The Scourge of God

"Ho! la, la!" the other replied. "That must be thought upon. Even now she is a great hostage in our hands, a card that may win the trick. And-and-you and she are very intimate; yet can I tell you something without fear of its being repeated to her?"

"I will respect any confidence you place in me so long as it thrusts not against her welfare."

"It will not do that. Yet listen. Ere she leaves us there is something to be told her as regards Baville's friendship for her father, Ducaire. And, when she has heard that, it may be she will never wish to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again."

"My God! What is to become of her then?"

For reply Cavalier only laughed. Then he said:

"There is always a home for any Protestant here, and she can not complain of how we have treated her. I think myself she will elect to stay with us, unless-"

"Unless?"

"Something more tempting offers," and again he laughed. "She might, monsieur will understand, fall in love. With-say-some hero."

For a moment Martin wondered if Cavalier alluded to himself; in another he knew that he did so. There was no mistaking the glance in the Camisard's eyes. But he gave him no opportunity of saying anything further on the subject, asking instead if he might be confided in with regard to the strange story which, when told to Urbaine, was to quench every spark of love and affection in her heart for Baville, the man who, with all his faults, had cherished and loved her so fondly.

"No, monsieur," Cavalier replied. "That can not be-as yet. Later you will doubtless know all, know the reason why Urbaine Ducaire should change her love for him to an undying hate. Meanwhile I have to ask a favour of you."

"A favour? What is there in my power to do?"

"This: The power to help us end this war-you, a Protestant, an Englishman."

"I can not understand. God knows I desire nothing better."

"Soit! Then aid us. Thus: The English agent is at Nîmes, disguised. He passes under the name of Flottard, and has plans for the use of your admiral, who will bring his fleet to Cette or Toulon when the time is ripe. Unfortunately, however, this man, this soi-disant Flottard, has not the French very clearly. As for us-poor weavers, carders, husbandmen-what should we know of other tongues? We can not speak a word of your language. Monsieur Martin, you are a Protestant, an Englishman. Before God I think you English the greatest of all. Help us, help us to be free without more bloodshed, to worship the Almighty as we see fit, to bow our necks no more before the Scourge of God. Help us! Help us!" he repeated, "us of your own faith."

Stirred to the heart's core by the man's appeal, though he scarce needed such impulse, every fibre in him, every drop of blood in his veins, tingling for those of his own faith, of his own loved religion, he answered quietly, saying again:

"What I can do I will," and adding, also quietly, "or die in the attempt."

CHAPTER XXII

I LOVE YOU

Urbaine and Martin sat together on that night which followed the sunny afternoon when they had been alone together on the promontory, in one of the smaller caverns that opened out of the large one-a cavern which, of late, Cavalier had used as that in which they ate their meals-Roland, who shared with him the position of chief of the Camisards (and indeed claimed to be the absolute chief), being rarely in this part of the mountains. To-night, however, Cavalier was absent too, he having gone on one of those terribly dangerous visits to the valleys which he periodically made, sometimes to spy into what the following of Baville were doing, or what the king's troops; or to head some sanguinary raid upon a place where arms or ammunition, food or clothes, were likely to be obtained.

But to-night he had gone forth on a different mission: to precede Martin on his way to Nîmes, to see if all the mountain passes were free of their enemies and, should such be the case, to conduct him into the city, there to have an interview with the English agent.

Therefore Urbaine and Martin were alone together, save for the Camisard woman who waited upon them at their meal, and who did not obtrude herself more than was necessary into the cavern they were in.

As with the larger one and with those which each of them used as their sleeping apartment, its furnishing and surroundings would have created intense astonishment to any of the outside world who should have been able to observe it. Hung with skins in some places, with rich and costly tapestry and arras in others, all of which were the results of successful forays upon châteaux and manoirs which, a few hours after the raids, were nothing but smoking ruins, the onlooker might well have believed that, instead of a natural vault originally fashioned by Nature's own hands, he stood within the hall of some ancient feudal castle, such as the De Rohans or the Ruvignys had once possessed in the vicinity. Also he might have thought that the table at which those two sat was one prepared for the reception of guests at Versailles.

A table covered with the whitest napery, on which sparkled many pieces of the prized vaisselles of the noblesse and the haut-monde, so prized, indeed, that laws and edicts had been passed preventing the sale of such things or their transposition from one family to another; adorned as well with verres-fins, and with silver-handled knives and silver forks. Also for provisions there were upon this table a poularde and the remains of a choice ham, a bottle of Ginestoux and another of Lunel, a silver basketful of delicate, white chipped bread, and a crystal bowl of mountain fruit. Yet the glass and the silver bore no two crests alike. The arms that were broidered on the napery represented still a third family. All was spoil torn from half a dozen ruined and sacked mansions.

"I pray God, mademoiselle," Martin said, after having in vain pressed his companion to eat more than the shred of poularde she had trifled with, and to drink at least one glass of the Ginestoux, "that this task on which I go may end all your grief. You know that Cavalier promises on my return, our object accomplished, to allow me to take you away from here, to return you in safety to your father's-to M. Baville's arms."

"Yes," she answered, looking up at him, "yes, to return me to my father's arms."

"You will pray, therefore, for my success? It means all you can most desire, all that you can hope for till these troubles are past. Once back in his house, no further harm can come near you; you are safe with him. Nay, even though he were in danger through any further success of theirs, you are still safe. They deem you one of themselves."

"I will pray," she said, "for your success, your prosperity, now and forever-for all that you may undertake. Yet-yet-do you know? – I have almost ceased to pray at all now."

"Oh, oh, God forbid!" he exclaimed, his heart wrung by her words.

"To whom am I to pray? What am I, how am I to approach Him? If I am a Protestant I must pray for his, my father's, downfall; if a Catholic, for the destruction of what I-" She did not finish her sentence, but added instead: "Best never utter prayer at all; forget that from my childhood I have been taught to worship humbly and to never know a petition unheard. Oh," she said, thrusting her hands through the great coils of golden hair that adorned her head, "oh, that I had died on the day you saved my life, that the bullet which pierced my poor gouvernante's breast had found mine instead!"

Profoundly touched, moved to the deepest pity and sympathy by her words-the words of one so young and fair, yet, alas! so distraught-he moved nearer to her and, unaware even, perhaps, of his action, took her hand.

"Why," he said, speaking very low, yet with a voice that seemed as music in her ears, "why feel thus, suffer thus? In spite of all the dissensions between our faiths-grant even that you are no Protestant-we worship the same God though we see him with different eyes. Urbaine," he whispered, forgetting as he spoke that he had broken down the barrier of formality which had been between them until now, "if you can not pray for me to-night, can not pray that my efforts may meet with success, how can I depart and leave you here? How go, knowing that your heart is not with me?"

"Not with you?" she whispered in her turn. "Not with you? Alas-" and again broke off, saying no more.

"Urbaine," he continued, emboldened now to repeat softly her name, and perhaps not understanding her repetition of his words, deeming, it may be, that the repetition confirmed them, "Urbaine, your heart, your wishes must go with me, with the cause I undertake. It is the cause of peace and reconciliation, of strengthening your king's hands by winning back his subjects to him. For if this fleet can but get a foothold for its men on shore, Louis must make terms with all who are now beating him down; not only in this fair Languedoc, but over all Europe a lasting peace may ensue. A peace," he continued, still gently yet impressively, "between your land and mine. Yours and mine," he repeated, dwelling, it seemed to her, pleasantly on the coupling of their interests together-"yours and mine."

For answer she only sighed, then she said a moment later:

"Yet to go on this mission may mean death to you. If Montrevel or Julien caught you-O God! it sickens me to think of your peril. They might not know, might not even believe, all that you have done for me. The end would be awful."

"Yet remember also that they would not know, can not know, that I am a Protestant-worse than all else within their eyes, an Englishman. And, not knowing, nothing would be suspected."

"Still I fear," she answered. "Am overcome with horror and anxiety. Oh!" she exclaimed again, "oh! if your reward for your noble chivalry to me should be nothing but disaster. If-if we should never meet again."

"Fear not," he said. "We shall meet again. I know it; it is borne in upon me. We shall meet again. I shall restore you to your father's arms."

Yet, even as he spoke, he remembered the words that Cavalier had uttered under the seal of confidence, the words: "When she has heard what is to be told, it may be she will never seek to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again." Remembered them and wondered what they might portend.

As he did so there came into the cavern one of the Camisards, a man who had been deputed to lead him at a given time to where Cavalier was to await his coming. A guide who said briefly that the horses were prepared and ready to set forth at monsieur's pleasure, then went outside to wait for him.

"Farewell, Urbaine," Martin said. "Adieu. Nay, do not weep. All will, all must be, well with you, otherwise I would not leave you. And, remember, once my task is accomplished you are free. It is for that, as for other things, in other hopes, that I go. Bid me Godspeed."

It seemed, however, as if she could not let him depart. Weeping, she clung to his arm, her cheeks bedashed with the tears that ran down them, her hands clasping his. And then, overmastered by her misery, he said that to her which he had never meant to say until, at least, happier days had dawned for both-if, as he sometimes thought, he should ever dare to say it.

"Urbaine," he whispered, "Urbaine, be brave; take heart; pray for me. Listen, hear my last words ere I go. I love you-have loved you since that night we sat beneath the acacias after I had saved you. I shall love you ever-till I die."

* * * * * * *

The moon shone out through deep inky clouds that scurried swiftly beneath her face as Martin and the guide set forth to descend to the spot where Cavalier was to await them. Up here there were no precautions necessary to be taken, since to the higher portions of the Cévennes it was impossible that any enemy could have penetrated from below. The paths that led up to the caves which formed the barracks and dwelling places of the two thousand men who now kept all Languedoc in dread and two of Louis' armies at check were of so narrow and impassable a nature that Thermopylæ itself might have acknowledged them as worthy rivals; and, even had they been less close and tortuous, were so guarded at intervals by pickets of Camisards that none could have surmounted them. Also in many places the route had been made to pass specially over terrible chasms and ravines, since, by so doing, it enabled the defenders of the passes to construct drawbridges which could be lowered or raised at their own pleasure, or, in case of necessity, destroyed altogether.

Yet one precaution had been taken for their journey-a precaution never neglected by those dwellers of the mountains, in case they were forced to take to flight and desired to leave no trace behind them-their animals were shod backward on their fore feet, a method which, in conjunction with the usual shoeing of the hind feet, was almost certain to baffle those who should endeavour to follow their tracks.

Beneath that moon which shone fitfully from the deep masses of rain-charged clouds the two men paced in Indian file down the narrow passes, seeing as they went that which, for now many weeks, had been visible to all eyes in the province-namely, the flames of villages on fire at different points of the compass; hearing, too, as they were borne on the winds, the distant ringing of alarm bells and tocsins from many a beleaguered church and monastery. For not only did those flames spring from edifices wherein the old faith was still maintained, but also from the villages and hamlets where some Protestants continued to dwell and worship in their own manner, hoping ever for better, happier days. Already it was calculated that more than forty Romish churches had been destroyed, with, in many cases, the bourgs in which they stood; ere all was over the number was doubled. And already, also, more than that number of Protestant places of worship, with the villages around them, had been pillaged, sacked, and burned by Montrevel and Julien, while, in their case, ere all was over the number was almost trebled.

Thinking of his newly declared love for Urbaine, thinking, too, of how, in whispered words, she had declared her love for him in return, of how in their last hasty embrace, which had been also their first, they had sworn deathless fidelity to each other, Martin took but little heed of those midnight sights telling of happy homes ruined forever which he had now been forced so often to gaze upon from the heights where the Camisards dwelt. He had grown accustomed to these beacons of horror, in spite of the unhappiness they caused him.

But now he saw a new phase of stern justice and punishment at which he could not fail to shudder.

High up upon three gibbets at the wayside by which they passed-gibbets so placed that, when their ghastly burdens should rot from the chains which held them now, they would fall down and down until they reached the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet below-there hung three corpses; swung waving to the mountain air, while ever and anon upon their white but blood-stained faces the moon glinted now and again, making those faces look as though they perspired in her rays, were clammy with sweat. And two grinned hideously in those rays, a bullet wound which had shattered the mouth of one giving to his face the appearance of a man convulsed with laughter, while the smirk of the other face was, in truth, the last grimace of the death agony. The features of the third told naught, since, from a wound in his forehead, there had run out the blood which was now caked and hardened to a mask, hiding all below.