"Ah, what sorrow! May the good Lord support her under it!"

"Ay, and the many other women who are in similar case. Numbers of them are at this instant cowering in the cold and darkness in ditches and under hedges."

"Monsieur Laccassagne might well say he could hope for no rest on this side heaven," said my father, bitterly. "How can he rest, knowing that his excellent wife, accustomed to every comfort, is now an outcast for her faith—the faith which he has denied?"

"Well, I wish I could have brought you more cheerful news," said La Croissette, rising. "In truth, you need it, in this dismal hole, to keep up your spirits. Tell me, now, good sir, how long do you expect to be able, you and yours, to hold out?"

"Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof," said my father. "Thanks be to God, He does not require us to dwell on what may be in store for our chastening. He says explicitly, 'Take no thought for the morrow—the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Words how kind and how wise!"

This seemed to strike La Croissette a good deal. He remained in thought a few minutes, and then said, "Well, it is time I should take my leave. I respect you very much." Then, resuming his bantering tone, "Since you are so willing to hazard the disturbance which poor old Monsieur Laccassagne found it so hard to bear, I advise you to sleep day and night while you are here, and lay in a good stock of repose against the time when you will be deprived of it."

Stepping back again, just as he seemed going, he said, "You fancy yourselves very safe here; and, indeed, the dragoons unless with a guide to you, might possibly take some time to find you out; but depend on it, Les Arenes will be well searched some day—perhaps very soon; it is too well known as having been an old hiding-place. Every corner—this among the rest—is known to outcasts, many of them of bad reputation, who, for a morsel of bread, would give up St. Paul or St. Peter. All are not so, however, and those I am now among have a kind of the honor which exists among thieves. Do not depend too much on it, however."

And with this very unsatisfactory speech, he left us. My father, after brooding on what he had said for some time, knelt down, and was long in prayer: then he murmured, "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety." And I knew soon, by his breathing, that he had indeed found rest in sleep. For me, I could not close my eyes: the text that dwelt in my mind was, "My soul is among lions." I thought of Madame Laccassagne and the other poor women wandering in the fields, and pictured a thousand distressing circumstances. Our solitary oil-lamp was beginning to languish for want of trimming, and I thought, "What if it should leave us in darkness altogether, and we should never know when it is day?" and dwelt on the Egyptians in the plague of darkness, when none of them rose from his place for three days. I was so feverish that it seemed to me a darkness like that would madden me—I must dash my head against the wall, or do something desperate; and I thought of Jonah in the whale's belly, when the waters compassed him round about, and his soul fainted in that hideous darkness; and again it was "three days." Then I thought, "Why three days?" Was it because the Son of Man was three days in the heart of the earth? And shall we remain here in this subterranean darkness three days?

Just as the lamp seemed going out my loved mother stole out of the inner dungeon, and trimmed it; then noiselessly stole to my side, and, seeing my eyes open, smiled on me and kissed me, and then lay down beside my father. Oh, the peace, the security of her presence! I sank into dreamless sleep.

I was awakened by the most horrid noise I ever heard in my life. It seemed like the roar of a lion close to my ear, and I started up in wild affright, fancying myself a Christian prisoner about to be thrown to the wild beasts. All around was dark as pitch—the lamp had gone out! The frightful bellowing continued without intermission; and, besides, there were sobs and screams, brutal laughter and cursing. Dreadful moment! Presently a spark of light momentarily illumined our cell, and showed the anxious face of my mother, as she re-kindled the lamp, surrounded by the terrified children and girls, roused from their sleep by the hideous uproar.

"Oh, what is it?—what is it?" cried I. My mother's lips moved, but she could not make herself heard. Having succeeded in lighting the lamp, she came close to me, and said—

"They seem to have put one of the bulls of La Camargue into the adjoining den for the next bull-baiting, and to have lashed it to frenzy with their goads. The noise is terrific, but I do not suppose the animal can break loose."

La Croissette now appeared among us, suffocating with laughter. "Are you frightened out of your lives?" said he. "'Tis nothing."

"Nay, sir," said my mother, "'tis something, I think, to be raised up in the middle of the night by such a dreadful noise."

"Night? 'tis broad daylight! No wonder you were frightened. I can hardly hear myself speak; but I felt impelled to come and see how you took it. They have put an enormous bull in the adjoining den; and if you don't like his company, you will have to change your quarters, which I advise you to do at any rate; for the Basques who have him in charge are brutal fellows, whose jargon I don't understand. Ten to one they will discover you before the day's out; and then what will you do?"

"Truly, our case is hard," said my mother, looking wistfully at my father.

"It is so, my dear wife," replied he; "and I do not see my way clearly. Let us ask God to make it a little clearer to us."

La Croissette looked amazed when he saw the whole family kneel down, and made a movement to go, but paused at the entrance and looked back on us. Though the bellowing still continued, it was neither so loud nor so frequent; but still only snatches of my father's voice could be heard. But his very look and attitude was a prayer; and there were the two sweet sisters, with their clasped hands and bent heads, and the little ones crowded about my mother. Now and then such broken sentences were heard as—"Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another—Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance—The dead bodies of thy servants have they given to be meat unto the fowls of the air, and the flesh of thy saints to the beasts of the land—We are become an open shame to our enemies, and a very scorn to them that hate us. Return, O Lord! how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants—Oh, satisfy us with thy mercy, and that soon; so will we rejoice, and give thanks to thee all the days of our life—Make thy way plain before us, O Lord, because of our enemies."

I could not help furtively watching the workings of La Croissette's face as he listened to these words of the Psalmist, so appropriate and pathetic. He started as if shot when touched by some one behind; and the next instant M. Bourdinave stood among us.



CHAPTER VIII.

PERSECUTED, YET NOT FORSAKEN.

"My father!" exclaimed the girls, and flew into his arms. The next instant the bellowing recommenced.

"What is that?" cried M. Bourdinave, starting.

"One of the bulls intended for baiting," said my father.

"Ah, what a vicinity to find you in?" said M. Bourdinave.

"Better, my dear friend, than the captives of old had in this very dungeon. And now, what news? Where have you been?"

"I'd better go; I'm not wanted." muttered La Croissette, heard only by me, and then retiring.

"I bring the worst of news," returned M. Bourdinave, sitting down. "The Edict of Nantes is revoked."

"Ah!" and a general cry broke from us.

"What signifies it," said my mother, bitterly, "when already its provisions have been set at nought? Are we any the better for it?"

"We may be yet worse for losing it," said M. Bourdinave. "Every Reformed meeting-house in France is to be demolished; no private assemblages for devotional purposes are to be allowed on any pretext whatever. All Huguenot schools are to be suppressed; all children born of Huguenot parents to be baptized and educated as Catholics; all non-conforming ministers to quit the country within fifteen days, on pain of the galleys."

"Let us rise, my children," cried my father in great agitation, "and leave this country, which is no longer a mother to us, shaking the dust off our feet. Alas, what am I saying? Whither can we go?"

"To England," replied M. Bourdinave. "I have already taken measures for it."

"Heaven be praised!" cried we simultaneously.

"But it will be under circumstances of great hardship, difficulty, and danger."

"Never mind; we willingly encounter them. Yes, yes," said one after another.

"Have you the courage, my daughters?" looking earnestly at them.

Madeleine threw herself into his arms.

"I knew what your answer would be," said he, fondly kissing her; "but my little Gabrielle—"

"Oh, fear me not, father," cried Gabrielle, hastily. "Anything to get out of this horrid place. I believe I have seemed too impatient of it to those around me, but that was because inaction is always so trying to me."

"My love, you may yet be exposed to it. I have known one of our brethren put into a chest, with very few air-holes, and lowered into the hold of a merchant-vessel, with considerable roughness, where he was left many hours before he could be released."

Gabrielle changed color. "Never mind," said she, in a low voice, and pressing her father's hand. "What man has done man may do, though I am but a woman who say it."

"That's my brave girl!" fondly kissing her. "Well, my friends, if we can but get to Bordeaux, we shall escape; that is provided for. It was this which kept me from you so long. And what a return has been mine! I got no answers from you to my letters; I heard the persecution here was raging with fury; I came to snatch you from it, and found my home deserted, the factory burnt, the workmen scattered, no tidings of you to be found. At length I got news of you from one of the men, who told me of your retreat, and that he, under cover of night, brought you bread. We planned how to remove you hence to-night, but it must be in detachments. At a place agreed on there will be a small cart that will convey the children and perhaps their mother."

"I prefer walking," interposed my mother. "Jacques is unable to do so."

"Impossible! I am sure you have not the strength for it," said we all.

"Never fear," said she, stoutly.

"No, no; it must not be," said I.

"And you, my son?"

"I will undertake for him," said La Croissette, who, it now appeared, had been listening behind the doorway all this time.

"Who are you, my man?" said M. Bourdinave, in surprise and some distrust.

"An honest fellow, though I say it that shouldn't," was his answer. "I am one of those who deal in deeds more than words. I cannot patter Ave Marias with a Catholic, nor sing interminable psalms like a Huguenot, but neither can I endure the ways the Catholics are taking to compel the Huguenots to submission. I take my own way, d'ye see, and am fettered by nobody. No one would molest La Croissette the needle-seller, not even a dragoon. And I have learnt to esteem you all; I admire the young ladies, and respect the old lady and gentleman. Therefore, there's my hand; you may take it or not. 'Tis not over soft; but there's no blood on it, and it never took a bribe. Let those say so who can. And what I say next is this: Dr. Jameray has fallen sick, and I've undertaken to drive his little wagon, with the sign of the bleeding tooth, from hence to Montauban. As far as that I'll give my young friend here a cast, and he may thence easily take boat down the Garonne to Bordeaux. At least, if he cannot of himself, I'll manage it for him."

How grateful we were to the worthy La Croissette! Not one of us distrusted him in the least; at any rate, if M. Bourdinave did so at first, he was soon reassured by us, and took the honest fellow heartily by the hand. A good deal more was now said than I have space to recount or memory to recall. Indeed, my head was in a confused state, and I was conscious of little but of the tender pressure of dear Madeleine's hand, from whom I must so soon part.

We were to start as soon as night afforded us its friendly cover; but some hours of daylight remained. My father and M. Bourdinave had many business affairs to discuss, and Madeleine kept the children quiet, that they might not interrupt them. I never thought Gabrielle so pretty as now that she had spoken with resolution, and seemed strengthening herself to keep up to it. Nevertheless, we have no real strength of our own; it all comes from God; but He gives it to all who ask it faithfully. Madeleine whispered to me, "Let us pray that strength for her duty may be given her." I nodded and smiled.

Meanwhile my mother went out to the appointed place where, it seems, Raoul had daily placed a loaf. We, who were not in the secret, had much wondered where our bread came from, and how it lasted out. This time she returned with a large sausage as well; so we ate our meal with gladness and thankfulness of heart, La Croissette insisting on passing round his bottle, which, somehow, he always kept well filled. And had this man had a mind to betray us, how easily he might have done so! He overheard our plans, might have drugged our wine, and stretched us all powerless; might have told his comrades to make sport of us, and kept out of sight himself; or might openly have led the dragoons to our hiding-place with torches and weapons. Our blessed Lord had more reason, humanly speaking, to trust Judas, than we to trust La Croissette; but you see this man was honest; you could not have tempted him to sell us for thirty pieces of silver.

When he went forth, though, after supper, my mind misgave me for a while, thinking, "What if he be gone to betray us?" I wronged his worthy heart. So many people are worse than we think them, that it is a comfort when some prove better than we think them. Worthy La Croissette! I have thy tall, meagre form and lantern jaws now before me. Many a showy professor might be bettered by having as true a heart.

When he was gone, my father said, "Let us join once more in family worship, and then get a little sleep before our night-journey begins."

I think he and M. Bourdinave and the children actually did sleep, but not my mother or the girls. I certainly did not. My mother dressed and bandaged my wounded feet for the last time. They were healing, but too tender for walking or standing without injury to the newly-formed skin. Then she sat beside me, with looks of love, and was presently joined by Madeleine. We knew so well what was passing in each other's minds, that we did not need to say much. Then my father awoke, with all his faculties about him, looked at his watch, and said it was time to start. M. Bourdinave went out, and after what seemed to our impatience rather a long time, returned, and said Raoul reported unusual disturbance in the city, but that now all was ready. We took leave of one another, agreed on places of rendezvous (if we were ever enabled to reach them), and had a valedictory prayer. Still they did not like to go and leave me without La Croissette. At length he appeared, and, addressing my father, said:

"You had better avoid the precincts of your famous temple, La Calade: it has been completely demolished, and crowds are yet hanging about their beloved place of worship, regardless of danger, but the military will presently disperse them."

"Ah, what desecration!" exclaimed my mother.

"Keep your regrets for the sufferings of living people, my good lady," said La Croissette. "Stones have no feeling, and are not prone to revenge insult. 'Tis said, walls have ears. The walls of La Calade have, at all events, a tongue; for on the summit of the ruins lies a stone with these words on it, 'Lo, this is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!'"

Then addressing my father, he said. "The very fact of the public attention being drawn to this point makes other parts of the city comparatively deserted, and therefore favors your escape. Lose no time, I advise you, in availing yourselves of it."

We exchanged our last embraces in tears, and they went forth, he following them. I felt inexpressibly lonely and sad.

Just as I was beginning to get uneasy at his absence, and to think, "What if he should never come back?" he returned.

"They are safely off now," said he, "and little know what peril they have been in here. Another twelve hours, and they would all have been taken. Now, then, let us bestir ourselves, young man. They call you Jacques; but I shall call you Jean, after my younger brother."

Helped on by him, I hobbled along, though in pain. How chill, but how fresh and pleasant, felt the open air! It seemed the breath of life to me, and revived me like a potent medicine. There was a distant, sullen murmur in the city, but around us all was still. Above us were bright stars, but no moon.

At length we got among low dwellings, some of which had twinkling lights. We entered a dark, narrow passage, smelling powerfully of fried fish and onions. Some one from above said cautiously, "Who goes there?"

"La Croissette."

"Who else?"

"My brother Jean."

"Advance, brothers La Croissette."

We ascended a mean staircase and entered a room where we found a man and woman standing beside a large basket.

"Now get you into this," said La Croissette to me, "and we will lower you from the window. Stay, I will go first; it will give you confidence."

Twisting his long frame into the basket, he clasped his arms round his knees, and the others began to raise him by well-secured pulleys. The woman grew quite red in the face with the exertion of getting him over the window-ledge, and I own I trembled for him.

"All is right, he is safely down," said she, at length, and helped to pull up the basket. "Now, young man; you're not afraid?"

"Oh no; only don't let me down too fast."

"That must depend on how heavy you are. We can't keep dangling you between sky and earth all night. Come; you are not nearly as heavy as your brother. Adieu, mon cher; bon voyage!"

"Adieu, madame; mille remerciments."

I thought of St. Paul in the basket, and the two Israelitish spies. La Croissette eased my descent a good deal, by steadying the basket, and helped me out of it to our mutual satisfaction. It was then swiftly drawn up, and taken in.

"Thank heaven, we are safe!" said I. "That was very cleverly managed."

"Do you suppose it the first time?" said La Croissette. "Far from it, I can tell you. Many things are done in Nismes that the authorities know nothing of, for all their vigilance. Now we are fairly outside the city, and, with ordinary good luck, shall perform our night-journey in safety."

"With God's blessing we may," said I.

"Make that proviso with all my heart," said La Croissette. "some trust in Providence and some in luck. I have nothing to say against either. Now get into the cart."

He led the horse a little out of the shadow as he spoke, and helped me inside the little house on wheels, where I found a mattress that proved a most acceptable rest; and then we drove slowly and quietly off, and gradually got among fields and hedges.

"How are you getting on?" said La Croissette, at length. "Do you mind the shaking?"

"Oh," said I, "I have so many things on my mind that I take no thought for the body."

"All the better; though some say that pain of the mind is the worst to bear of the two."

"I have little doubt of it," said I, "though each are bad enough. But all I meant was that my mind is preoccupied and anxious, and prevents my noticing any mere discomforts; for I cannot say I am miserable."

"Indeed I think you ought not to be, for you have had an escape from that troubled city that many would rejoice at."

"Tell me truly; do you think I have actually escaped?"

"What know I? You have escaped from the evils behind; you may not escape from the evils before. Yesterday was cloudy, to-morrow may be rainy, the day after may be fine; none of us knows. At least there is a weather-prophet at Arles whom some of the fools believe in; but he broke his leg a little while ago, and his spirit of prophecy did not enable him to foresee that, therefore I doubt his knowing about the weather."

"There have always been those who dealt in lying signs and wonders," said I, "from the days of Moses, when the magicians feigned to change their rods into serpents, which of course they could not do really."

"They were clever at sleight-of-hand, I suppose," said La Croissette. "So is Doctor Jameray. He can do many wonderful things. I can do some of them myself. You see, some of his conjuring tricks require a second person, who must not be known for his assistant; so that when he sets out on his tours through the provinces, I generally do the same, and contrive to cross his path, as if by accident. Then we play off on a new set of people the tricks we have played twenty times before in other places."

"Then needle-selling is only a blind?" said I.

"I turn a little money by it; the more, that I am careful always to sell the best needles and pins. Thus I have acquired a name—the housewives trust me; I have a character to support. And my character supports me."

"A good character always does so in the long run," said I.

"Well, I don't know what to say about that. You are too young to have any authority of weight. It must be your father's wisdom, and I am not sure it will stand the test."

"I feel sure of it," said I.

'What, when you are this very moment a houseless wanderer, without having done any wrong? How does your good character support you now?"

"For example, it has secured me your good offices," said I. "You would not have given me this good turn if I had been a worthless villain."

"Well, perhaps not; supposing I had known you for such—though worthless villains often escape deserved punishment, and sometimes are very plausible, and pay very well. And sometimes not"—reflectively.

"You seem to remember a case in point," said I, smiling.

"Well, I do," said La Croissette. "There was a young lord who led a sad course, and nearly fell into the hands of justice. He had a dashing, off-hand manner, that made friends till he was found out for what he was; and partly because he talked me over, and partly for high pay, I smuggled him beyond the reach of his enemies. But the pay never came. He won't get me to help him another time."

"He'll miss the want of a good character in the long run, then," said I.

"Oh, he has done so already; he lies in prison now. But so do many of you Huguenots, who have done nothing amiss. It seems to me there is one event to the good and to the wicked."

"Oh no, do not believe it," said I. "In the first place, none of us are righteous; no, not one; our merits only comparative. Thus, there is something in every one of us to punish; and sometimes the Lord sees fit to chasten His best-loved servants so severely, that it is difficult to distinguish their chastisement from His judgments on the wicked."

"That comes to what I was saying," said La Croissette; "that there is but one event to the good and to the bad."

"It seems so, though it is not so," said I. "But don't you perceive in this a grand argument in favor of a future life?"

"I am no scholar, I;—you must explain it to me," said La Croissette.

"If the Lord lets his dear children fall into the same afflictions here as the rebellious and impenitent, it is because He knows that in the long run, it will be to their advantage rather than otherwise: that they will turn their trials to such good account as actually to be the better for them; and that their light affliction, which is but for a moment, will work for them a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. So that hereafter they shall look back on their present pains, not only with indifference but with thankfulness. But ah! where shall then the unrighteous and sinner appear?"

"You seem to have a natural gift for preaching," said La Croissette, after a pause. "Where will they appear, say you? Why, if our priests are to be believed, those of them, even the very worst, who have money enough to pay for masses and indulgences, may buy themselves off from purgatory, and shine in glory with the best."

"Does not that carry incredibility and absurdity on the very face of it?"

"It seems very hard on the poor man who can't buy himself off," said La Croissette. "You Huguenots, then, don't believe in it?"

"Most assuredly not. God accepts no prayers that do not spring from a lowly and contrite heart: and they may be offered by a poor man as well as a rich one."

"But does not a poor man's soul require those purgatorial fires?"

"Oh no, my dear La Croissette! The Son of God told of no purgatory—only of heaven and hell. And He was so truthful that He would not have told of a hell if there had not been one—nor have failed to tell of a purgatory if there had been one. The end would not have been commensurate with the means, had He laid down his life to save us from anything short of condign punishment, or to save us only incompletely. If there were a purgatory to endure at any rate, where would be the all-sufficiency of his sacrifice once offered?"

He bade us believe in him and be saved. He did not say, 'believe also in my mother, and my brethren, and my apostles, and ask them to ask me to save you.' He said, 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

"No! did he, though?" said La Croissette, suddenly checking his horse.

At the same moment, a woman sprang from the hedge and laid her hand on the shaft, saying:

"Good sir, save us! we perish!"

"What is the matter?" said he, starting.

"We are fugitives from Nismes; we were beaten, we were burnt, we were pillaged."

"My poor good woman, there are numbers in like case."

"But we starve," said she, bursting into tears. "My aged mother and my little ones."

"I am very sorry for you, but I am a poor man myself—here, take this trifle."

"Alas, we cannot eat money!" in a tone of such mournful reproach.

"No, true; it will buy a little bread—but there are no shops. Jean," in a lower voice to me, "I've a loaf in the cart, shall we part with it?"

"Give it to her by all means," said I.

Before he did so, he said to her, "True, you cannot eat money, but money will buy you bread in Nismes. Why not return there? The authorities are welcoming all that conform."

"Death rather than that!" said she, clasping her hands to her heart, and turning away.

"Stay, stay. Here is bread for you. It is all we have."

"Ah! bless—." She could say no more, but sobbed bitterly. La Croissette turned his face away.

"There are many of us, many!" sobbed she. "We shall so bless you. We will pray for you."

"Do so; do," said he, affecting composure, and whipping on.



CHAPTER IX.

CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.

The moon had now risen, and shone full on our road, which was completely exposed; but happily we met with no hindrance. The motion of the cart now made me very drowsy, and I fell into deep dreamless sleep. When I woke, feeling stiff and chilled, I wondered where I was. The cart had stopped, I was alone, the gray light of morning was forcing its way through the chinks of my little lodging-house, but the door was locked. I thought my position a curious one, and wondered whether La Croissette was going to give me up after all, to my enemies, but could not readily distrust a fellow apparently so kind-hearted. I lay still and listened to the sounds about me; the clucking of hens, gobbling of turkeys, stamping of horses, and lowing of calves, told me I was in a farm-yard. Then I heard voices, including that of La Croissette, and presently a sharp cry and then a laugh. By-and-by, the key turned in the lock and he looked in on me.

"So ho, you are awake after a famous long nap," said he. "Do you want your breakfast?"

"If I do, want must be my master," said I, returning his smile. "We gave away our only loaf."

"But what if I have earned another, and a good bowl of milk?" rejoined La Croissette, producing both as he spoke. "There, sit up and eat your fill; I've had my share in the house."

"Where are we?" said I, readily obeying his instructions.

"At a wayside farm-house, where the honest people have given my horse a good feed, and you and me a good breakfast."

"How did you earn it, then?"

"By pulling out a tooth for a great lubberly boy, whose cheek had swollen enormously with toothache. Did you not hear him cry out? You might almost have heard him from here to Nismes."

"Yes, I heard him cry and then laugh."

"Because he was so glad to have got rid of it."

"Can you draw teeth, then?"

"I never drew one before, but I went at it as if it was a regular thing with me."

"How could you venture?"

"Psha! it is good to show confidence; and every one must have a beginning. Which of us would let a doctor try his hand on us, if we knew it was for the first time?"

I smiled and shook my head at him, but said no more. When I had swallowed the delicious milk, he said,

"Now I will return the bowl, and bring out my horse. I told them I had a sick brother in the cart, recovering from a burning fever, or you would have had some visitors. To make doubly sure, I locked you up."

"Would not that have been enough without the other?" I said, grieved at his want of truth.

"No, I think not, and I'm not as particular as you are."

Presently we were driving off again, and for a mile or so in silence. Then La Croissette, looking back at me, said,

"There are certainly good people on both sides. That poor wretch to whom we gave the loaf was undoubtedly a good Huguenot; she would rather starve and die than abjure her faith. But here, again, are a family of Catholics, who are good, too, and believed every word I said, and liberally supplied my wants."

"Doubtless there are good people on both sides," said I; "and if the Catholics would believe it of us, we might yet live in peace and quietness together. We have not harmed them—it is they who harm us."

"For your good, they will tell you."

"They may tell us, but we cannot believe it. Their compulsions are not in the spirit of love."

La Croissette softly whistled, and presently talked of other things. By-and-by he said,

"Now we are coming to a town, and you shall see some fun."

"Will it be quite safe?"

"Safer than anything else. It is a fair-day; I shall drive straight into the market-place, blow my horn, and play the quack doctor. Nay, you shall be my accomplice and blow the horn. Let me put you in costume at once."

Saying which, he fished out a soiled scarlet cloak, gaily spangled, which he threw over my shoulders, produced a half-mask with an enormous red nose, with which he concealed the upper part of my face, covered my head with a Spanish hat and feather, and gave me a horn.

"Now blow as much as you like," said he; "be as brazen as your trumpet."

I laughed, and entered into the joke; no one would suspect me for a Huguenot.

La Croissette then disguised himself in Dr. Jameray's long black gown, and added a pair of green spectacles, which certainly heightened the effect. Having driven into the market-place, he placed a little table before him and spread it with boxes and phials, I blowing the horn from time to time in a way which he called quite original, and which speedily drew people about us. Then, with wonderful self-possession, he harangued them on the merits of his medicines. For instance, taking up a phial which contained a pink-colored fluid, he descanted on its virtues in this style:

"My friends, this small bottle contains a famous specific, for those who know how to use it prudently. When I say prudently, I mean that there are certain things it will do and others it will not. This remedy is for increasing the strength, improving the appetite, and clearing the head. Will it, therefore, set a broken arm or draw a tooth? Most certainly not. I can draw a tooth for you, if you like it (by-the-by, some think I have a gift that way, but self-praise is no recommendation); I can draw a tooth, I say, no matter with how many fangs; but this medicine cannot. Does it follow, then, that it will cure a cough or sore throat? Not at all. Here, if you like (taking up another bottle) is something that will, but what is that to the purpose? Will it cure sore eyes? No; or sprains? Far from it. No, no, my most excellent ladies and gentlemen, let us not form unreasonable expectations; day is not night; summer is not winter; nor is a horse-medicine a febrifuge. It is useless to assert such trash to sensible, well-informed people, Here is an opportunity, such as most of you may possibly never have again, of buying a most delightful and effectual medicine, sweet, not nauseous (strongly reminding one of cherry-brandy), gently exhilarating, and very difficult to be procured; indeed, I have only three small doses of it—three, did I say? I'm afraid I have only two—let me see—Oh, yes, here are three; and the price is merely nominal—"

The extreme frankness and moderation of this harangue of course met with great success; and purchasers speedily bought, not only his three pink bottles, but his green ones, his blue ones, his pills, his pomades, and his perfumed medicinal soaps that were to soften the skin, strengthen the joints, and promote longevity. After this, he sang a comic song of innumerable verses (with horn obligato) and delivered a discourse, in which he said there had never been more than three great men in the world, Louis the Fourteenth, Alexander the Great, and Hippocrates, the father of physic.

It was surprising to me how he carried on this game hour after hour, apparently without fatigue, and always to the delight of his audience, new-comers continually pressing around him, and old ones lingering in the distance with broad smiles on their faces. A little of it was well enough, but I thought that to be always at it must be harder work than the hardest handywork trade I knew. At last the day closed in, the people departed, we supplied ourselves with food, and departed like the rest.

"Now, then, have I not come off with flying colors?" said La Croissette, complacently.

"Assuredly you have: but you must be very tired."

"Tired as can be—you know I had no sleep last night—we are coming to a little thicket where we will roost for the night."

We had scarcely drawn up under the trees, which were thinning of leaves, when we heard a distant hollow sound gradually growing louder as it approached. "The dragoons," said La Croissette, in a low voice. "I trust we shall escape their notice."

They passed by like a whirlwind, taking the direction we had just left, and we congratulated ourselves on having quitted their path.

"These wretches, look you," said La Croissette, "know neither mercy nor justice; they know they are let loose on the country to do all the mischief they can, and if they find a Paradise, they leave it a howling wilderness."

Of this we had proof next day, when we came on their track, and found wretched women and children in tears and lamentations impossible for us to assuage: men that had been cudgelled within an inch of their lives, or hung up by their wrists or their heels till they swooned, lying on the ground uncared for and dying. Ah, what wickedness! and all under pretence of doing God service! I cannot dwell on the terrible scenes we saw in crossing the country. Sometimes La Croissette did some trifling act of kindness, but the evils demanded more potent remedies.

"This unfits me for my calling," said he, one day, as he scrambled into the cart and drove off. "How can one play the merry-andrew under such circumstances? What will become of these poor creatures as winter comes on, even if they can last till then? It is impossible they should all escape from the country—they will have to conform after all, and had they not better do so now?"

I replied, "It is written, 'Fear not, little flock; for it is the Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.'"

"The kingdom of France?"

"No, the kingdom of heaven."

"To whom were the words spoken?"

"To the early Christians, whose praise is in all the churches—whom the Catholics not only reverence but worship."

"Hum. Well, if they weathered such persecution as this, perhaps these may; but I could not stand it, I!—Do you know (with great awe) there are dungeons called Hippocrates' Sleeves, the walls of which slope like the inside of a funnel tapering to a point, so that those who are put inside them can neither lie, sit, nor stand? They are let down into them with cords, and drawn up every day to be whipped."

"And have any come forth alive from such places?"

"I grant you; but sometimes without teeth or hair."

"O, what glorious faith, to survive such a test!" exclaimed I.

"But some don't survive."

"O, what hallelujahs their freed spirits must sing as they find themselves suddenly released and soaring upward with myriads of rejoicing angels, to receive their welcome at the throne of God!"

"Jean, I never knew anything like you!" said La Croissette. "The worse the stories I tell you, the greater the triumph and exultation you cap them with."

I answered, "They overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death." Rev. xii. II.

"Do you think you could bear being put into a Hippocrates' Sleeve?"

"I am not called on to think what I could bear: only to bear what is put on me."

"Your father, every word! As the old cock crows, so does the young one. But after all, 'tis a fearful thing to lie at the mercy of those that can devise and carry out such tortures."

"It is written, 'I say unto you, my friends, Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear. Fear Him which after He hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear Him.'"

"You seem to have all the texts on this particular head at the tips of your fingers. Did you learn them for this particular purpose?"

"My dear mother used to repeat to me a text every night, and expect me to repeat it to her the next day."

"An excellent plan," said La Croissette, whipping his horse. And he hummed a tune.

When we reached Montauban, he said,

"I must now begin my old tricks, to earn a little money;" and he drew up in the market-place. But the people had been as heavily visited as at Nismes, and were in no mood for jesting. When he began to vend his nostrums, an old man of severe aspect held up his hand, and said:

"Peace, unfeeling man—you bring your senseless ribaldry to the wrong market. Here are only lamentations, and mourning, and woe."

"My good sir, one must live," said La Croisette.

"And how? tell me that!" retorted the old man, indignantly. "They that fed delicately are desolate in the streets; they that were clad in scarlet are cast on dunghills; the tongue of the suckling child cleaves to the roof of its mouth for thirst; the young children ask for bread, and no man giveth unto them."

Then, with a wail that was almost like a howl, he tore his hair and cried, "For this, for this mine eyes run down with water and mine eyelids take no rest. Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?"

"Jean, I cannot stand this," said La Croissette, as the old man hurried away. "All the people seem with broken hearts—it takes all spirit out of me. I cannot even hawk needles and pins among the starving—who would buy?"

I could only say, "How dreadful is this place! The Lord seems to have forsaken his sanctuary."

"Let us seek another place as soon as we can—"

"You forget: I am to be met here by an agent of my father's at La Boule d'Or."

"Ah, well, we will go thither."

When we drove into the inn-yard, however, we could hear unruly voices in the house, and feared we might fall into bad company. A man immediately came up to us, and said to me, in a low voice:

"Are you M. Jacques Bonneval?"

"I am. Are you Antoine Leroux?"

"Hist!—yes. There are ill-disposed people in the inn; you had better not go in-doors. Can you walk a little way?"

"Yes."

"Come with me, then."

"I must bid my companion farewell." Turning to La Croissette, I took his hand in both mine, and pressed it fervently, saying:

"My dear La Croissette, adieu. May God bless you in this world and the next. I wish I could make some return for your exceeding kindness, but, unfortunately, can give you nothing but my prayers."

"Pray say nothing of it," said he, cordially. "Your prayers are the very thing I should like to have, for, unfortunately, I am not good at them myself. As I pass a Calvary by the roadside I pull off my hat, in token of respect, you know, for what it represents; and had I had a bringing up like yours I might have had as pretty a turn for psalmody; but as the matter stands, why, you will be Jacques Bonneval, and I Bartholome La Croissette to the end of the chapter. As for what I have done for you, why, it's nothing! I was coming this way, at any rate, and I've given you a lift; that's all."

"You may make light of it, if you will," said I, "but I know you have continually run risks for me; and depend on it, I shall never forget you. Adieu, my friend."

"Farewell, then," said he, "and take my best wishes with you. I hope you will now slip safely out of the country, but a good piece of it remains before you yet. Nor are your feet in good condition for walking."

"That has been provided for," said Antoine. "As soon as we get to the waterside we shall find a boat awaiting us, which will carry us to Bordeaux."

"But you are some way from the water.'

"Yes, but I have a cart."

We then parted, La Croissette kissing me on both cheeks with the utmost kindness; and I turned away with Antoine. Looking round as we quitted the court, I had my last glimpse of his tall, meagre figure, as he stood with his hand on his hip, looking after me; and I thought how strange and disproportionate a return his kindness to me had been for mine to him, in lifting him up and saving him from a kicking horse on the way to Beaucaire. The whole scene at once started up before me—our family party in the wagon—the girls' blooming faces and gay dresses—the crowded road—the music—the bustle. Then my thoughts flew on to what followed—the humors of the fair—the crowded table at my uncle's—my betrothal to Madeleine. What a different future then seemed to lie before us to what awaited us now! Where was she? Should we meet soon? Might we not be separated for ever? I cannot tell how many thoughts like these passed through my mind as I limped after Antoine, who was himself somewhat awkward in his gait, like many of the silk-weavers from sitting so constantly at the loom.

Thus we passed through some of the by-ways of Montauban, and entered a small house.



CHAPTER X.

"MY NATIVE LAND, GOOD-NIGHT"

The room we entered was destitute of furniture and blackened with smoke. Heaps of broken fragments impeded our entrance and lay on the floor. A man sitting on the ground was restlessly taking up one piece after another, and laying them down again, muttering to himself, without noticing us.

"I know not why they should have done so," he said hurriedly; "the poor chairs and tables could not hurt. And, after all, when they hung me up I gave in, and kissed the cross made by their swords; and they knocked me about after that. If that was justice, I don't know what justice is. They hurt my wife, too, or she would not have shrieked out so. And her word always had been—'Hold out; pain may be borne; and they dare not kill us!' But when she saw them tie me up, she cried out, 'Oh, Pierre, Pierre, give in—give in!' So what was I to do? Answer me that."

"This poor fellow has lost his senses," said Antoine, softly. "Wait here a minute. I will soon return."

I stood where I was. It seemed to me from the charred remains that the furniture had been just broken up and then partially burnt. There was a great beam across the ceiling, with large iron hooks on which to hang bacon, onions, and such-like. From one of these hooks dangled a strong chain.

"They drew me up with that," said he, turning his dull eyes on me, and the next instant looking away. "They passed the chain under one of my armpits, and so suspended me; and then beat me. I was not going to stand that, you know. My wife ran away, calling on me to give in; so what could I do? Could I help it? Am I a renegade?"

I said, "Let us remember David's words—'Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great.' He did not say, 'for my sin is little—a very little one—the first I ever sinned;' but 'my sin is great;' and therefore have mercy on me. Say it after me. 'Have mercy on me, for my sin is great.'"

—"For my sin is great," repeated he, melting into tears. And again and again he repeated, weeping, "For my sin is great—my sin is great. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great."

"He also hath forgiven the wickedness of thy sin," said I. "Let us turn unto the Lord, for he will heal us, and not be angry with us for ever."

Antoine drew me away. We left the poor man in tears, and went into the yard, where stood a cart, with a sorry horse in it, and a heap of loose fagots and pieces of broken furniture beside it.

"Get you in here, sir, and lie down," said he. "I will pile the wood over you as lightly as I can."

I did as he desired. He bestowed the wood over me as carefully as he could, and then led the horse out.

"Whither away?" said somebody, passing.

"To dispose of this rubbish," said he, carelessly. "Poor Pierre's chattels have been reduced to mere firewood. If a trifle can be got for them, it may buy him bread."

I thought of the two messengers to King David, whom a woman concealed in a well at Bahurim, spreading a covering over the well's mouth, and spreading ground corn thereon. I was startled when the man said,

"I have a mind to buy it of you: it will do to heat my oven."

"But this load is engaged already," said Antoine.

"Why did you not say so at first? You said you were going to see if you could get a trifle for it."

"I confess I expressed myself badly. My poor brother's sad state has bewildered me. Go you, and look in on him, and see what a pitiable object he is."

"Well, I think I will. What is the value of this load, as it stands?"

Antoine seemed so disposed to haggle for it that I confess I quaked; however, he set such a high value on it that the other demurred.

Happily we got out of the town without further molestation. I was very much cramped, but that was no matter. The church-bells began to ring; and Antoine said, in a low voice, "How pitiable are the poor people who are now going to vespers on compulsion! Where will all this end? Can it be that he who now goeth forth weeping, and bearing good seed, shall return again in joy, bringing his sheaves with him?"

I said, "The Lord's hand is not straitened, that he cannot save. What is impossible with man is possible with God."

"Oh that we may live to see it, sir."

We came up with a wagon, with the driver of which Antoine fell into conversation for some time, but what they said I could not well hear. At length we reached the water-side, at a landing-place where a boat laden with kitchen stuff was awaiting us. Here Antoine saw me safely placed in charge of the boatman, who bade me never fear, for he would safely carry me to Bordeaux. We pushed off: the moon shone cold and bright; the air on the river felt fresh and chill. The boatman threw a warm covering on me, bade me sleep, and began a monotonous boat-song. I soon slept.

When I awoke it was late in the morning, for the bright October sun overhead was making the rapid Garonne quiver in a sheen of golden light. I found we had made good progress, and were not many hours from our destination. I found it inexpressibly pleasant to float down that bright river, as it carried me to new scenes, which love, hope, and inexperience painted in pleasing colors. My feet were sufficiently painful for me to be glad to lie idly among the piles of cabbages and while the time in day-dreams. Aged confessors might go forth sighing, "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" but to the young and buoyant, change of occupation and foreign travel have great allurement, even when rudely come by.

The boatman seemed an honest poor fellow. Sometimes he exchanged greetings and jokes with other boatmen; sometimes he sang snatches of plaintive songs, such as

"N'erount tres freres N'erount tres freres N'haut qu'une soeur a marida:"

for his mother was from Languedoc. At other times he talked to me quietly.

"Yours seems a contented, merry life, said I.

"Well, I make it so," said he. "Where is the good of picking up troubles? they come sure enough. Once I was foolish enough to think 'What a poor lot is this, to be pulling a market-boat up and down stream, with greens for the seafaring men, while others go riding on horseback or in carriages, wear fine clothes, feast every day, and go to theatres at night.' But when the dragoons came I was thankful to be what I was. Did you hear what happened to Collette at our place? Collette was the prettiest girl of our village, and a good girl, but a thought too vain. Perhaps it is too much to expect a woman not to be vain when she is pretty, but all are not. Collette's skin was like lilies and roses. When the dragoons were let loose on us they burnt her father's furniture, and beat him within an inch of his life. They asked Collette if she would go to mass: she said, 'I will not.' They pulled her hair, beat her, pinched her, but she only said the more, 'I will not.' Then a dragoon said, 'This girl is too pert, her conceit must be lowered a little.' And he took a comb off her toilette, and drew it down her face two or three times, quite hard, till it was scratched and scored all over. Conceive how the poor thing was cut up! She burst into tears, and said, 'Take me to a convent; I don't care where I go now, so that I am not seen. I shall never be worth looking at again.'"

"But what an unworthy motive for an unworthy act!" cried I.

"But only think how she was goaded to it!" said he. "Women think so much of their looks. I am told the dragoons have tried that trick with many ladies of quality."

"If they deserved the name of men they would be ashamed of it."

"Well, I think so too; but see how they treat the men! Have you seen a chain of galley-slaves on their way to Marseilles? Certainly no treatment can be too bad for the infamous, but that nobles and gentlemen should be fettered along with felons, forgers, murderers, and such-like—ah, 'tis too bad!"[1]...

[Footnote 1: See "Autobiography of a French Protestant." Religious Tract Society. A thrilling narrative, of which the Quarterly Review says:—"The facts are more interesting than fiction, and the incidents not less strange."]

"But now we come to Bordeaux," said he, at length; and in fact, the increase of traffic on the water was sufficient of itself to tell us that we were approaching an important commercial city, while in the distance were seen the masts of ships of many nations. Nearer at hand the richly-wooded heights were studded with the country seats of opulent merchants, many of whom either were Huguenots or had made their fortunes by Huguenots. It was to be supposed, therefore, that we had many friends here; and, indeed, many were favoring our escape as much as they could without compromising themselves; but such jealous watch was being kept on the port that this was extremely difficult. Soon my companion ran his boat in between two others similarly laden—as far as vegetables when, that is, for I know not they held any fugitives; and a great war of words ensued, in which it was difficult to know whether they were really quarrelling or not.

At length I got ashore, and found my way to the counting-house of my father's correspondent, Monsieur Bort. He was a very business-looking man, with a short, hard, dry way of speaking. I found him immersed in his books. Directly he saw me, he said, abruptly.

"You are young Bonneval. You come too late. The others are gone."

"Oh" And I dropped into a seat, quite stunned by this reverse.

"Mais que voulez-vous?" said he. "They could not wait. The opportunity would have been lost."

"Are they really off, and safe?"

"Off they are, but whether safe—." He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. However, seeing my chagrin, he added, "I imagine they are in the river Thames by this time."

"Do you mean they are ascending the river to London?"

"Precisely. It may not be so, but we may hope the best. And you?"—eyeing me inquiringly.

"What am I to do, sir? Did my father leave me no word of direction?"

"He left you his blessing, and bade you be a good boy, and submit yourself to my direction."

"That I will gladly do, if you will direct me."

"Well, I am pledged to do the best I can for you. But, unhappily, the surveillance is now so strict that I know not how to smuggle you on board."

"In a box—in a cask," said I, desperately.

"Have you really courage to be packed in that manner?"

"Yes, if there is no alternative."

"Come, you are un brave garcon! I respect you for your resolution. There is a vessel of mine being loaded now, and if you will really go on board in such a way as you propose I think we can manage it, and your durance will not last more than a few hours. You will be a Regulus without the nails."

Smiling grimly at this allusion, he went out, and left me to meditate on what lay before me. It was not pleasant, certainly; but then the incentive was so great!—to join all whom I held dear, in a free land! The light affliction would be but for a moment.

Monsieur Bort returned. "All is arranged," said he complacently. "I have taken the porter who will roll you into the secret. He promises to be as careful of you as he can. An officer on board is likewise in my confidence: he engages you shall be released as soon as the vessel is fairly under weigh. So take heart; it will be but a short trial compared with what many Huguenots are put to. Take this money and these papers—"

After some business directions he accompanied me to the warehouse, where the cask awaited me, with some hay to soften my journey in it.

"You are a pipe of Bordeaux, going as a present to my particular friend in London," said he, smiling. "Now, behave yourself as a good pipe of wine should; and don't cry out even if you are hurt. See, there are some air-holes. You won't stifle."

"They are very small—"

"How can that be helped? Who would have doors and windows in a wine-cask? You will get on board alive, will be released when well to sea, and must not mind a little discomfort."

We shook hands, and I stepped in and settled myself as well as I could, with my mouth close to one of the air-holes; and the cask was closed upon me. The next minute I was rolled slowly off; and a most odd sensation it was! I advise you to try it, if you would like something perfectly new; but have bigger air-holes if you can; and even then let your experiment be short.

I verily believe the porter did his best for me; but how slowly he rolled: and even then what bumps and jolts I had when we came to uneven ground! Now and then he stopped, to wipe his face and rest, seemingly—then on we trundled again Meanwhile I was getting exceedingly hot; all the blood in my body seemed mounting into my head: and unpleasant ideas of smothering obtruded themselves. The noises around me told me we were on the wharf; then the jolting and bumping became worse than before: I fancied I could tell we passed up a sloping plank and were on shipboard. Then, without the least warning, I was rolled over and over, and then set upon my head! but a loud cry outside drowned a smothered cry within; and I was placed in a horizontal position again, with feelings impossible to describe.

I think I became sleepy after that; or else in a painless state of insensibility. When I woke I was numb all over, and had to rub my dazzled eyes as the bright daylight broke in on them.

"He seems to like his quarters so well as to have no mind to turn out," said a rough voice.

"He wants assistance," said some one, in a kinder tone; and a handsome, frank-looking man laid hold of my arm, and helped me to rise. Above me were the sails and cordage of a ship; all around me the sparkling blue waves, leaping in freedom. I clasped my hands, and raised them to heaven.

"You do well to give thanks where thanks are due," said the mate. "Now come into the cabin."

Seeing me stagger, he took me by the arm, and kindly assisted me into the presence of the captain, saying, "Here is one of the noble army of martyrs."

The captain gave me a most kind reception, made me dine with him, and asked me a great many questions. He then told me many moving stories of other Huguenots who had escaped or tried to escape to England; and he related such instances of the kindness of the English to the fugitives that my heart warmed towards them with gratitude and hope.

After this I suffered much from seasickness, and lay two or three days in my cot, where we were buffeted of the winds, and tossed. We were chased by a strange ship, and had to put on all the sail we could to escape being overhauled; and this led to our being driven out of our course; so that, what with one thing and another, we we did not reach Gravesend till the 8th of November. Then the captain went ashore with his ship's papers, and, after transacting business, started for London, and took me with him.

What a day it was for forming one's first impressions of that much-longed-for capital! There was a thick November fog, through which street-lamps sent an imperfect light; and shops were lighted up with candles. Vehicles ran against one another in the streets, in spite of link-boys darting between the horses, fearless of danger, and scattering sparks from their fiery torches. The noise, the unknown language, the strange streets and lanes bewildered me. The captain called a hackney-coach, and in this we made our way to Fenchurch street, where lived his shipping agent, Mr. Smith. We went upstairs to his counting-house, and found him talking to some one, who turned round as we entered.

I exclaimed "Oh, my father!" and precipitated myself into his arms. He embraced me with transport.

"Where is my mother? Where is Madeline?"

"Safe and well, at the country-house of our esteemed friend Mr. Smith. Thither I will speedily take you, my dear boy. I came here to gather tidings of you."

"How long it seems since we lost sight of one another!"

"Long, indeed! And how much we have to tell each other! But we are in smooth water now. In this free, happy land people are no longer persecuted for their faith. We must begin the world again, my son; but what does that signify? You have youth and energy; I have experience and patience."

The captain and Mr. Smith looked on with sympathy at our mutual felicitations. Soon I was with my father in a stage-coach on our way to Walthamstow. There, in an old-fashioned red-brick mansion, I found my mother, brothers and sisters, my Madeleine, and Gabrielle. What joy! What affection!

In short, we were all, without one exception, among the four hundred thousand persons who forsook France rather than renounce their faith. Of that number, a very great many perished of famine, hardships, and fatigue; but we were among the many who safely reached this hospitable country and commenced life anew. Many of us settled without the city walls in the open ground of Spital Fields, which we gradually covered with houses and silk-factories. Here we spoke our own language, sang our own songs, had our own places of worship, and built our dwellings in the old French style, with porticoes and seats at the doors, where our old men sat and smoked on summer evenings, and conversed with one another in their own tongue.

At first our starving refugees were relieved by a Parliamentary grant of L15,000 a year; but, God prospering our industry our trade went on steadily increasing till that, now, in 1713, three hundred thousand of us are maintained by it in England. And many others of us in friendly countries abroad, where we have been driven. Prosperity to those among whom we have settled has followed. The native land that cast us forth has been impoverished. Happy are the people whom the Lord hath blessed. Yea, happy are they who have the Lord for their God.

THE END