The Scourge of God

But once they had to stop for another reason than her fatigue, to pause in a great chestnut wood where the grass which grew at the feet of the trees was as soft and silky as thistle-down, and where the deer stared at them with wide-open, startled eyes; to pause because they heard a hundred yards away the voices of a band of men which passed along the wide road.

"It is they," she whispered, trembling. "It is they. Whom do they seek?"

"Fear not," he replied, soothing her, while at the same time he drew her within the decayed trunk of an enormous chestnut tree over whose head more than one century must have rolled. "They proceed too rapidly along the road, too swiftly on their way, to be in search of us. More like they go to midnight murder, the destruction of some harmless village, the pillage of some helpless town."

"Murder! Destruction! you deem it that? You!" she whispered, her soft, pure eyes glancing up at his.

"I deem it that," he replied gravely, "retaliation though it be."

The band went on, their voices coming back to them on the still night air, the refrain of one of their hymns borne back also-a hymn still breathing of revenge blessed by God, of vengeance ordained by him.

"If you are rested again," he whispered, "we may proceed."

Still helping her, assisting her as gently as though he had been her brother, he led her on until at last they left the shelter of the woods and stood upon a little knoll of ground, a spot from which they looked across a plain bordered on the farther side by slopes and hills that, rising one behind the other, lifted themselves finally to mountains whose ridges and summits stood out sharply against the starry sky. Yet saw, too, that now the stars grew whiter and began to pale, that all the heavens were turning to a soft primrose hue, while, far away to the east, was the warm suffusing of scarlet which told of the coming day. Afar off, also, observed other crimson streaks over which there hung dun-coloured palls of smoke that proceeded from burning towns and hamlets.

Shuddering, Urbaine directed her glance to the latter, then said, looking toward the north:

"There ahead of us is the Château de Servas. You see?" and as she spoke she pointed to where, above a low purple-crested hill, a white building hung.

"I see," he answered. "Pray God we reach it. You can still go on?"

"I must go on," she replied. "Once there we are safe. The château is well garrisoned."

Even through this plain, vineyards ran along the side of the road which led to where the fortress stood; therefore they were not so open to observation as if it had been a flat, uncultivated expanse; and across this they passed, sheltered by the vines on either side. And now there arose a chance unhoped for-one which, had it happened earlier in their journey, might have brought them to the harbour of refuge they sought before the night had gone. Grazing at the side of the road was an old mule, a creature rough-coated and long neglected and uncared for, its hide thick and coarse. Perhaps its being so poor a thing was the reason why it had not been carried off into the mountains either by those who owned it or by those who would have appropriated it if owned by their foes. Yet it served now to ease Urbaine from further toil, since Martin, catching it and placing his coat across its back as a saddle-cloth, lifted the girl on to it at once. Then instantly they set off again, he walking by the patient creature's side and directing it.

An hour later, when now the light had come and when the mountain tops were all gilded with the rays of the sun, while below on the plain the coolness of dawn was already receding before the genial warmth of a new day, they had reached their journey's end and were mounting the slope beneath the castle. And seeing the two cannon that stood on their cumbersome old carriages upon the walls, and the men-at-arms who were already regarding them curiously from those walls, Martin knew that he had saved the girl for a second time.

Also she knew it well, yet such was her emotion, such her agitation at recognising that she had escaped an awful fate, that she was powerless to express herself in words; but not too powerless to testify her gratitude by her looks and by the touch which she laid upon his hand. A touch which he understood and answered also by a glance, and by the muttered words, "Thank God!"

A moment later the wicket in the great iron-barred and studded gate opened, and a soldier came out and stood regarding them; then called down the slope:

"Who are you and what do you seek?"

"Shelter and refuge," Martin answered back, his voice clear and distinct in the morning air. "This lady is his Excellency's daughter."

"His Excellency's daughter!" the man repeated, his whole tone one of astonishment. "His Excellency's daughter, and travelling thus on such a sorry beast!"

"And travelling thus. Fortunate, indeed, to be travelling at all," while, as he spoke, he extended his hands and caught Urbaine as she swerved on the mule's back and fell fainting into his arms.

CHAPTER XVI

SUCCOUR

Once more the day was drawing to a close. Already across the plain the sun's rays were slanting horizontally. Soon the sun itself would have dipped behind the mountains and be gone. Another night was at hand, and Martin, gazing on the country around from the castle walls on which he stood, thanked God that it would bring no terrors to the girl whom he had saved, such as the past one had brought.

Since they had been received into the castle in the morning by the commandant, a man who had once fought in countless campaigns but who now passed his latter years as governor of this place, he had seen nothing of Urbaine. She had been escorted to a room in the west wing immediately on their admission, where, after having been given restoratives in the shape of wine and food, and after being attended to by two or three of the few women in the place-soldiers' wives-she had begged that she might be allowed to be alone and thus obtain some rest. In was sorely needed, Martin said, speaking to the old chatelaine, sorely needed.

"And can be procured," the other replied, twisting up his great moustachios. "Bon Dieu! we have a room here fit for the reception of a duchess. Madame de Servas-a pretty thing-une femme de la vieille souche also-loves a soft nest; yet not one perched in an eyrie around which such storms blow as those that are now devastating Languedoc, the pest seize them and those who brew them!"

"Is the lady here?" Martin asked, thinking that, if so, she would be a comfort to the girl until she could escape back to Montpellier under his care.

"Pouf! pouf! pouf!" the old soldier said, "not she indeed. I tell you the tempest is too rough for her; she fears too much the vagabonds up there," whereupon he nodded toward where by now all the mountain tops of the Cévennes were gleaming in the morning sun. "Thereupon she is fled to Paris, the paradise of women; to Versailles-Marly. Well, she is safe there from these men," and again he nodded toward the mountains. "From other men, ho! ho! – of the court, figurez vous-danger may come, drawn by her bright eyes. However, there is the nest for mademoiselle. Tant mieux!"

But by now, as the evening drew on, those mountains were suffused by the soft couleur de rose that, in a near and less troubled land, was known as the Alpine glow. And Martin, himself refreshed after some hours' sleep during the day, was leaning over the castle wall looking down into the valley and the plain all flushed with the burning sunset of the golden autumn, with, far off and running through the latter, the silver thread that was the river Gardon hurrying on to join the Rhône. He was thinking now of many things, even as his eyes took in the beauties of all the fair department that lay around him-the distant woods whose leaves were scarce yet browned by the touch of autumn's fingers; the mill house on the Gardon's bank whose wheel was now still, since its owner had fled, perhaps forever; the gray convent that lay farther off and had been half destroyed by fire two nights ago; the crumbled ivy-clad tower a mile away, in which the king's father, Louis "The Just," had caused a score of Protestants to be burned alive-was thinking of many things as he regarded the fair scene. Whether he would ever see his own land once more, ever escape out of France, ever meet again in future years the pure fair girl whose life he had saved but a few hours ago-the girl whose faith and convictions were so bitterly hostile to his own, as every word she spoke, every thought she allowed utterance to, testified. Also he was wondering if the search he had undertaken for the lost de Rochebazon-the search he now deemed a foolish, Quixotic one-could result in aught but failure here in such a tempest-tossed spot as this.

"Never," he muttered to himself, "never shall I find him. France's empty coffers must swallow up all the wealth that is his, the Church he renounced must profit by my own renunciation. Find him! How? Where? Hanging to some gibbet if he has lived till these days, or learn that years ago he perished on the wheel or at the stake; that his ashes were cast to the winds. I shall never find him." Then he turned, hearing a step upon the leads behind him, and observed the commandant approaching the spot where he stood.

Already, when the old soldier had been by his side a few moments before, he had been made acquainted with all that had happened on the previous day, and of how it was only by God's mercy that Martin had arrived at the fortunate moment he did.

"I was," he said, "on my way to Valence, to which some affairs led me, where I heard the sound of firing and the shouts of men engaged in fierce conflict. And I should have stood outside the fray, have taken no part in it, but that I saw the travelling coach and observed a serving woman screaming on the top of it; saw a face at the coach window-that of mademoiselle. I could not refrain from attempting her rescue. She was a helpless, defenceless girl. It was no place for her among those men fighting like tigers. Also we had met before at her father's residency."

"Ponz! ponz!" said the commandant, "you did well. Nonc d'un chien, you did well for yourself and her. Baville will not forget. She is the apple of his eye, although no blood relation, yet the child of a loved friend, confided to him in death. Also his own child is a trouble to him. The Intendant spends all his heart on this girl. They say he worships her tenderly, fondly, because of her father. Ask Baville for aught you desire when you return to Montpellier and you will get it. He will repay you as fully as if-well! – as if, had you injured her, he would have cut you into twenty thousand atoms."

"I shall ask him for nothing. One does not save a woman's life for a reward."

"That I know," the commandant replied, a little ruffled by the rebuke. "Yet, having saved her life, as well let Baville show his gratitude. He is all-powerful here in the province; his interest, too, is great at Versailles." Then, changing the subject, the old man said:

"If we had but enough men you and she should be sent to Montpellier to-morrow. Yet 'tis impossible. We have but sufficient here to garrison the place and to rush out and hurry any of those scélérats whom we can catch in small bodies. I can not spare any men to form a guard. Meanwhile the Intendant probably deems her dead by this time. God help all who fall into his hands after this!"

"How is it with her to-night?" Martin asked now, thinking that since the sun was set she must surely by this time have slept off much of her fatigue.

"She is refreshed and rested, the woman tells me who has been placed in attendance on her. Yet, too, she is very sad. She thinks much on her father's and mother's grief if they knew, as they must, what has befallen her, which they doubtless deem death. Oh, that I could communicate with Baville! Yet 'tis impossible. I can not spare a man."

"You can spare me," Martin answered gravely and with a seriousness that told he meant what he said. "Give me a horse better than the poor thing on which mademoiselle finished her journey here, and I will go; will undertake to reach Montpellier."

"You?" the commandant exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the suggestion. "You? So! 'tis well. Who better than he who saved her to carry the good news to her father? Yet, yet," he said in his next breath, his face falling, "'tis impossible. You would never reach the city. They are everywhere, on dit two thousand strong already. And they spare none; above all, they will not spare the man who saved the Intendant's loved one."

"I may avoid them. Even if I do not there may still be a chance of my escape," Martin added, remembering that he was of the same faith as these rash unhappy rebels, although not in sympathy with them. Certainly not in sympathy with their cruelties.

"Escape? Yes, you may, even as by God's grace you escaped so far as to reach here. But such chances come not more than once together-who throws the ace twice! Moreover, if they know 'twas she who has slid out of their claws they will be over all the land, 'neath every bush, behind every stone, like painted snakes. There is no chance. You must remain here till some of Julien's or De Broglie's troops come to assist. Yet if you could have done it, have repeated your last night's valour, Baville would have worshipped you. Still, still you have done well. Bon Dieu!" – and the old man slapped the young one on the shoulder-"vous êtes un homme fort."

Looking away toward where now the purple shadows of the September evening were resting over all the plain, glancing over to where the white dusty road that followed the course of the Gardon stood out plain and distinct in the clear pure air, Martin saw that which told him that no further opportunity for a repetition of last night's valour, as the commandant had termed it, was like to come to him.

Already it seemed as if assistance was at hand.

"See," he said, "see! Even now the succour you pray for is near. Behold some of the troops of those whom you name-De Broglie's or Julien's! Look! the last rays sparkle on gorget and fusil-barrel. Thank God! She will be restored to her father. Perhaps to-night. To-morrow at latest."

It was as he said. Along that white dusty road which twined beside the river there came a body of cavalry, plain enough to be seen even by the age-worn eyes of the elder man. A troop numbering about thirty soldiers, on whose rich galloon, sword hilts, and bridle chains the last beams of the fast-sinking sun sparkled, it lighting up, too, the rich bleu du roi worn by some and the gallant scarlet of the others.

"Pardie!" exclaimed the commandant, "the slaughter could not have been as great as you imagined, my friend. Those men have at least escaped. Observe, the blue are the dragoons of De Broglie, the red are those of Hérault. Surely they were in the attack of yesterday," and he turned his eyes on Martin almost questioningly, as though wondering whether, for his own self-glorification, he had exaggerated his service to Urbaine.

"'Tis strange," the other answered, "strange. None escaped, I do believe, who were escorting mademoiselle's carriage. There must have been another party of the king's troops who were set upon, and these have belonged to them."

"May be," the commandant said, willing enough not to believe that this man (who had at least placed the existence of one of the most precious women in the province beyond danger) was a braggart. "May be, yet they have done more than escape, too. See, they bring prisoners. Fanatics. In chains, observe."

Looking again, Martin did observe that he spoke truly. Ahead of the cloud of dust which the horses raised on the chalk-white road he saw a band of men on foot; could count six of them, all shackled together by the wrists and shambling along, one or another falling now and again and causing the cavalry thereby to halt until they were once more on their feet. No doubt Camisard prisoners.

"Ha!" exclaimed the old man, leaning on the buttress by his side, his knotty hands placed above his eyes to shield them from the sun's last rays, and perhaps, also, to focus the advancing cavalcade, "they turn by the mill. Therefore they approach to succour us. Good! To-morrow mademoiselle will rejoin her father."