Chapter 1:
a TRUE STORY DANGER
Do NOT FEAR, Liesken. Our Father cares for me." The speaker was an intelligent and prosperous artisan about thirty years of age. The room in which he sat was plainly but comfortably furnished, not without that air of sober and cleanly quaintness usually associated with the interior of a dwelling in the land of dikes and sand hills. It was late at night, and a lamp burned before him on the table. His young wife, Lisa, stood by his side, her blue eyes filled with tears, and her features shadowed by an expression of anxious care.
“I am sure He does, Carl; but you know He lets those He cares for suffer so often. He lets them be imprisoned—tortured. Oh, Carl," she added with a look of anguish, "He does not now 'quench the violence of fire,' as He did in those old days of which you read to me in the Book.”
“No, Lisa," replied Carl, his face lit with faith and courage. "But there still walks with them in the furnace 'one like unto the Son of man.
His look at that moment seemed to Lisa a stronger confirmation of her fears than any expression of alarm would have been. She went on almost wildly.
“You are doomed, Carl, and you know it. Since you attended those field preachings last summer twelvemonth, our Burgomaster knows you for a Calvinist, and has had his eye upon you. God help us! In all this bloodstained country, the King of Spain and the terrible Duke have not a servant more willing to aid them in 'wearing out the saints of the Most High' than the Burgomaster of our poor unhappy Gouda.”
“He cannot harm me," Carl answered, "until my hour has come, for I serve a mightier King than Philip of Spain—even the King of Glory, the Lord of Life, who hath the keys of hell and of death. See here." He drew a little book from beneath his leather doublet.
But at that moment a low cry proceeded from a room overhead, arousing Lisa to an anxiety more near and pressing, if far less awful, than the horrible apprehension which had just before filled her mind.
“It is our little Franz," she said. Lighting a small lamp she hurried upstairs.
Left alone, Carl opened the volume he held in his hand. It was that treasure of the persecuted Reformed Churches in France and the Low Countries—"The Psalms of David, translated into French verse by Clement Marot." Although Dutch was his native language, Carl, in common with many others of his class, understood French.
In those times it was death, without mercy and without appeal, "to print, write, copy, keep, conceal, buy, or give," any of these books, or any part of them, as well as "to converse or dispute concerning the Holy Scriptures openly or secretly... or to read, teach, or expound the Scriptures." The Word of the Lord was precious in those days, and every drop of the water of life which was borne to thirsting souls was like that brought to David from the well of Bethlehem—"the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives.”
Yet Carl could not read this night. He was well aware that Lisa's words were true. For months he had gone to his daily work and returned, sat by his fireside, ate and drank, slept and prayed, in the consciousness that any moment he might be summoned from his peaceful home to the dungeon and the stake. Was that a strange life to lead? A solemn one it certainly was, yet it was such a life as thousands led in his country. For a brief space, after years of grinding oppression, the Calvinists of Holland and the adjacent provinces had enjoyed a measure of toleration, they had been permitted to live, under the powerful shadow of the Prince of Orange. Now their protector had himself been forced to flee, and the years of Alva's: tyranny had begun— those terrible years, marked evermore in history "with blood and fire, and vapor of smoke." A great cry went up from the bleeding country to Heaven— such a cry as that in Egypt, when "there was not a house where there was not one dead."'
Carl was among those who received the truth in the love of it during the interval of comparative quiet. Now he had counted the' cost, and held himself prepared, if necessary, to seal his faith with his blood. Yet, were it: his Father's will, he would gladly be spared the fiery trial. And who could blame him for this? Had he not Lisa to live for, beside his little fair-haired Franz, pretty Mayken and baby Carl? It was of these he thought as he sat motionless,— his head resting on one hand, while the other still held the psalm-book of Clement Marot. But Carl had acquired a habit. With him thought nearly always changed to prayer, and this constant communion with his Father in Heaven kept him, as it were, in a quiet place, above the storms of his perilous and uncertain life. He was silently, but very earnestly, laying his fears for those he loved at the feet of Him who cared for him and them, when Lisa hastily re-entered the apartment.
To his inquiry, she answered, "Nothing serious, love. Our little Franz is wakeful and rather feverish. I should like to give him a soothing draft. You need not stir; I have all I want here in the pantry." She moved, lamp in hand, to the further end of the room.
A casual observer would never have perceived the door of this little closet, so carefully was it concealed, and perhaps designedly, being in no way distinguished from the quaint paneling which formed the walls of the room. A panel had to be pushed aside in order to find the way into the dark close recess which Lisa called her pantry—a very inconvenient one, she had often declared and wondered why people built houses in such a senseless manner.
On this occasion she had just begun her search for what she needed, when a thundering knock at the street-door brought her back into the sitting-room, pale and trembling. There was little need for words. Both felt sure the expected trial had come at last. Carl stood before her pale also, but with a flashing eye and an expression of fain determination in his quiet grave countenance and compressed lip.
“It is, Liesken—”
“Fly, Carl! oh, fly while you can!”
“It is too late! Whither should I fly?" Another loud impatient knock, and a sound of rough voices outside.
But a thought, sent as she believed from Heaven into her heart, inspired Lisa with sudden hope and courage. She seized her husband by the arm, and drew him towards the little closet, the door of which she had left open.
“There— in there— fear nothing— I will speak to them.”
It was the only plan that offered even a possibility of escape. In a moment more Carl, with the psalm-book still tightly grasped in his hand, was consigned to the dark solitude of the closet. Lisa, after carefully replacing the panel, went forth to meet the intruders, with a silent trembling prayer for strength and wisdom.
And Carl, in his suspense and forced inactivity, prayed also, so earnestly that his whole soul seemed to go up to Heaven in an agony of supplication. His prayer was inarticulate, for words do not come in such moments as these; there are heights and depths in the tried soul beyond their reach. It was not alone or chiefly for himself he feared. A horrible apprehension possessed his mind, that the persecutors, baffled in their search for him, might wreak their vengeance on his precious Lisa, or even on his innocent and helpless children. Such things had been done. Indeed, it would have been difficult to name any deed of violence and atrocity which had not been committed in that hapless country by men who boasted, and often really believed, that these abominations were particularly "acceptable to Almighty God." Fortunately the closet could be opened from within, and Carl stood with his hand on the door, ready to come forth and surrender himself, if necessary. It was well, too, that he could hear the voices from his retreat, first in the passage, and afterward still more plainly in the sitting-room.
“The Burgomaster is there in person," he said to himself, "I know his angry tones— and he has brought “Red-rod” with him.”
Then he heard Lisa's voice, at first in low deprecating accents, but gradually acquiring strength and confidence. At length, as she stood quite near his place of concealment, he heard her say boldly, "Ye may search the house from garret to cellar, I have said ye shall not find him.”
Tramp, tramp went the heavy footsteps from the room. Then upstairs. Carl could hear them overhead in the little chamber where his children slept. He could even distinguish the cries of little Franz who had dropped asleep and awoke in terror at the strange intrusion. Now they came down baffled and evidently out of temper they searched the basement story. No, they do not think it worthwhile to re-enter the sitting-room though the trembling Lisa offered them wine, with the best grace she could. The street door closed heavily. They were gone, thank God! Carl breathed more freely. There was a pause, lest they should return. Then Lisa, slowly and with trembling fingers, attempted to slide the panel back. The momentary strength that danger had inspired forsook her when the strain was over; but Carl's strong hand soon put the barrier aside, and the two stood face to face.
“You have saved me, Lisa," were the first words Carl found power to utter.
“God has saved you, dearest," Lisa answered. She sank on a chair, and looked far paler now than when she confronted the Burgomaster and his officers.
“Then let us thank Him together," answered Carl. He knelt, and in glowing words poured forth his thanksgiving to Him who had just shielded His servants in their hour of peril. And fervently did he pray that He would still be with them, to save them if He saw fit, or if not, to strengthen them to suffer all things for His sake. The words were few, but earnest and living, as spoken to One whose presence was a felt reality.
A brief consultation followed Carl's prayer. One thing was now certain. If he wished to see the morrow's sun go down, he must look for safety in flight. This was a last and desperate resource, for the country was so completely overspread by the meshes of a network of tyranny that the unhappy fugitive seemed only likely to run into some fresh danger as terrible as that from which he fled. But no alternative remained. Carl, having made, with Lisa's assistance, some hasty preparations, went to a secret spot where he had carefully concealed the savings of years of industry, such precautions being necessary in those evil times. He took from the little store a few pieces of gold, telling Lisa to use the remainder for the wants of the family.
“And where will you go?" asked the poor wife, as she tried to lay up in her memory the directions he gave, relating to various matters connected with their welfare during his absence.
“It is better you should not know, Liesken, but we shall still have the same Heaven above us, and the same Father to pray to.”
He then added calmly and sadly, "I am going upstairs to kiss the children once more." He went up. Mayken and the infant slept, but little Franz was wide-awake, and gazed at his father with large wondering eyes.
“Franz," said Carl, "thy father is going, but thou hast still a Father in Heaven. Trust in Him, boy. Love Jesus Christ thy Savior, and help and comfort thy mother. Now farewell." He embraced the weeping boy tenderly, kissed the other children without awaking them, and then, with the bitterness of death in his heart, turned to go. Something stronger than a presentiment told him that he should see those loved faces no more. But the hardest parting was to come.
Lisa met him at the door of the sitting-room. "You forgot this," she said, putting the little psalter into his hand, "and you say it always comforts you." Then she added, in a lower tone, as if she feared listeners, "but the Book, Carl?”
Carl hesitated a moment, and then he answered firmly, "Keep it, and teach the children to read and love it. Only for my sake and theirs, Lisa, be careful. Never use it until after nightfall, and be sure the doors are bolted. Then no harm can come to you, for its hiding-place is secure— secure as the grave. Now God be with thee, Liesken, my own "And with thee, Carl." A moment more, and Lisa stood alone, the sunshine of her life gone, perhaps forever. She carefully refastened the door and arranged a few matters which their preparations had left in confusion. Then she sat down and wept, until the dawn of a cheerless December morning aroused her to the consciousness that life, with its struggles, cares, and duties must still go on.
Chapter 2:
MARTYRDOM
NO, LISA, you must not go out this morning," said old Hans Tiskan the cloth-weaver, Carl's tried and faithful friend, and himself also in heart a Calvinist. Lisa was standing cloaked and hooded, with a market-basket on her arm. It was now three months since her husband's departure, and not one word of tidings had reached her. This was not worse than she expected, yet she looked pale and anxious, and her lip quivered as she listened to the unexpected remonstrance.
“But, Hans," she answered, "you know the poor children have no one now to look to but me. Indeed I must go, for their sakes.”
Hans Tiskan's lip quivered too, but instead of answering he gently took the basket from her arm, unloosed her cloak and hood, and drew her to a seat. There was something in the strange tenderness that replaced his usually blunt and rough though kind manner, which surprised and even alarmed her. Rather from a vague sinking of heart than any definite cause, her tears began to flow. The old man did not ask her to restrain them. He sat down beside her, took her hand gently in his, and murmured in a trembling voice, "Poor child.”
Then he told her, very slowly and gradually, what he knew she must hear. Carl ventured back to Gouda in the hope of obtaining a brief interview with his family and had been recognized the night before by one of the Burgomaster's secret agents. Even while they spoke, he was standing before that relentless judge to answer for the crime of heresy. Hans did not doubt that he would fearlessly confess his faith. There was but one result to look for, a swift and sure one. How could he speak to her of that? It was not necessary. Her own heart divined all.
The crowd in the market-place— the grim angry faces— the silent glances of sympathy and suppressed tears— the execrations and threats of vengeance that sometimes were scarcely suppressed, though it might be death to breathe them— the chain— the stake— the piled faggots— the hideous lurid glare in the sunlight— then the little heap of ashes and the few feet of blackened earth— these were every-day realities to the men and women of Holland three hundred years ago. There was scarcely a Calvinist family in the Provinces that did not number amongst its members one at least who "was not, for God took him" by that chariot of fire to Heaven. Well indeed was it for the mourners, if looking beyond the wrath of man, they could bow their heads and say, "God took him," and be thus delivered from the agonizing sense of wrong and the passionate longing for revenge that must have burned like fire in unsanctified hearts.
At first Hans Tiskan's terrible news completely overpowered Lisa, and she found refuge from her sorrow in unconsciousness. When at length she recovered, and was able fully to comprehend her husband's situation, it was very difficult to persuade her she could do nothing to save him. Piteously did she entreat Hans to allow her to go with her little ones, throw herself at the Burgomaster's feet, and beg for mercy.
“Surely he will pity us," she said. "He too has children.”
“Thou shalt not go," returned Hans, sternly and bitterly. "Carl's wife shall never kneel to him. His heart is harder than this," and he ground his heavy heel upon the hearthstone. "I would that heart were there," he added, muttering the words between his teeth, while the expression on his face told plainly that had the wish been granted, his strong foot would have gone down still more heavily.
It was still more difficult to convince poor Lisa that her desire to see Carl again must not be gratified. Perhaps Hans could scarcely have dissuaded her from making the attempt had she possessed the necessary physical strength, but it was too evident that her trembling limbs could not have borne her through that crowd in the market-place. Yet he must not die without a friend to witness his conflict, and to speak a word of sympathy.
“Go, Hans," she said softly, as he still lingered, trying to comfort her.
Hans laid his hand on his beret. "What shall I tell him from you?" he asked, without looking towards her.
Strength in her uttermost weakness and agony was given to Lisa, and she answered firmly, "Tell him to remember who has said, `Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
“There spoke a hero's wife,—nay more, a martyr's!" said Hans as he went out.
Carl, in the meantime, had witnessed a good confession before his judges. According to the strict letter of the infamous "edicts," not even recantation could save the heretic from the penalty of death, though it would procure a mitigation of his punishment. It would seem, however, that the anxiety of the Roman party for conversions led them not infrequently to disregard the law, and to offer a free pardon as the price of apostasy. The offer was made to Carl, was even pressed upon him; for his character stood high in the estimation of his fellow-citizens, and rendered his example influential.
“Do you not love your wife and children?" asked the Burgomaster.
“God knows," answered Carl, "that if the whole world were of gold, and my own, I would give it all only to have them with me, even had I to live on bread and water, and in bondage.”
“You have them," replied his judge; "only renounce the error of your opinions.”
“Neither for wife, children, nor all the world, can I renounce my God and His truth," answered the prisoner.
Nothing remained but to pronounce the sentence and carry it into execution— two things very quickly done. Carl died as thousands did— men, women and even children, a great company.
Of many no record remains, save perhaps some grim entry still visible in the municipal archives, "For having executed so and so by fire, so much; for having thrown his cinders into the river, so much more." Of others, touching stories may be gleaned from old chronicles and martyrologist, differing in various particulars, yet always alike in one trait— the sufferers were never forsaken at the last hour by Him in whom they trusted. One unfaltering song of confidence and triumph was on their lips as they died. The annals of the "white-robed army of martyrs" would fill an ample volume, yet there would not be the name of one solitary individual, who, having raised his Master's cup to his lips, found the taste too bitter and refused to drink.
When the chill March evening set in, and the streets of Gouda at last grew dark and quiet, Hans Tiskan entered Lisa's dwelling once more. He brought to her from the lips of the dead words of strength and comfort; and from the loved hand that might touch hers no more on earth, a precious token, the French Psalm-book, with the leaf folded down over the passage,—
I pass the gloomy vale of death
From fear and danger free,
For there His aiding rod and staff
Defend and comfort me.
Having at long intervals and with a faltering voice told her all he knew, he brought her infant, the baby Carl, and laid him by her side; he then sat down a little apart, and "lifted up his voice and wept." She did not weep.
And now Lisa was a widow, and her children orphans, the widow and orphans of a martyred Calvinist. In how many obscure homes there wept and agonized such as these
Chapter 3:
VICTORY
AT FIRST it was not sorrow that overwhelmed Lisa so much as horror, "a horror of great darkness." She could not weep or pray. She could scarcely think. It would have been so easy to lie down beneath the weight of her anguish, to follow Carl and be at rest. And most likely this would have been the end of all had not little hands, strong in their feebleness, drawn her back to life. Carl's children must not starve, however sore their mother's heart might be. So when her husband's store was well-nigh exhausted, the young widow shook off her dreary torpor, and began to toil early and late to supply the necessities of her children. Yet as she toiled, her grief became gradually less agonizing, many a prayer to her husband's God arose from her heart, and many a tear that brought with it healing and comfort dropped upon her work. She well remembered in after times the first gush of tears that were not of unmixed bitterness. It was morning, just after sunrise in late spring or early summer, and already at her task, she plied her needle beside the open window, while the children lay near her asleep in their little cribs. One of those sudden fantastic tricks of memory seemed to transport her in a moment to the quiet corner of a neighboring churchyard, where there was a little grave, bright no doubt with that early sunshine. An infant she had lost was laid there, and often in happy days— days when she used to call that sorrow— she and Carl had visited the spot together, and Carl had spoken to her there of Him who is the Resurrection and the Life. What a sweet resting place appeared that peaceful grave, contrasted with the handful of ashes and the few feet of blackened clay in the marketplace!
“And yet he too shall arise," thought Lisa. His own voice, strong and clear, yet gentle as it had sounded beside his baby's grave, seemed to repeat the blessed words, "I know that he shall rise again at the resurrection of the last day." She, bowed her head and wept in silence; but thought while she wept of the glorious morning when the dead in Christ shall be raised incorruptible, and of Him at whose voice they shall come forth, and was comforted. Thus gradually and slowly did a succor come, and a patience for her grief.
Months passed away and years. There was sorrow, deep and lasting; there was loneliness, but there was not despair. Conflict there was sometimes, when the heart asked wildly why God permitted such things as these to happen upon the earth. "Righteous art thou, O Lord, when I plead with thee, yet let me talk with thee of thy judgments. Wherefore doth the way of the wicked prosper? wherefore are all they happy that deal very treacherously?" "Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look on iniquity; wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and holdest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the than that is more righteous than he?" But when these thoughts came, she prayed. She turned to Jesus in humble trust and love, and at last "He arose, and rebuked the wind and the sea, and there was a great calm.”
She taught Carl's children "the Book" which he had loved; and from its pages she herself learned many a holy lesson. Nor did she learn in vain, for the 'Lord Himself was her. Teacher, and "who teacheth like Him"?
There was one verse in the Book she thought very difficult: "Love your enemies.”
“Love Carl's murderers! does Jesus ask me to do this? It is not in human nature." Then she would remember Him who prayed, "Father, forgive them," and long to feel, or at least to do as He did. But the prayer she tried to offer always died away in words like these, "O Lord, I cannot! O Lord, help me!" And in His own time He helped her.
Lisa never went to mass, never confessed to a priest; her husband's death seemed to put an insurmountable barrier between her and these things, and at the same time to render her nearly callous to the danger she incurred in neglecting them. Even Hans Tiskan remonstrated with her on her imprudence, and tried to awaken her maternal solicitude.
“God will take care of the children," she would answer, "if anything happens to me, as He has taken care of me and them these three years. But let the consequences be what they will, I cannot go to the idol worship.”
This was the result partly of faith, and partly of utter indifference to life. Its brightness and preciousness were gone forever; she held it very loosely, and only for her children's sake. For some cause or other she was allowed to pursue her course unmolested, although victims as obscure and helpless as she was were being daily sacrificed to the demon of persecution. Her feeble health gave a sort of pretext for her absence from the public rites of the Church. And as none of her children were as yet old enough to take their first communion, the delinquencies of the little heretic household happily escaped observation.
Four years passed away, and then there came a change, a great and happy change for Holland— daybreak after midnight— even though but the dawn of a stormy and uncertain day. The terrible "Sea-beggars" were in the land. They had taken Brill, and the cry of joy that celebrated its capture was a summons to all brave hearts throughout the country to throw off the intolerable yoke of Alva. From town to town the glad tidings passed. "The Beggars are here! The Prince of Orange, the man sent from God to deliver us, is at hand! The hour is come— let us strike for God and freedom.”
The men of Gouda heard that cry, and they obeyed. By an irresistible popular impulse, and almost in one hour, the Calvinists had triumphed, and the instruments of Alva's tyranny were trembling fugitives. They had need to fly, for woe to the Spaniard— worse woe to the recreant Hollander in Spanish pay— who fell into the hands of the enraged townsfolk!
“This for my father, burnt to ashes at the stake— for my brother, who died upon the rack— for my sister, who perished in your dungeons!" With such watchwords as these, it was no marvel that the right hands of the avengers were strong, and their swords went not back from blood. It seemed likely that Hans Tiskan might have his wish fulfilled, and set his foot on the Burgomaster's heart that night.
Terrified at the noise and uproar in the usually quiet town, and wondering what was to be the end of all, Lisa, with the help of little Franz, barred the door and windows securely, and mingled prayers for the dying with trembling thanksgivings for the dream of liberty, as yet too strange and new to seem more than a dream.
A knock at the street door, loud and hasty, yet uncertain, as if the hand trembled that held the knocker, startled the little family. Lisa hesitated to answer the summons, but it was repeated almost instantly, and with still greater impatience.
“Mother; I'll go— I’m not afraid!" said Franz, starting to his feet.
But Lisa took a small lamp in her hand and went herself. She unbarred the door, and looking out into the darkness, inquired what was wanted.
“For God's sake, help— shelter— save me from my enemies!" prayed a voice tremulous with terror.
“Who asks this from me?" said Lisa.
“For God's sake, let me in!" reiterated the fugitive in tones of anguish. "They are coming— here— down this street!”
In his agony of entreaty he advanced one step nearer the half-open door. The light of Lisa's little lamp flashed on his face, pale with fear as it was. She recognized her husband's murderer, the cruel burgomaster!
It cost her no painful conflict now to open wide the door, and to say, "In the name of Jesus Christ— come in!”
The invitation was accepted immediately. The fugitive in his terror did not recognize the house, or he would scarcely have chosen it for his place of refuge. Nor did the calm pale face of the young widow strike any chord of memory within. Lisa led him silently across the hall and through the sitting-room; her look checked the eager questions of the children. Something in it awed them strangely.
“Franz," she said, turning calmly to the wondering boy, "bolt the door, and make all secure again.”
She then quietly and rapidly slipped back the panel of the secret closet and signed to the Burgomaster to enter.
“Shall I be safe here?" he asked.
“O yes, sir," answered Lisa, "quite safe. It was here my husband was hid while you and your officers searched the house for him in vain. Enter without fear, your worship; I will be answerable for your safety.”
And the martyr's widow kept her word. Very happy was her heart that night, and full of thankfulness her simple prayer. There was no agonizing struggle to be gone through. All that was passed long since— God had given her the victory. He had enabled her to do what Carl would have wished, nay more, what He himself desired; and on her calm brow there seemed to be plainly written His blessing, "Child of your Father in Heaven.”