But he refused utterly, at first. Then the Friar said they would kill him else. And at that he seemed to consent." There was a moment's pause, and a quiver passed through the group. Sir John Musgrave gave his son a look—not of anger, only of inquiry. The boy, for all answer, smiled in his face.
Jeannot went on, " The band were all around them, silent as mice, though many of them were busy as bees, making ready the scaling ladders, the petards, and what not, which they had brought there swathed in soft tackle, that not a sound might reach the town. They had to have lanterns for their work, however. They heard the talk, but could not understand a word. 'Twas the Friar that told them what passed.
The boy will come with us,' he said. Then they saw Friar Alexander take a white kerchief out of his sleeve, wherewith he tried to gag him. But M. Robin pushed him indignantly away, with a word or two. Friar Alexander looked in his face and laughed. They understood each other only too well. M. Robin meant, as soon as he got into the town, to raise the alarm, and save his friends. Ay, and he would have done it, and died for it too the next minute, with a smile on his lips.”
There was a murmur through the hall, but only one man spoke aloud. It was Sir John Musgrave. "What else could he do?" he asked, with a touch of scorn.
“The Friar told afterward that he put it plainly to the boy, The gag or the sword.' ‘I choose the sword! ‘said M. Robin, and stood before him like a rock. They would have finished him there and then, but Friar Alexander stopped that. He said the lad was English, and, as he judged from his fur coat, a rich man's son. So he proposed they should bind him fast, and in the morning, when they came forth in triumph after sacking the town, they might hold him prisoner till his friends should ransom him. But when the morning came—i' faith, they had other things to think of! 'Twas the ransom of their own lives was the question then, and hard enough to pay it, with nothing but their heels to do it with. But you may guess, my Masters, that when Josef told us all that, our hearts were sore for the poor young gentleman left bound to the tree, and most like discovered by no one from the town till he died of cold and starvation. Especially Madelon, my sister, was full of concern for him, and never ceased to pray that one of us should go and find out the truth. Well, Messieurs de Genève," here Jeannot paused, and shrugged his shoulders expressively," of course we knew that we of Savoy could not expect much of a welcome from your Worthinesses just now. So we were not eager for the job, and put her off as long as we could. But she led us such a life that at last I said I would go. I thought I would inquire at the gate for—for Jacques Mercier, who would answer for me that I meant no harm, and like enough, tell me all I wanted besides. Little guessing— "Here he stopped again, but quickly mastering his emotion, resumed," So I came, albeit I thought it sheer folly, as Master Robin was sure to be dead long ago. But, behold, I saw him walking in the street. And there he sits yonder!”
Every eye followed the outstretched hand of Jeannot as he pointed to Robert Musgrave.
There was a moment's pause. Then Syndic Michel Roset stood up solemnly from his chair of state. "Master Robert Musgrave," he said, his deep voice not untouched with emotion.
With due reverence the boy arose, his pale face mantled with a flush that was half surprise and half bashfulness.
“Master Robert Musgrave," so the Syndic spoke, "you are a brave young man. You have done credit both to the land of your birth and to the city of your adoption. You have shown yourself willing to die for Geneva, and Geneva does not forget. Geneva thanks you. And I promise you, as speaking for her I may do this day, that, when you attain the requisite age, your name shall be enrolled with honor in the list of her citizens. Also, I have the pleasure of congratulating your illustrious father, here present, upon so hopeful and promising a son.”
Robert Musgrave's recollections of what followed seemed to be confused and fragmentary, to judge from all he ever told of it. He said the Syndics shook hands with his father and himself and "said things” to them both; and that then the rest of the Council came about them, and "said things" also. Then he and his father went out, followed by Jeannot, who told him that the master of Mercier had kindly invited him to his house. One of the men who had brought him to the Council Hall had offered to show him the way. Robert asked him to come to him afterward, that they might talk of their friend, and that he might give him, to return to Madelon, the knot of crimson ribbon, the "token" she had sent to her betrothed.
Then he would fain have gone on to pay his intended visits, or at least that to the Virets; but his father, with authority, marched him back to his own chamber—indeed, to tell all the truth, to his own bed. The thought that he, who although he had meant to be faithful, had really done nothing, had received such honor and such praise, uplifted him and exhilarated him at first, so that he seemed to tread on air, and felt as if fatigue and exhaustion were things of which he had no conception. But the reaction came all too quickly. What was it all worth? Did he deserve it all, or any of it? How was it that Jacques Mercier, who really had done so much, got no thanks, and no reward, save the bullet at his heart! Dear Jacques! How gladly would he give the honor and the praise—ay, and even the coveted Genevan citizenship—for one more look at his honest face, one more word from his cheery lips!
These thoughts were followed by a long talk with Jeannot Boppart, which drew still further upon Robert's stock of returning strength, and it was some days before he was able to visit either Theodora Viret, or the mother of Jacques Mercier. Still his father did not think it necessary to postpone their departure from the town. He had important business in England, and moreover, as the weather had taken a mild and favorable turn, he thought the journey on horseback, with the change and variety it would bring, much more likely to restore and invigorate his son than the closer atmosphere of the city.
So at last, on a mild, soft afternoon early in February, father and son set out together for the house of the Virets in the Rue des Chanoines, that Robert might bid them farewell. As was usual at that hour, they found the women sitting at their needlework, and M. Viret came in promptly from the workshop to welcome his visitors. It was known that they had come to take their leave. The two men were soon absorbed in a discussion upon European politics, which turned on the burning question of the hour. Would the Peace of Vervins, then recently concluded, be ruptured by the affair of the Escalade, or would matters be accommodated again?
Robert thought he had a great deal to say to Demoiselle Theodora Viret. But somehow, now he saw her, he could not say a word. Two pictures were graven on his mind—the pale, sweet face on the pillow which he had looked on with awe, thinking he saw there the shadow of death; and then, later, the radiant form he beheld in vision, when the shadow lay heavy on himself, and she seemed to be clothed already in the light beyond it. But she looked like neither as he saw her now, sitting by the window. She was still frail, and the hand that plied the needle (not very diligently) was transparent as a sea-shell. But there was light in her eyes, her lips had regained their coral, and even her cheek showed a tinge of red, for which her visitors perhaps had to answer. It had not been thought necessary to cut off her long golden hair, and it was knotted up now in the sober and decorous Genevan fashion, which happily did not proscribe a modest fastening of blue ribbon. This, if it may be called an ornament, was the only one she wore. Her dress was of plain gray serge; but it was long before that precise shade of gray failed to give a thrill to the heart of Robert whenever he saw it.
Meanwhile he was answering, nearly at random, Dame Viret's courteous inquiries about his recent illness, and his journey to England. She spoke also of the mother of Mercier. Had M. Robert seen her yet?
“Oh, yes," said Robert, "I have seen her. The first time one of the Pastors was with her, so I did not stay. I went again the next day, but she did nothing but weep,” he added, with a keen remembrance of his own embarrassment, and his regret that he had not asked his father to come with him, as he would have known what to say.
“I see her often," said Dame Viret. "She laments sore for her son—so good a son too. The only comfort she craves is a sight of Madelon Boppart, his betrothed, whom he loved. Perhaps we might manage that for her. Who knows?”
“But Madelon is a Catholic," Robert objected.
“Not in heart, I am sure. She must at least be well inclined to the Faith; or he would not have chosen her.”
But Robert's thoughts were not then with the Savoyard girl, they were with the child of Geneva, whose work was lying idly in her lap, her sweet face full of sympathy for the mother and the betrothed of Jacques Mercier. "I have not heard her voice yet," he said to himself, "and I must.”
At last the visitors rose to go. For one moment the "children" stood together, the brown head a little higher than the golden, for the year between them in age. Both were well grown, even tall, she for her fourteen, he for his fifteen years.
The girl spoke first. "Master Robert," she said, stretching out her hand to him, "we have all been thanking God, first for your deliverance from the Savoyards, afterward for your recovery.”
Then Robert began to find himself. "And I," he said, faltering, but growing stronger with every syllable, "I thank God, who has left you with us here. For I thought you were dead. I dreamed I saw you— a bright spirit going up to Heaven. I was glad then, because I thought I was dying too. But I am glad now—that you are alive.”
“And we also thank God," said M. Viret, who had heard the last words, "in that he has delivered from such great dangers a young man of so much promise—”
But his sentence was never finished, for a knock at the outer door, which he well knew, made him hasten to open it and lead in the venerable Dr. Beza, who, notwithstanding his increasing infirmities, had continued his visits to his god-daughter during her convalescence.
When greetings had been exchanged, and he had been comfortably established in the great armchair beside the fire, he said to Sir John Musgrave, “I hear you are going to leave us, and to take with you, to our regret, that fine lad, your son. I would see him ere he goes. "For the dim eyes of age, while easily recognizing Theodora's golden head, had taken no note of the brown one beside it.
“Doctor, he is here present," said Sir John, raising his voice to reach the dulled ear," and he is greatly honored by your recognition and your praise." Then to his son," Robert, come hither and do your reverence to Dr. Beza.”
Robert came forward, bowed low after the fashion of the time, and then stood respectfully before the last survivor of the great Reformers, who have made the sixteenth century ever memorable in the story of the Church and of the world.
“My son, thou hast done well," the old man said, in his trembling voice. "Thou hast been true to thyself, to Geneva, and to God.”
Then Robert found voice to say what his heart had been saying all through, "But, father, I have done nothing.”
"As much as King David, and to him God said, ' Thou hast done well in that it was in thine heart.' While I slept, God saved Geneva, but He called seventeen good men and true—more honored than I—to give their lives for her. Thou wouldst fain have given thine, and made the eighteenth, had not He, who' accepted the will, denied the opportunity. Dost know the reason?”
“Indeed, sir, I do not.”
“Nor I, save in part. This much I know. He wants thy service here, in this world of His, not now in the world above. See thou give it Him, with true heart and ready hand.”
“Wilt bless me for that service, dear father?" asked Robert, and he knelt reverently at the old man's feet.
The blessing was given, but not in the words of the Old Covenant that Robert had heard from the same lips at the bedside of Theodora Viret.
What Beza said now was from the New Covenant—” Now the God of Peace make you perfect in every good work to do His will, working in you that which is well pleasing in His sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.”
The old man's trembling hands that rested on his head, and the solemn words of benediction spoken over him, seemed a fitting close to Robert Musgrave's life in Geneva.
Next day he set out with his father on the homeward journey to Merrie England. Not that they found England particularly merry just then, for "the spacious days of great Elizabeth" were drawing to a close, and the shadows gathering around what was soon to be her death-bed.
Robert's sojourn in Geneva left with him many happy memories, but the two things most deeply imprinted on his heart were the look of Theodora Viret as she thanked God for his deliverance, and the blessing of Doctor Beza.
Chapter 7: in England
“Remember, remember,
The Fifth of November.”
NEARLY six years have passed away since the Escalade of Geneva sent a thrill of indignation and horror through every Protestant heart in Europe. Nearly three years afterward, Protestant England encountered a peril perhaps as great, and was vouchsafed a deliverance perhaps as marvelous. In both cases the means employed by the conspirators were in flagrant violation of every law of morality or of civilization, and in both, had they succeeded, the results would have been terrible, almost beyond description. As the 12th of December, 1602, was "a day much to be remembered" in Geneva, so in England was the 5th of November, 1605.
Those who were "delivered from the hand of the enemy" commemorated their deliverance, in both cases, with prayer and thanksgiving. But "Merrie England" acted up to her character, for her sons found also other ways of doing it, more attractive, it is to be feared, to the multitude.
In no parish of England was there more fun and frolic on the 5th of November than in that of Sheriton, Dorsetshire. Nowhere was a more gigantic or more hideous Guy Fawkes constructed by more eager or more willing hands; and nowhere was he consumed in a larger bonfire, or with greater zeal and louder rejoicings. Sir John Musgrave, the lord of the Manor, saw to all that, and took care also that the villagers who assisted at the ceremony should not go fasting to their homes. In the great field near the Manor House where the harmless Auto-da-fé took place, casks of ale were broached, and bread and meat were distributed freely—though, be it added, no excess was allowed, and care was taken for the prevention of riot and disorder.
On this particular occasion, Sir John.
Musgrave himself was absent. He had taken his wife to Wiltshire to visit her father, taking with them their only daughter, the old man's god-child and especial favorite. Some accident had prevented their return, which was to have been in time for "the Fifth." The two younger sons of the house were at Oxford, so only Robert was left to represent the family, and to direct matters in his father's place.
This he was well able to do. He was a man now, tall, erect, vigorous, in all the fire and freshness of his one-and-twenty years. Some time ago he had finished this course at Oxford with credit and distinction. Since then he had stayed at home; not idle—far from it—becoming more and more the right hand of his father, helping him in every way he could, and gaining, as he did so, a practical acquaintance with the duties that would one day—as he hoped, a very distant one—devolve upon himself: the management of a considerable estate, and the care of those who dwelt upon it.
This evening he had done his part in greeting the villagers, talking with them kindly and cheerily, and making friendly inquiries for this man's cough, that woman's rheumatism, and so forth. He had stayed a good while witnessing, and even sharing their sports. But at last he went indoors, sought the library, called for a lamp, and sat down to write to his father.
He was deep in his letter, when the steward knocked, and entered with a hurried apology. "Craving your pardon, Master Robert," he said, "will you come back to the field? And at once, an' it please you, for I fear there will be mischief done else.”
“Will they not heed thee, Colson?" asked Robert, looking up.
“Can't make them, Master. The others would, but 'tis those malapert young fellows, Harry Trueman, Dick Butts, and the like, that all the rest of them go after. They have taken to pulling brands out of the fire, and casting them at each other.”
Ere he finished the words Robert had caught up his hat from the table, and was hurrying to the field, followed by Colson.
What they heard as they drew near quickened their pace. There were not only the confused noises of a crowd at horseplay, but screams, even shrieks of absolute terror. Some of the crowd were trying to break away, and thrusting the others aside with blows and pushes.
But all made way for Master Robert. He passed through to the center space, where the great fire still blazed and crackled, as if seeking what it might devour, though its chief prey was in ashes, or in charred and twisted fragments. In their fun and excitement the crowd had been drawing nearer and nearer, until some of the young folk were quite close, throwing fresh sticks on the fire, or pulling half burned ones out to play rough tricks upon each other.
“Back, all of you!" Robert cried aloud, in the voice of authority. "Back, I say!”
As he spoke, he saw an urchin holding a stick, the end of which was on fire. "Drop that!" he said, then setting his heel upon it, trod it out. When the space was cleared, he took up a piece of charred wood that was lying on the ground. "Come hither, Dick Butts," he said.
The lad came, looking shamefaced, and expecting a rebuke. "Thou art Will Carpenter's 'prentice. Canst draw a good circle?”
Dick muttered something, probably a "yes.”
“Then take this—start from here, where my foot is, and draw the best circle thou canst on the ground, with the fire for center.”
While he did it, and very well too, Robert spoke to the crowd.
“Now, friends," he said, "not one of you is to cross that line. Mind that. But since, with the best will in the world, folk will sometimes forget, I make Harry Trueman, Dick Butts, Jim Masters and Tom White warders of the line.”
There was a general laugh, for the four young men Robert had named were known throughout the parish as the leaders in all mischievous pranks or daring escapades. But he knew his ground—and he knew his men. He began to speak, "And this I have got to say—Ah!”
For a boy had broken from the crowd, dashed to the fire, and flung something in.
It was Jack Staines, known as the parish "fool," the care of the kindly, and the sport of the thoughtless. He turned to go back, with a grin of satisfaction on his face—and the sleeve of his smock on fire.
Robert was upon him in a moment. Snatching somebody's discarded cloak from the ground he wrapped it tightly round him, and held him close in spite of his screams and struggles. In another moment the fire was out. The boy's hurt was very slight, but his terror was great and his cries proportionately loud.
“Shall I carry him home, Master?" asked a strong man, coming forth from the crowd.
“No, friend. Take him to the Manor—and thanks for thy good help. How did it happen?" asked Robert, when this matter was arranged.
“Please you, Master, it was thus," someone answered him. “The poor lad had gathered up a handful of half-burnt sticks to take home with him for treasures, and one of those naughty fellows must needs say to him, for a jest, that you would think he had taken them out of the fire, and be wroth with him.
And so it was, that nothing would serve poor Jack but to go and throw them back again into the fire, so as not to vex the young Master.”
“Will he hath to please you, Master, but pity 'tis, the wit he wants," added someone else.
“Better want wit than will," was the comment of a third. “And best use our wit to get our will," he added.
“So say not I," said Robert." Best use our wit not to get, but to do—the will of Another.”
To himself he added, “Perfect to do His will!” And then he turned homewards, for he wanted to look after Jack, and to finish his letter to his father; and he saw that his four" warders of the line” were likely to keep the charge he had given them with spirit and good humor.
Two hours later found him again in the library; not writing now, but standing at the window, looking out. Once more he had gone back to the field, where he led the people as they sang with heart and voice, "God save the King," and then, with a few farewell words, dismissed them to their homes. Now, where the great fire had been, all was blackened ashes. Only the trampled grass, and here and there a few fragments of bread and meat scattered about, told that there had been a frolic and a feast.
The house was quiet, too. Poor Jack was fast asleep in the servants' quarter; all, indeed, except himself, had gone to rest. Robert Musgrave loved stir and movement, and the keen excitement of active life. Right welcome would the clash and clang of arms and the din of battle have been to him, so it were under a worthy chief and in a righteous cause. But he also loved thought and silence: he loved wide spaces, the great broad sea, the starry heavens. This was a night of stars; and as he looked at them in their majesty and their mystery, high thoughts were rising in his heart.
“Perfect to do His will," he said again, repeating the words that for six years had been his motto. Not that he wore it, as others in those days wore theirs, engraven on a ring or embroidered on a scarf; it was for no eye save his own, and engraven only on his heart. It was a rule of conduct, but it was very much more, it was a principle of life. "Perfect," he accepted in its Scriptural sense, as meaning—not faultless, which those who most try to be know best they are not, but—sincere, whole-hearted in his aim and his pursuit of it. "To do His will," thought Robert. “Is it His will I am wanting to do now, or my own? They are sometimes the same, thank God. An' I wanted aught that was right and good for me to have, and told my father of it, he would say, if 'twere his, Take it, Robin,'—if 'twere another's, ‘I’ll get it for thee.' Ay, and in this matter I am thinking of now, I trow his heart is with mine. That old city by the Lake, how it calls me! There are faces there I see in dreams, and would fain see again in living flesh. I want to stand once more in great St. Peter's, where the voice of John Calvin used to sound. I want to sit once more in my own place, on my own bench, in the Academy. I want to see my old friends, such as the Virets. I dare say today's rejoicings have brought these things back to me even more than is wont. Two such plots devised, two such deliverances wrought, in the space of three years—do not these things show the desperate malignity of our foes? And still more the tender, protecting, watchful care of our God over those who trust Him? He that keepeth Israel slumbers not nor sleeps.'
“I have borne part today in the thanksgiving of England for her deliverance. Now what should hinder that, next month, my father being willing, I should bear a part in the thanksgiving of Geneva for the like, which God wrought for her on the 12th of December, the night of the Escalade?”
These were his conscious thoughts, but below the tide of consciousness many great things live and move, and often profoundly influence our whole lives, although we have never dragged them into the daylight, or looked them steadily in the face. Such mysteries are we to ourselves.
Chapter 8: in Geneva Again
“And so make Life, Death, and that vast Forever,
One grand, sweet song.”
A FEW weeks later two persons, a gentleman and his servant, who had just crossed the Rhone in a boat, stood outside the walls of Geneva. It was still early; to be precise, it was about seven o'clock in the morning of the 12th of December. They were going to enter the town, but paused to examine a bastion, which formed part of the fortifications, and was evidently a recent erection.
“Look there, Harry," said Robert Musgrave, "that is the new bastion, which is called the Bastion of Hesse, because the Landgrave, a good friend to Geneva, has given the city the cost of its erection.”
“Looks strong, Master Robert," Harry Trueman returned, laconically. He had been one of Robert's "warders of the line" on the 5th of November, but "the young master" had had his eye upon him for some time before, for he knew his numerous escapades came less from the love of mischief than from the struggles of an active nature longing for enterprise and adventure. So he had taken him through France to Geneva to attend upon him and to see the world.
“'Tis right good work," he acquiesced. "'And see you inscription on the face of it, graven there for all men to read." He read it first for himself, not without emotion. Then he translated it aloud for Harry. "' Be not ye afraid: remember the Lord, who is great and terrible, and fight for your brethren, your sons and your daughters, your wives and your houses.'—But we must not linger. We are late, as it is. Even now they are beginning Divine Service.”
They got admittance into the town without difficulty. Now that there was peace in all her borders, friendly strangers were welcome to witness Geneva's commemoration of her great deliverance: They found the streets nearly deserted, for all who could had flocked into the Churches. As they hastened to the Cathedral, Robert's heart was full of memories, and he could not help stopping now and then to point out to Harry some familiar or some memorable spot.
They found St. Peter's thronged to suffocation; even standing room would be hard to find. Harry looked disgusted. "They'll make way for you, Master Robert, but me—, save and except I could turn myself into a mouse—An' if I did, I could not understand a word of their talk. Nay, Master, while you say your prayers let me go back to the boat and fetch your baggage.”
“So do then, an' thou wilt," said Robert.
“But, Master, where shall I take it?”
“Take it to the inn called the Toison d'or '—the Golden Fleece. One of the boatmen will help to carry it and show thee the way. Tarry there for me.”
Robert squeezed his way into the church; but it was to meet some share of disappointment, for the Pastor who occupied the pulpit was a stranger to, him, and from where he stood, both the sermon and the long extempore prayers were heard very imperfectly. But the singing! In those triumphant songs of praise, poured forth by that vast multitude of voices, Robert's heart and soul rang out —soared up and upwards still—until it reached, no doubt, the ear of Him, who amidst all the choirs of heaven still loves to hear "our little human praise.”
At last the service was over, and the great congregation streamed out, most of them going one way— to the adjacent building, the Arsenal, which was also a public museum. Robert, who had been but just inside the Church door, got there amongst the first, and had time for a brief glance at the things he wanted most to see, before the press became intolerable. He saw swords, cuirasses, helmets, pieces of armor of all kinds, which had been found in the town or outside of it after the Escalade. There were broken ladders, too, and other ruined fragments of siege artillery;-and amongst them, one petard, with the charge still in it. At this Robert looked long and earnestly, and the tears were in his eyes as he turned away. “I have seen enough," he said to himself, and slipped out through the crowd.
He went quietly back to the Cathedral, which was almost empty now. It was three years since the tidings came to him in England that Dr. Theodore Beza had passed away. He wished to look upon his resting-place in the cloister of St. Peter; for he knew that all his life he would be the better and the stronger because he had known, and loved, and been blessed by, the last of the Reformers.
As he stood there, another thought came to him. He remembered how, on that night of terror, "God's Finger touched him," and he slept through all—knowing nothing of the alarm, the attack, the "confused noise" of the desperate strife, and only waking to find the battle over and the victory won. "Now," he thought, "once more he sleeps in peace. And not for all the terror or the tumult of the conflicts we may have still to wage will he awake, or be raised out of his sleep.' Nevermore—until the great Battle is over and the great Victory won. Nevermore—until the day break and the shadows flee away.' In that morning he shall stand in his place with us to rejoice and to give thanks. For so He giveth His beloved sleep.'”
Robert had many friends to see in Geneva, the most intimate being the Virets and the Bernards. But ere he sought the living, there was another visit he would fain pay to the dead. So he went to the Cemetery of St. Gervais, where the brave Seventeen who died in defense of Geneva had been reverently laid. They were even accorded the singular honor of a monument—an honor very rare in Geneva, and not even bestowed on the greatest of her citizens, John Calvin. The inscription—still to be read encrusted in the wall of the church—bears the names of the Seventeen, arranged in two columns. "Jean Canal, Conseillier" heads the list, as is fitting. Robert's eye passed down the first column. At the foot was the name he sought, "Jacques Mercier." "He was my friend," he said; and bowed himself down on the sod, to think, perhaps to pray.
How long he stayed thus he did not know. There were few people in the cemetery then, though doubtless many would visit it in the course of the day. But by-and-bye one came, whose interest in those that lay there seemed something more than the general interest of all Genevans. She—for it was a woman— knelt down near Robert, and began presently to weep and sob. It is not very often that graves six years old are "watered with true tears"—which does not mean that a grief too deep for tears may not hold the heart for years six times six, only that its outward expression will probably change with time. Robert, hearing the sobs, wondered for which of the Seventeen she was mourning. He rose up quietly and looked at her. Her face was hidden, but her dress, in those times so distinctly indicative of rank, marked her as a servant. Presently she stirred, and began to adjust her kerchief, dropping, as she did so, a little silver cross, not an ornament usually worn in Geneva. Then she also rose, and without looking at Robert, turned to go away.
He approached her with the cross, and a courteous inquiry if it belonged to her.
She looked at it, then at him. He had a strong impression that he had seen her face before, which was not improbable, considering the time he had spent in Geneva. The face was comely, and the expression good, though rather sad. It was a woman's face, not a girl's, though the woman seemed still young. "It is mine, sir," she said.
“I did not expect to see anyone wearing it here," he added, just to get a moment longer in which to fix the likeness, if he could.
“Indeed, sir, I wear it with no ill or superstitious intent," she answered, earnestly. "And I seldom wear it at all now. Only, it was my mother's, and she gave it to me in dying. For you see, sir, I am a Savoyard.”
Robert knew her now. "And I see," he answered, in the patois of Savoy, "that you and I have met before. You are Madelon Boppart.”
“And you, sir, you—" she stopped in perplexity, for six years had altered his appearance very much more than they had hers.
“I am Robert Musgrave. But tell me, did you come all the way from your home to visit this spot?”
“Oh, no, sir. But here is my Demoiselle, she will tell you all?" A slight figure was seen approaching, and Robert, as in a dream, came forward to meet, and to salute, Mlle. Theodora Viret.
Her dress, like that of other Genevan maidens, was simple even to severity; but it suited the lines of her graceful figure, and her conventional maiden coif did not wholly hide the gleaming gold of her hair. Her fine, delicate features still wore the impress of frailty—perhaps would always wear it—but it only lent a subtler charm to their sweet, pure expression.
Those two needed no introduction in one sense; yet in another no two ever needed it more. With one half of them they felt as if they had parted yesterday, with the other that a chasm of years had yawned between them. But they found their voices at last. Robert asked for M. and Mme. Viret, Theodora for Sir John Musgrave. Then, as words came more easily, Theodora told the story of Madelon, who had discreetly dropped behind them. They walked about the Cemetery, for the December morning, though bright and sunny, did not encourage much sitting in the open. "Madelon lost her mother,” she explained. "Then her father married again. And when, after that, she came here with her brothers to sell their fruit in the autumn fair, she told us she was lonely and unhappy at home, and that, if anyone would take her as a servant, she would be glad to come here and be one of us. She said she thought she could make her salvation very well after Master Calvin's way; and that, if it made her as good as Jacques was, it could not be very wrong. ‘At all events'—(these were her words, poor child, and she cried bitterly as she said them)—” I want, when I die, to go where he has gone.' It was all very wrong, of course, and very ignorant, but we thought it might lead to something better. So she came. Mother Mercier took her in, and she served her well, and nursed her tenderly in her long illness. When she died, Madelon came to us, and we love her well.”
“And she loves you well, I doubt not," Robert answered, gently.
“She has learned much more now," Theodora went on. “We taught her to read, and she loves the Bible well. I am sure she is really one of the Regenerate. Her brother Jeannot, though he is still very ignorant, is much of a mind with her, she says. He would gladly come into the city and 'join us, only it likes him not to leave the work to his father, who is old, and his brother had a bad fall from a wagon last year, and has not recovered it yet.”
Then it was Theodora's turn to Ask questions—When had M. Robert arrived? How had he come? Had he a good journey? On one subject, however, she did not ask a question; she only stated a fact. "You will come home with us.”
Robert thanked her courteously, and dined that day with the Virets. But he had the Bernardo, and many other friends, especially his school friends, to see, and the days passed only too quickly. He made his head quarters at the Toison D'Or; and Harry, who already in France had begun to pick up the language spoken about him, was making great progress in it, and finding abundant occupation and amusement for himself, whenever his master did not need him. The athletic sports of the young men on the Plainpalais, and the Riding School at the Corraterie, afforded him glorious opportunities; and it may be said in passing that in neither did he do England, or Dorsetshire, any discredit.
His master also was enjoying every breath' he drew of Genevan air. He was filled with a strange exhilaration—what was it? If the question were "Who was it?" the answer would have been easier. Wherever else he might go—and he went, a welcome guest, to many a home—there was one house, in the Rue des Chanoines, where some part of every day was sure to find him. For him Geneva meant supremely one face, one voice, one presence; he could not live without it. And wherefore should he try? Before he left England a word from his father had shown him his own heart, and set him free to do all that was in it. He believed he had higher warrant also, and that to do this, thing was "to do His will.”
So the days glided on; until one day it came into his mind that the next would be December 25th—Christmas Day. What feasting there would be in Old England!— what sports and merry-making, what giving and receiving of gifts! And not the least in Sheriton! Here no one thought of it at all. They did not keep Christmas in Geneva. Harry was horror-stricken. "The heathens!" he said.
“Not so bad as that, Harry. A man may love his father well, and yet not keep his birthday. But as for me, I mean to keep Christmas. I have a gift or two to give—and," he added to himself, "one to ask for.”
He was engaged next day to sup with the Virets. In the forenoon he went to the shop of Amblarde, the jeweler, who had been the master of Jacques Mercier, and was accounted the best of the famous Genevan jewelers. Here, after much deliberation, he selected and purchased a "fermail" or brooch, in the form of two hands of gold clasping a beautiful ruby.
Not many paces from the 'shop door he met the destined receiver of the gift, Theodora Viret. He turned to walk with her, and said as they passed the Church of St. Germain, “Will it please you to come with me a little while into the Cemetery? I must soon leave, and I want, ere I do, to see the grave of the Seventeen again.”
She came with him, murmuring something conventional about sorrow for his going. Then a strange tumult arose in his heart. He was not himself—whether less or more than himself he did not know. He was as one intoxicated, though not with strong wine; the spell that mastered him was too ethereal for that. It was rather as if some sweet and delicate perfume had captured his senses, and charmed him into a new world.
He had everything to say—and yet he could not speak. Theodora said a word or two in her gentle voice about his English servant, who seemed to her an interesting personage, but he scarcely answered her. There was a long silence; then suddenly his tongue was loosed. He spoke, and they were words of fire. Like the fires hidden in the heart of the earth they came from a great deep within. So did the few soft words in which she answered. But neither his words nor hers can be told here, for neither he nor she would ever tell them again, not even to the chronicler of their story.
Nor was it told that she accepted his gift; but it may be assumed that she did, as the fermail was seen afterward fastening her neck-band.
That evening at supper, M. Viret took one of the tall, narrow goblets of Venetian glass the Genevans used to call flutes, filled it with wine and handed it to Robert. He drank; then gave it to Theodora, who sat beside him, and she drank of it also.
This was the old Genevan custom of betrothal.
THE END.