The Scourge of God 15 – Bloundelle-Burton · Library Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
The Scourge of God 15Shelter and Refuge
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
The Scourge of God 15
Shelter and Refuge
Bloundelle-BurtonEnglish
That night as darkness fell upon the earth, and while, high up in the heavens, the bonfires burned which the attroupés lit regularly on the tops of the Cévennes in the hopes of thereby luring their enemies into their strongholds and fastnesses, Martin spoke to Urbaine, saying:
"Mademoiselle, I know not what is to be done. Had the unfortunate horse not been slain by that last bullet we might have got back to safety. To Montpellier or, failing that, to Lunel at least. Now it seems hopeless. You can go no farther and--and I can not leave you alone while I seek assistance, which, even if I did, I should not obtain. There is no assistance for--for those who are not on their side."
"I can not understand you, monsieur," Urbaine said quietly. "You are yourself a Protestant, my father told me--nay, did you not so inform me that morning in our garden at Montpellier--yet you trouble to save me from your fr----, those of your faith. I am deeply grateful to you, only I do not comprehend."
For a moment his clear eyes rested on her. In the dusk that was now almost night she saw them plainly. Then he answered very quietly:
"Is it not enough, mademoiselle, that you are a woman? Must I, because I am a Protestant, have no right to the attributes of a man?"
"I--I ask your pardon; forgive me. I would not wound you--you who have saved me. And I thank you. Only, here, in Languedoc, we have learned in the last few weeks to expect no mercy from the Protestants."
"Like all who have turned against injustice and cruelty, they are now themselves unjust and cruel. One may respect their turning, even their uprising, yet not their methods."
Then for some moments there was silence between them.
They were seated, on this warm September night--for six weeks had passed since the murder of the abbé--upon a bank outside a deserted cottage a league or so from where the ambuscade and slaughter of Poul and the soldiers under him had taken place. Above them, all around them, in the little garden, there grew the sweet flowering acacias which are at their best in the valleys that lie between the Loire and the Rhône; the air was thick with their perfume. Also the gourds lay golden on the ground, uncut and ripening to decay. The scarlet beans trailed in rich profusion of colour on their sticks, illuminated, too, by the fireflies that danced around. And from the distance of a pistol-shot off there came the murmur of the arrowy river as it dashed down between its banks to reach the sea.
Yet all was desolation here, and death. Death typified by the poor merle that lay forgotten and starved in its wicker cage, left behind when those who once dwelt here had fled a fortnight ago to the mountains at the report that De Broglie's chevaux-légers were devastating the land. They fled leaving behind them, too, the three-months-old calf, and the fowls, and all the simple household creatures, having no time to do aught but shift for themselves and bear away to safety those other harmless living things, the children.
"What is to be done I know not," Martin went on. "At any moment they may come this way; they know we have escaped so far. Then--then--it may mean instant death; at best, captivity in the mountains."
"For me," she answered, speaking low, "for me? I am Baville's adopted child--the child of his dear friend. But for you--you are of their----"
Then she paused, leaving the last word unsaid as she saw again his calm, sad eyes fixed on her. Once more she pleaded for pardon.
"Forgive, forgive me," she said. "I am vile, ungenerous to speak thus. Yet we must part at last. They have no charge against you."
"We part," he replied, "when you--when both--are safe."
They knew not why at such a time as this, when action should have been everything and no moment wasted, in spite of the girl's fatigue and prostration, silence should fall upon them; why they should sit there as though courting a fate that might come at any moment, for at any moment, above the hum of the near river, there might be heard the voices of the revolted Cévenoles. Beneath the branches of the acacias that o'erhung the dusty white road would perhaps be seen the unbrowned barrels of their guns or the scythes with which, since many of them had as yet no weapons, they were armed.
A silence between these two broken only by the twitter of birds in the branches, or by a sigh that rose unchecked from the girl's breast as, in the starlit dark, she turned her eyes on the features of the man by her side.
"Come," he said at last, rousing himself, "come. It is madness to remain here. We must move on even though we encounter death by doing so. It is not likely that all have returned to the mountains after their victory; they may pass by here at any moment. Can you proceed at all, mademoiselle?"
"I can at least try. Yet to where? To where?"
"I do not know the land very well," he answered, speaking in the slow, calm voice which had impressed her so much a month ago when the Intendant had, with strange indifference (as it seemed to both of them), presented Martin to Urbaine and left them to pass some hours in the orange garden of the Intendancy, he contenting himself with telling the girl that her new acquaintance was from the north and was not of their faith. "I do not know the land very well. Yet is there not a garrison near here? I think so. Called the--the château of--the fortress of--Servas."
"Ah, yes!" Urbaine cried, clasping her hands, "the Château de Servas. Between Alais and Uzès; not far from here. If we could reach that we should be safe. The commandant is known to my father--to De Broglie. He would protect us."
"We must attempt it," Martin replied. "It is our chance, mademoiselle," he exclaimed, breaking off as he heard a gasp from her lips, "What is it? What! What new terror?"
"I forgot," she whispered, her voice unsteady, "I forgot. In this instance the case is reversed. They are all of my faith--you--you--would be sacrificed. They are infuriated with these rebels. Alas!" she almost wailed, "they would not spare you. It is not to be dreamed on. Anywhere but there."
"Nay," he said, "nay. It must in truth be there. And for me fear not. I have saved the daughter of his Excellency for them. Even though they know I am this accursed thing in their eyes, a Protestant, they would scarcely repay me cruelly for that."
"They must never know it. By silence you are safe. Oh, let us attempt to reach it. It is but two or, at most, three leagues. I have been there with my father. He will bless you, worship you for saving me."
"Three leagues! three leagues!" he repeated, "three leagues! For me, nothing. Yet for you, a delicate woman!"
"The very thought, the hope of safety, inspires me. I am strong again. Come, monsieur, come, I beseech you, for both our sakes. For yours, for you who have saved me, above all."
"Not so," he said. "I am a man who has ventured into the tiger's jaws and must take my chance. I am of poor account."
And now they prepared to set forth to reach this place of refuge, yet both knew what dangers might well be expected ere they got there, if ever. For during the time which had elapsed since the Camisards, as at this time they began to be called, had risen and commenced their resistance by the slaughter of the Abbé Du Chaila, all Languedoc had been overrun with them and was in a state of terror. Also the flight of the inhabitants had become entirely reversed. It was the Catholics and the Catholic priests who were rushing out of the province as fast as they could go, while from their mountain homes the revolted Protestants who had taken up arms were pouring down in hundreds. Already, too, the cities were in a state of siege and the inhabitants fortifying themselves within the walls. That very night, although neither Martin nor Urbaine knew of it, the ancient city of Nîmes, the Rome of France, expected to be besieged, put to sword ere dawn; for by the time that they were hoping to accomplish their night journey to the Château de Servas the few dragoons who had escaped the slaughter which had fallen on Poul's detachment, as well as the fusileers and another band of cavalry and infantry who had been routed close by while under the command of De Broglie, had ridden pell-mell into Nîmes, their weapons broken or lost, their heads covered with blood, themselves and their horses wounded. Rode in the bearers of awful tidings as to how the fanatics were led by two persons, one a lad of sixteen named Cavalier, the other a man a few years older named Roland; rode in and told how women fought on their side as the Amazons of old had fought; how men preached and encouraged them and sang canticles as they did so; of how they spared none; had beheaded Poul; had captured Baville's daughter and slain her, if not worse. Described also, with white quivering lips, how the tocsins were ringing from half a hundred churches in flames; told of priests flung across their own altars and done to death, of soldiers mutilated ere slain--all by bands of men who seemed to vanish into the air the moment after their deeds were accomplished.
Meantime Baville's daughter and her rescuer were threading their course through the meadows and pastures that fringed the wayside, because thus her feet were more eased by the long, cool grass on which now the dews of night had fallen, or slowly finding a path through chestnut woods. Sometimes, too--leaving the river behind them and knowing they were going aright since its distant hum became fainter and fainter, and since, ever before them, yet afar off, the summits of La Lozère and Bouquet stood out more clear against the heavens--they passed vineyards on which the black grapes hung in clusters, when, pausing, they moistened their lips with the soft, luscious fruit. Yet went on and on, resting at intervals, and then forward again, the girl leaning on the arm of her companion--the arm of the man whose faith she had been taught to despise and execrate.
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.
