CHAPTER VIII.

AN EXODUS.

In the coming dawn, when the stars had paled and died away, and when

far off, where the Basses Alpes lifted their heads eastward, the gray

light turned into daffodil and told that the day was at hand, Martin

carried the pastor back into his little house.

"Rest," he said, "rest, and endeavour to sleep. I pray Heaven you may

do so, after this night of horror."

"Horror indeed!" Buscarlet said, sinking into the old leather-covered

_fauteuil_ that for years he had sat in so calmly and happily, though

solitary. "Horror undreamed of!" Then, a moment later, he went on: "I

thought--nay, I knew--that they would rise at last and throw off the

hideous yoke under which they bowed. Yet I deemed it would but be to

release those of our religion who suffered, to prevent others from

suffering too; to demand terms, even though only such terms as would

permit us to seek peace in far-away lands; but never dreamed of such

deeds as we have witnessed to-night. Where will it end? And how?"

"There were those who muttered in that crowd," Martin replied, his

face still of a deathly pallor, "that it might not end until they

stood outside Louis' gates--were within them. And there were some who

seemed to know of what they spoke. Some who have been long leagues

away from this lonely valley shut in by these mountains--men who know

that on all sides and on all her frontiers France is sore beset.

Crippled by her fresh war with Spain, the attacks made on her on the

Italian border, also by the Dutch on the Rhine. Fighting as well my

own countrymen in Bavaria and the whole length of the Danube, even to

the borders of Austria."

The mention of his own countrymen by Martin Ashurst seemed to bring

fresh trouble to the unhappy old man, to cause fresh terrors to spring

into his mind; for at those words he started in his chair and regarded

the younger one steadily, though with still upon his face the look of

misery that the events of the last few hours had brought forth.

"Your own countrymen!" he repeated, half-dazed. "Your own countrymen!

Ay, ay, _les Anglais!_ Thank God, it is not known, and never will be

known, that you are either English or Protestant. Baville would not

spare you."

"Baville need not perhaps know that I am an Englishman," Martin

replied calmly. "But one thing he will most assuredly know ere

long, when he begins to make inquiry into the doings of this past

night--namely, that I am a Protestant."

"Know it!" Buscarlet exclaimed, trembling even more than before,

clasping his hands frenziedly as though overcome by a fresh fear. "How

should he know it?"

"I shall announce it. For a certainty, shall not disguise it."

"Martin, Martin," the old man moaned, "are you mad? Do you value your

life so little, desire so much the horrors of the wheel, the flames,

to have your head upon this bridge as others' heads have been, that

you will acknowledge this? Martin, for the love of God, pause. Think

of what such an acknowledgment would mean to you."

"I have thought all through the night, even while I watched that man's

house burned beneath him as he hid on the roof; while I saw him done

to death. And, thus thinking, became resolved. Henceforth no power on

earth, no horror of awful death, of mutilation after death, can make

me disguise, keep back the acknowledgment of the form of faith I

belong to----"

"Alas, alas! it _will_ bring death."

"It may do so. If it does it must be borne. Yet, at the worst, I will

not think it can come to that. I am a Protestant; here, in your own

land, a Huguenot. Yet I am not one of those who slew the abbé. Shall

never imbrue my hands in blood. Ask only to be left in peace."

"Alas," Buscarlet exclaimed again, "that is all that we have

asked--all! Yet you see the end. The woman who dominates Louis allows

no free thought, no religion other than her own; has dragooned

Huguenots into Roman Catholicism since the day the Revocation was

pronounced, has hung and burned and broken those who refuse to change.

How, then, can you hope to escape--you who were among the crowd that

performed last night's work?"

"I took no part in his murder. Would have saved him if I could----"

"That will not save you. Martin, you must flee from here at once.

Escape out of France. Be gone while there is yet time."

"And de Rochebazon! His children's heritage! What of that?"

Even as he uttered the words his determination to remain here at all

costs and in deadly peril seemed to act upon the old man's mind, to

clear his brain so clouded with the awful events of the past night, to

bring back to him the power of speaking and reasoning clearly, for

slowly yet weightily he answered:

"As that heritage has done before, so it must do now. Must wait,

remain in abeyance. This is no time to prosecute your search. No sense

of justice on your part toward a distant kinsman can demand that you

should sacrifice your own life, at the least your liberty. Moreover,

remember, he or his descendants may not be here in Languedoc; may be

leagues away, in remote lands, for aught you know; even in your own

country, the home of the oppressed since James fell."

"They said at Geneva it was beyond all doubt that he who was rightly

the de Rochebazon came here."

"Grant that," the old man replied, calm now in face of the argument he

had to use, must use and drive home. "Grant that--that he came here.

Well, it is nigh half a century ago. Where may he not have gone to in

all that long passage of years? The Huguenots are everywhere--in

England, Germany, Scotland, the Americas, Switzerland, some even on

the far-off shores of the Cape of Good Hope. Why stay here seeking for

what is no better than a shadow, and at the risk of your own life?"

For a moment it seemed as if his argument was about to prevail.

Into Martin Ashurst's face there came a look telling of deep

reflection--reflection that brought with it an acknowledgment of the

force of the other's words. And, observing, Buscarlet pressed his

argument home.

"If alive, de Rochebazon never intends to claim what is his. If dead,

he has died and kept his secret well. While if living he knows not,

possibly, that those who were deemed the Prince and Princess de

Rochebazon have passed away, yet also he knew that for years they

usurped, although unwillingly, the place that was his, the vast

wealth. If you found him at last, even here, could you force him to

take back the heritage he renounced so long ago?"

Still the other answered not. What could he say? On his face was still

the look of perplexity that had been there since first the pastor

spoke. And again the latter went on:

"Moreover, granting even that--that--for his children's sake he would

return to the possession of his own, would emerge from the humble

position he has so long occupied--in France all Huguenots are humble

now, here in these mountains they are doubly so; few gentlemen of

France acknowledge themselves as such; all fear the court too much; if

you found him, if he consented, would he be allowed to return to what

is his proper place and position? You know the Romish Church which now

holds all in its hands that once was the de Rochebazon's. Will _that_

ever disgorge? Would De Maintenon allow it to do so? You have seen

her? Answer."

Even as Buscarlet mentioned that woman's name, Martin started. Yes, he

had seen her, and seeing, knew to what adamant he was opposed. Also he

recalled her words: "You may seek yet you will never find, or, finding

whom you seek, will never prevail." Remembered, too, the look of

confidence that had come into the livid face of the woman before him

and, as he remembered, wavered.

Was it imperative on him to do more than he had already done in

voluntarily renouncing all the wealth his aunt had put aside for him

during years of saving? Was he now to throw his life away in seeking

for a shadow, a chimera? For it was not beyond possibility, it was

indeed most probable, that to such a pass he might come.

At present he had committed no act which even the ruthless Baville, of

whom all in this portion of France spoke with bated breath--the

Intendant of the Province--could seize upon as a pretext for

hostilities to him. He had taken no part in the murder (or was it the

execution?) of the Abbé du Chaila; on the contrary, he had longed to

render help to the unfortunate wretch, though it had been beyond his

power to do so. But--but--if he should remain in the Cévennes, still

seeking for a man who, in sober truth, might for years have lain in

his grave or might be, if still alive, at the other end of the world,

was it certain that he would not perform some act which would place

him in Baville's grasp? And as a Protestant, even though it was never

known that he was an Englishman, and standing, consequently, in

hideous peril in France, what chance would there be of his salvation?

Almost, as he reflected thus, he began to think that, if only for a

time and until these troubles had blown over, he must abandon his

search for the last of the de Rochebazons. This tempest which had

arisen could not last long, he thought; Louis could soon quell these

turbulent mountaineers; then again he could take up his task.

"Come," he said to Buscarlet, sitting before him watching his eyes and

face to see what effect his words had on him, "come. At least I will

do nothing without due thought. Will not be foolhardy. Now eat, drink

something; it will restore you. Then after that some rest." Whereupon

he pointed to the table on which were still the remains of the last

night's little feast over which the poor old man had tried to make so

merry. "Here is some of your famous trout left," he said, struggling

to speak cheerfully, "and another bottle of the Crépi. Come, let us

refresh ourselves."

"I feel as though I shall never eat again," Buscarlet whispered.

"Never after the doings of the night--never! Oh, the horror of it, the

horror of it!"

"Still cheer up," the other said, uttering words of hope which he knew

could have but little likelihood of being verified, yet striving

thereby to soften the old man's mental agony. "This may be the end, as

it has been the beginning, on our--on the Protestant--side. When

Baville, the persecutor, hears that the harryings and the burnings and

the murders--for that was a murder we witnessed last night--are not to

be on his part alone, he may pause. Nay, even Louis, beset in every

way, at every frontier, his treasury drained, may himself give orders

to stop these persecutions."

But Buscarlet only shook his head significantly, doubtingly.

"With that woman at his side, by his elbow, never!" he exclaimed.

"Nay, nay, my son, he will not stop them. He is the Scourge of God;

sweeps before him all who love God. He will never stop them. If he

desired to do so, she would not let him."

By now it was full daylight. Over the pastor's little garden with its

quaint, old-time flowers, among them many a sweet Provence rose

opening to the morning sun, that sun's rays streamed down. Also they

knew that the villagers were awake, if they had slept at all. Already

they were calling to each other, while some of them gathered in small

groups and discussed the events of the past night. Also all asked what

would be the end of it.

"I can not sleep," Buscarlet said; "it is impossible. Let me go forth.

They are my people. I must be among them. Give them counsel. Oh, God

be thanked, there was not one of us in this hamlet who assisted in the

work."

And he went out feebly through the window, Martin making no attempt to

prevent him, since he knew any such attempt must be futile. Instead,

therefore, he walked by his side.

"Whence," he asked, "since none in the village took part in

the attack, did those men come? By their garb they are of the

mountains--goatherds, shepherds. Is it there the persecutions have

been most felt?"

"It is there," the other answered, "that those who have been most

persecuted have fled. We may not quit our unhappy country. Every port

is barred, every frontier road guarded. Where, therefore, should those

whose homes are desolate flee to, whose loved ones have been

slaughtered, where but to the mountains? There none can follow them

or, following, can not find. Those mountains are full of caverns made

by Nature, God-given as a last resort of the outcast and wretched."

They reached the open _place_ by the bridge as he finished speaking;

they stood outside the still burning remains of what had been Du

Chaila's house--the house seized by him from the man he had caused to

be hanged on the bridge, in front of the window from which the widow

and orphans looked daily until they too fled into the hills. Behind

the hedge over which grew the honeysuckle and convolvuli in such rich

profusion, the hedge on to which the doomed man had fallen, and on one

of the stakes of which his leg had been broken by the fall, they saw

his body lying. Near it also they observed other bodies which had been

dragged from the smouldering ruins, one being that of his valet,

another that of his man cook, a third that of an ecclesiastic named

Roux who had acted as his secretary. Also they learned that two

friends of the dead man, themselves missionaries back from Siam, had

been allowed to depart after being found hidden under a cartload of

straw.

"Are all of those others gone?" Buscarlet asked, turning his eyes away

from the sight behind the lodge.

"All are gone, _mon père_," a man answered from the crowd. "_Pardie!_

it is best we all go too. By to-night the dragoons who have escaped

will be back from Alais. It is but ten leagues, and he (Baville) is

there. Be sure more soldiers will come with them; we shall be put to

fire and sword. And for those who are not slain--that!" And the man

pointed to the post on the apex of the bridge on which the night lamp

hung still alight, since none had remembered this morning to put it

out; on which, too, other things of a more fearful nature had hung in

all their recollections.

"You hear?" Buscarlet whispered to Martin. "You hear?"

"Yes, I hear," the other replied, calmly as usual. Then asked, "Do you

flee with them?"

"Nay," the old man replied. "My place is here, by my church which I am

no longer permitted to enter--the church whose keys have been taken

from me after forty years. Yet I can not leave it."

"Nor I you. I stay too."

"God help us all!" the pastor said again, as he had said before, and

once more he wrung his hands. That his flock were going it was

impossible to doubt. They knew that henceforth Montvert was no abiding

place for them; that if they would not be ridden down or burned in

their beds, or hung as carrion on the bridge where when boys they had

played, or taken to the jails of Alais and Nîmes and Uzès, they must

go, and go at once. Later, perhaps, they might return, if it ever

pleased God to soften the hearts of their persecutors. But now, after

the doings of the night, this was no longer a home for them.

History repeats itself; also events in one part of the world resemble

those occurring in the other. Even as in the old times before them,

the people of God had fled into the deserts of the East to escape the

tyranny of Pharaoh and of Ahab, even as the Covenanters had fled into

the Pentland Hills, so now the Protestants of the Cévennes fled into

their mountains to escape the persecutions of him whom they called the

Scourge of God.

Peaceful, law-abiding men and women, asking only to be allowed to

worship their Maker in their own way, or, failing that, to depart for

other lands where they might do so unmolested, the refusal had turned

them at last into rebels, if not against the king, at least against

his local representatives--rebels who, having suffered long under the

cruelties of their persecutors, had now become cruel themselves.

For the torch of rebellion was lighted at last in all Languedoc, and

ere long it flamed fiercely. The "Holy War" had begun.