Chapter II

In Superstition’s ancient pile,
Where monks their beads were telling,
Where, through the dimly lighted aisle,
The midnight chant was swelling;

E’en there for happiness I sought,
I wept, and prayed, and fasted,
I sought her, but I found her not;
Prayers — penance — tears were wasted.

ANON.

THE monk, whom we have described in our former chapter, when he met the three exiled Vaudois on the pass of the Col de la Croix, was prosecuting his journey to Rome on some business relative to his monastery; as well as in order to be present at one of the great annual festivals, and purchase for himself a plenary indulgence from the crimes of his youth — the darkest of which, had left its stain on the domestic hearth of the very man, whose eyes, by a mysterious providence, he had now been permitted to close in death. The events, however, already related, determined him at once to abandon his expedition. The business he had undertaken was not so important as to render his personal presence indispensable — and he resolved to entrust its execution to his companion, of whose character he had seen sufficient, during their short acquaintance, to make him long for nothing more eagerly, than a favourable opportunity of dispensing with his services.

Having received directions as to his duty, and having his pockets replenished with some pieces of gold, which elicited from him the promise of the strictest secrecy with regard to what he had that night witnessed, Alart Besson set out on his journey, not by any means regretting the absence of his superior, whose austere habits and rigid sanctity, had imposed somewhat more restraint on his dissolute manners than he often could have desired; a full pocket, and the prospect of giving ample scope to his licentiousness, made the present appear to Alart, the happiest, as it was, at least to other two of the party, the saddest hour that had ever dawned on them.

The young Vaudois, and their deceased parent, in selecting this mountain pass for their flight, had done so, if not in ignorance of the persecution itself, at least of the extent of it in the neighbouring valleys of Dauphiny. They had anticipated, at all events, finding a temporary home among their friends in the rocky wilds of St Veran or Dormilleuse; after which they might either return to their native valleys, if the storm had by that time blown over, or else prolong their journey to the Protestant cantons of Switzerland. The providential interposition of the monk, snatched them from certain destruction. The flames of persecution were lighted up in every hamlet, troops were stationed at every mountain pass, and death was the only tribute which they would accept at the hands of a Vaudois. Their kind benefactor warned them, that it would be two wearisome days’ journey ere he could bring them to a place of permanent safety; he imposed on them the strictest silence during the progress of their route, and requested that all questions that might be addressed to them, should be answered solely through himself.

It was about one o’clock in the morning, when the monk, mounted on one of the mules, and his young charge sharing the other, set out upon their route. These faithful animals had fortunately benefited more than their burdens by their few hours of repose. In anticipation of their long journey, the monk had taken care to distribute among them,, before parting, a goodly share of the provisions he had brought with him for his own use.

They gave ample proof that they were no strangers either to precipitous paths, or unmerciful loads; and with the help of a bright moon, a starry sky, and the reflection from the snow, which made it almost as clear as day, they had surmounted the summit of the Col, ere the sun’s earliest beams were tinging the eastern horizon.

We shall not follow the little cavalcade through their long and arduous route, or relate the various times, in which detection appeared inevitable. On one occasion particularly, they were within an hairVbreadth of sharing the fate of their unhappy countrymen. As they passed the entrance to the valley of the Guil, under the frowning battlements of Chateau Queyras, they beheld its portals surmounted with the heads of some wretched Protestants, who had been massacred in cold blood. The headless trunks were piled up in heaps on either side, and hundreds were lifting up their shrieks and groans to Heaven in dread anticipation of a like horrible tragedy awaiting them. Alice, as she cast her eyes on the ghastly spectacle, thought she beheld among the crowd of victims, one of those whom, from childhood, she had numbered among her dearest friends. “Father!” she cried out, uttering a wild shriek, and utterly forgetting where she was, “there is! — there is!”

“Unhappy girl,” exclaimed the monk, “thou hast undone thyself and me too, with thy rash imprudence!”

“Ha! young damsel,” cried a soldier, at the same time seizing hold of the bridle of the mule on which the poor girl was seated, — “the tenderness of thy heart hath betrayed thee. Thy sympathies shall be brought presently into nearer proximity with their objects; we shall see whether there be not more blood in thy body than is now in thy cheeks, and we shall make this thy young kinsman, or lover, behind thee, thy executioner, and the body of thy palfry the block.”

“Hold! hold!” exclaimed father Bernard, now interposing, and struggling to assume a tone of authority, as the most effectual means of warding off the blow, which he thought would be inevitable.” But — I pardon thy folly — thou surely knowest not, that thou art putting thine unhallowed hands on the kinswoman of one of the most holy order of St Bruno? Methought thou wouldst have known the heart of woman better, than to suppose, that she could turn her eye towards these bloody trophies of your religious bigotry, without an inward shudder f

“Be it so, be it so,” retorted the hardened sentinel, again resuming his measured pace in front of the arena of slaughter; while, at the same time, the monk beckoned to Herbert to quicken the pace of his patient animal.

Father Bernard, after frequently and devoutly crossing himself, was absorbed for some minutes in offering thanks to his patron and to Heaven, for their deliverance from the jaws of death. He gently reproved Alice for her imprudence; and having received a faithful promise of obedience for the future, they entered the dark and gloomy defile, which is watered by the torrent of the Gruil. In this savage mountain pass, one of the wildest in Europe, the waters of the furious stream frequently occupy its entire breadth, and gigantic precipices frown in terror above the head of the traveller. At every turn, the three fugitives encountered a band of armed troops to dispute their passage; and the sacred attire of the monk was often no safeguard against their rude and imperious scrutiny. It was evening ere they emerged from the thick forest which skirts the mouth of the gorge, and the moon had again risen in her silvery glory, when they found themselves passing the entrance to the Protestant valley of Fressiniere, where a handful of Protestants had for ages contended for their religious liberties; and, from the summits of inaccessible precipices, on which they erected their hamlets, had hurled defiance on armies which had left the trophies of conquest on a thousand fields! At that very moment, the indomitable mountaineers had erected their standard among the huts of Dormilleuse, — a collection of wretched cottages, perched on the top of an inhospitable cliff, which nature seemed never to have intended but as a home for the vulture or the chamois. Here, with no other bulwarks but their native rocks, and no other ammunition but the masses of stone which were scattered on the summit, these peasant patriots were mocking the efforts of the mailed legions of France. The pieces of artillery which had lately scattered in the dust some of the proudest citadels of the plain, were directed without effect on this munition of rocks, — which, like the truth for which its inhabitants were so nobly contending was impregnable !*

We shall not attempt to follow the fugitives through the remainder of their journey, — the dawn of morning found them under the castellated battlements of Brian9on, — and it was twelve o”1 clock the following night, ere Father Bernard made known to his wearied charge the cheering tidings, that they were now approaching the end of their journey. For several hours they had been winding their way up a narrow and sequestered glen, — the moonbeams were playing on the beetling cliffs that rose majestically on either side, — and a gurgling stream murmured in the depths below; half an hour of farther ascent brought them into a hollow, surrounded by a vast amphi-

* See Appendix, Note B.

theatre of precipitous mountains, in the centre of which the pale moonlight disclosed the solitary towers of the Grande Chartreuse. This lonely spot, selected by Bruno, a monk of the twelfth century, as being the farthest remote from any human habitation, is the original convent of the Carthusian order, and to the present hour presents a combination of scenery, if not unequalled, at least unsurpassed, by any in Europe. Many aged Fathers of the Romish faith have, for seven centuries, devoted themselves within these desolate walls, to fasting, meditation, and prayer; conceiving that these inaccessible wilds, apart from the din and bustle of life, are more favourable for their intercourse with Deity. The wild fruits of their native forests, — lettuce, bread, dried figs, and water, — form their scanty fare; while nights of penance and fasting, coupled with the inclemencies of the winter, rarely permit them to live to a very advanced age. Though thus isolated from their fellow men, and the victims of a gloomy fanaticism, many a weary traveller, who has been struggling amid the winter snows, can bear testimony to the hospitality of the solitaries, and acquit those devout, though erring enthusiasts, of the charge of misanthropy.

As the monk and his attendants approached the gloomy abode, many lights were seen in the centre window of the building. The sound of voices came floating down the valley, and broke the death-like stillness of the midnight hour. “Hark,” said Father Bernard, “the holy fraternity are still busied with their vespers, — let us hasten to the gate ere the service be concluded, that we may not have again to rouse the brethren from their cells at this unseasonable hour. Alice, my child,” continued he, “by the rules of our holy order, thou wilt not be permitted to enter the same walls with Herbert and myself, — but I can entrust thee with confidence to the faithful lady who resides in yonder adjoining building, and who has devoted her life to Heaven, and the reception of unhappy wanderers like thyself.”

Alice nodded a grateful assent to her kind conductor, — as she had arrived at that condition of fatigue which, even had she apprehended danger from a separation from Herbert, left her no power to refuse. The monk, before demanding admittance, again imposed on both the strictest silence and secrecy with regard to their own history and religion, and the other mysterious events of the three preceding days. He gently tapped at the door.

“Who seeks admittance at this silent hour T’ demanded a voice from within; “let him speak, be he friend or foe.”

“Father Bernard, holy lady, hath brought, to entrust to thy keeping, an unhappy orphan, who stands much in need of rest and comfort.”

“The door of the order of St Bruno was never yet closed against the fatherless and the stranger, — nor shall it be so now,” replied the same voice, — the massive portal meanwhile opening, and disclosing an aged matron, with a black cowl overshadowing her face, and an ebony crucifix, with beads, suspended from her neck. “Welcome, welcome, my child,” said the aged nun; “thy face betrays furrows of sorrow, that would become better the wrinkles of this aged cheek, — and that eye speaks a tale of woe, which makes me love thee, ere I have heard thy voice. Come in, come in, and I will lay thy head on a softer pillow than, methinks, it has had for days that are past.”

The monk, having whispered some private directions into the ear of his holy sister, bade Alice ;i good night,” committing her to the keeping of the good Shepherd of Israel; and, accompanied by Herbert, made his way in silence a few hundred yards farther on, to the gate of the monastery.

At the sound of a large iron knocker, a footstep was heard approaching; and a stern voice demanded “who it was that dared to disturb the holy order of St Bruno at such an untimely hour 2”

“It is thy brother Bernard, holy keeper, that intrudes on thy midnight vigils.”

“What! Brother Bernard f exclaimed the astonished warder. “This portends no good; either accident or miracle must have brought thee hither.”

“Thou doubtless didst not expect so speedy a return from my pilgrimage; but, I prythee, open, and I will tell thee the cause.”

After the withdrawment of many a bolt, and the use of many keys, the massive door turned on its hinges, and disclosed a reverend father, with a beard white as snow, and a dim lantern in his hand. “Welcome, welcome, holy brother,” said he; “welcome back from the vanities of the world, to our holy solitude. But who is this thou hast by thy side? His face tells me he hath had fully as long a journey, and stands as much in need of repose as thyself.”

“This orphan boy, whom, with his sister, I found perishing beside their aged father, among the snows of the mountain, has been the cause of abandoning my purposed journey. Had it been nothing else, the charity of our holy religion would have determined me to extend to them an arm of protection; but there were other and weightier reasons, which rendered it imperative on me to provide for the safety of these hapless wanderers.”

The good father did not press his inquiries farther. The solitaries were wholly unconscious of the bloody tragedies that were transacting in the valleys around them; and, even had they known of them, they were not so under the influence of religious bigotry, as to deny to the destitute and fatherless, though of a hostile faith, a temporary shelter.

“See thou, I prythee, holy brother,” said Father Bernard, “to the safety of our mules, which, if I mistake not, stand in as much need of the comforts of a night’s lodging as their riders, — and hand over thy lantern to me, while I conduct this exhausted youth to share with me the shelter of my cell.” Herbert was forthwith conducted, by his attendant, first through a spacious outer court, on either side of which he could discern two rudely sculptured reservoirs, or fountains. An enormous crucifix surmounted the vestibule of the monastery, before which the monk knelt in passing, and muttered over a few devotions. They passed in solemn silence through a seemingly interminable labyrinth of passages, till at last they arrived at a low door, which the monk opened by means of a key which was suspended from his girdle.

“This,” said he, after closing it behind him, and securing it by an iron bolt, — “this is the place in which, for years, I have striven to wring out penitence, for my crimes, from this wasted body. See that worn pavement underneath the figure of the blessed Virgin, — often have these hollowed stones listened to thy father’s name and thine own, and been as wet with tears as was the grass with the dew which thou sawest to-night sparkling in the moonbeams! But, my child, thy couch of rest is more befitting, than to listen to the tale of a wretched sinner. Here is a bed for thee, — such as it is, thou art welcome to it; and I doubt not thy fatigues will not make thee fastidious.”

“But other considerations will,” replied Herbert. “I will not deprive thee, kind father, of thine own couch; thine age bespeaks that thou needest more of the comforts of life than one in the prime of youth.”

“Hush, hush, my son,” replied the monk, whose return to his cell had recalled all the gloomy recollections which the excitement of his journey had tended for a time to dissipate; “talk not of comforts to a man whose sins have doomed him to feed only on the bread of sorrow. Nay, nay; this body, for full seven years, hath never known any other couch save that damp straw in yonder recess, and no softer pillow than that rude stone; and these eyes have gazed on no other prospect save the fleecy clouds of heaven, which you see through yonder grated window, riding in the firmament! This night, ere this head can be pillowed on the bare earth, ye shall hear these walls reverberating the sound of the lash, whose thongs must be tripled to atone for the time during which I have intermitted my penance! Yes, continued he, putting additional knottings on the scourge that lay in an aperture of the wall; “hasten to thy slumbers, for of these, this night, there shall be none to the soul or body of Hubert Durand!” On uttering these words, he embraced Herbert, committing him to God; and opening a door at the inner corner of the cell, which led to a dismal anti-chamber, he left his young charge to meditate in silence on the strange vicissitudes, which, during the last three days, had befallen him. The feelings of Herbert Vin9on may be imagined, when he was thus left in gloomy solitude, to reflect on the sad revolution that had taken place in his history. Torn from the embrace of a kind father, — banished from the soil of his native valleys, — with no friend now but a monk, — no home but a cloister — two names which he had been taught from his cradle to dread, as standing associated with all that was most opposed to the faith of his forefathers. But he knew that the dying words of his parent, coupled with the affectionate kindness of his benefactor, were a sufficient guarantee for his safety; this, combined with his own manliness of disposition, banished from his mind every apprehension. On his bended knees he offered to the Grod of mercies the thanksgivings of a grateful heart, and earnest entreaties for a continuance of protection to himself and his beloved sister whom he loved as his own soul, and who, by their late common bereavement, seemed to be endeared to him by ties a thousand-fold holier and stronger than before. He plucked from his bosom the sweetest pledge and memorial of his departed father, — the companion of all his wanderings, — the soother of all his sorrows, — the sweetener of all his joys, — the fountain of all his peace — the precious volume that was soiled with the fingers of many a godly ancestor. The tear rolled down his cheek, as he turned to the words of comfort which the Apostle Paul administers to his Thessalonian converts; and which, from the tattered state of the leaf, had evidently before now imparted consolation to many a bereaved mourner: “But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not even as others which have no hope; for if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him,” &c. Having finished this sublime legacy of comfort to the afflicted Christian, he closed the book with its ancient silver clasps, and safely depositing it under his pillow, flung himself in bed, and in a few minutes his eyes were sealed in a happy forgetfulness of the bitterness and sorrows, the fears and apprehensions, the sufferings and trials, of the three preceding days.

It was fully two hours after the sun had climbed the meridian, ere Herbert opened his eyes once more on his cell and his sorrows. The full blaze of the orb of day was streaming through the barred window, and disclosed more fully than the previous night had done, the rigid austerity which was written on every part of his present abode. Its only furniture was a table, a basin of holy water, and a crucifix; whilst a ghastly representation of the horrors of purgatory was rudely delineated above the couch of the ascetic. Herbert, on listening, heard the sound of something resembling heavy blows at measured intervals, proceeding from the adjoining cell. This he was at no difficulty in concluding to be the unhappy man undergoing those self-imposed severities, which the fatigues of the preceding evening had obliged him to forego. “Holy father,” cried Herbert, no longer able to restrain himself, and approaching towards the door by which he had seen him enter on the preceding night, — “holy father, if thou hast no pity on thyself, have compassion on the poor orphan whom Providence hath cast on thee; for if thou art resolved not to suspend thy self-tormenting penances, till thou hast driven thy spirit from its earthly tabernacle, what remains for the desolate ones thou wilt leave behind thee, but to be driven forth from this shelter to perish unpitied in the howling wilderness?”

“Peace, peace, my child,” responded the unhappy man; “disturb me not in my needful vocation, — my time is not yet finished, — the sun has yet another hour to travel in the firmament ere this penance can be concluded. I prythee interrupt me not, for in so doing, thou wilt only prolong what thou wouldst fain shorten.”

Herbert saw there was nothing left but to obey; he occupied the interval in again unclasping his sacred treasure, and found in that blessed directory another and far different peace to his soul, and a surer antidote to a troubled conscience, than the deluded ascetic was seeking in the torturings of the flesh.

The monk, when he had completed his hours of penance, entered the cell where the orphan boy still continued drinking from the sweetest fountain of consolation he had met with, since the hour which drove him from his native hamlet. “It is even so, it is even so,” muttered the austere man, in a sort of soliloquy, which was audible enough to reach the ears of Herbert, — “it is even so with youth! its grief is keen, but not permanent — like the airy bubbles of a stream, appearing for a moment, and then vanishing for ever! It was but yesterday that the tears were bursting from his eyes, as he thought on the melancholy fate of his aged parent; and this morning, a smile is seated on his lips, as he traverses the unhallowed pages of some profane author — some school-book he has brought along with him to chase away the hours of sadness!”

“Thou mistakest me, holy father,11 said Herbert, raising his eye from the sacred text; “if thou thinkest that forgetfulness of a beloved parent has summoned this smile to my countenance; or if thou thinkest a single night has effaced a sorrow, which nothing upon earth can remove. No; hadst thou known what volume this is, it would long ere now have chased the gloom from thy countenance also; and a peace, bright as heaven, would have lighted up the chambers of thy troubled soul.”

“It becomes not, my child,” said the monk, “the young and inexperienced to obtrude their follies on those who are midway on their earthly career, and more especially when these relate to what is most sacred. But, pardon me, my son; — I confess my error — I did thee injustice in charging thee with the fault of an unfeeling heart; but tell me, I prythee, what miraculous volume is this, which, like the alchemist’s touch, can transmute the basest metals into the purest, — can metamorphose hell into heaven?”

“It is the Bible, holy Father,” replied the artless youth; “the most precious memento that remains to me of the piety and worth of a beloved father!”

“The Bible!” exclaimed the monk, in suppressed astonishment; “I am somewhat anxious to glance at a book of which I have often heard, but never yet seen; but one, which, let me add, were it known to be within the walls of this monastery, would be given as fuel to the flames!”

“They might reduce its leaves,” said the boy, “to ashes, but no flames can ever possibly obliterate from my memory the precious lessons I have derived from it. It is from its pages I have learned the impossibility of atoning with the tortures of the body for the sin of the soul.”

“I will indulge thee, my child, a little in thy folly. Tell me now wherein lies thy patent receipt for peace to a guilty conscience here, and exemption from eternal torments hereafter, if it be not in keeping the body under subjection?”

“In the Cross of Christ,” replied Herbert, — “that cross which the votaries of thy creed have emblazoned on tower and cell, hall and minaret, but whose essential glories they know nothing of. Night after night thou retirest to thy cell of penance and blood, endeavouring to proclaim to thy spirit, with every stroke of the lash, ’ peace, peace,1 but has not the only response, thy bosom has ever yet yielded, been the galling confession — 4 there is no peace T whereas, the Bible tells, me, there is a peace in the blood of the Redeemer, of which all are alike warranted, and alike welcome to partake. You have only to ask that it may be given, — to put forth the hand of faith to grasp it, and that moment it may be yours!”

“Hush, hush, my child; thou art wasting thy strength in vain: tell, if thou list, these visionary dreams to others; but now thou speakest to a man who has crimes registered in heaven against him, which even a thousand nights of penance such as thou hast now witnessed, would be unable to blot out!”

“True, dear father, we are at one in our theology; and multiply thy thousand by ten thousand more, and thy guilt would be no nearer expiated than now, notwithstanding all thy austerities; but”

“Be silent, my child,” interrupted the ascetic; “thou art but mocking me. I know enough of the pangs of a guilty conscience, without needing to multiply their horrors. No, no, my son; if the spirit of Hubert Durand ever breathes the air of heaven, it will be by no easier road, than by a life of mortification here, and many a century of purgatory hereafter!”

“Thou mistakest me, kind father. Look here,” said Herbert, turning over the pages of his little volume, and reading the affecting death scene of the malefactor on the cross : —” Here was a man, who, until the hour that he stood on the brink of eternity, had never so much as wept one tear of penitence, or breathed one prayer for mercy. And yet he, who was denounced by a human tribunal, as too guilty to tread the soil of earth, was pronounced by his dying Lord, as not too guilty to tread the soil of heaven. He had only to breathe the prayer of faith, ‘Lord, remember me;’ and that day, that hour, he was with Jesus in paradise r

“Hush, my son; thou wouldst fain delude me with dreams of bliss, and visions of hope, that would know no fruition. I must bear the cross, ere I can wear the crown. Heaven is not the easy conquest thou suppose&t. The gate of paradise is flung open, to a spirit stained with such guilt as mine, only through the fires of purification. Nay, nay,” said he, rising, and a deeper cloud of agonizing remorse darkening his brow, “the vesper bell shall never find that scourge at rest, until the body it lacerates, be the tenant of a darker and gloomier mansion!”

With these words he left Herbert for a few minutes alone, to breathe a silent prayer to God, to guide this unhappy man in the way of peace. He soon returned, bearing in a wooden trencher some food to break his long fast, although sorrow and fatigue Had almost made him forget, that it was nearly twenty-four hours since he had taken any refreshment.

“Our monastery,” said the monk, “does not boast of the luxuries of life. The holy inmates seek no more than what is needful for the sustenance of the outer tabernacle, and give no countenance to the pampering of the flesh. But see that thou fortify thy stomach well for the fatigues of another journey, with such refreshment as we can offer, for by the rules of our holy order, it behoves that ye take your departure early on the morrow. Thy presence here is not altogether unattended with danger; but I have made arrangements to accompany thee and thy sister to the confines of Geneva, where ye will find hundreds of your fellow-exiles to bid you welcome, and open to you a kindlier door than ye have found at the Grande Chartreuse.”

“Talk not so, my generous benefactor,” said Herbert. “To thee we owe a debt of gratitude, which I trust this heart duly estimates, but which I feel it can never repay. But prythee, father, hast thou inquired how Alice has stood the fatigues of her journey; how has she slept 2”

“As well as thyself, boy,” answered he; “and has found in our holy sister, as I anticipated, more a mother than a stranger. Her sleep, however, has been disturbed with dreams of bloody effigies and apparitions. The scenes of the last week (I wonder not at it) have been haunting her brain: her shrieks and cries were distinctly heard by some of the holy fathers at their midnight prayers; and this, among other considerations, urges the necessity of your departure, as I dread lest these midnight frenzies should reveal secrets, which would make this night my last within these walls!”

He placed before Herbert a plate of goat’s flesh, some curd, a piece of coarse bread, some fruits gathered from the neighbouring mountains, lettuce and water. He scantily shared in the latter two with his young companion; and when the frugal meal was ended, he besought him to make an effort to obtain more repose, as it would be needful for their safety to depart that night, so soon as the vespers were concluded.

The kind father, having faithfully promised to return in due time, to rouse him for his journey, left him once more to the silence of his chamber, while he himself went to make the requisite preparations for their route.

“Alas!” said Herbert, as the door closed on his generous benefactor; “kind, but deluded friend; a heart overflowing with compassion, and deeply susceptible of sympathy, but, like the maniac in the tombs, going about ’ seeking rest, and finding none f looking amid the polluted streams of earth, the broken cisterns of nature, for what is to be found only at a nobler fountain. Oh, that I might be instrumental in guiding him to that peace, which he will search for in vain within the walls of this dungeon! But stay,” said he, springing from his couch — some pleasing idea flashing across his mind; “I shall venture on the experiment. Yes! it is to Heaven I owe the suggestion, and in Heavens strength I shall make the attempt, be the issue what it may, a judgment day only can reveal.” He put his hand in his cloak pocket, and drew forth a Bible — the earliest and most valued gift of his father, but which had now been superseded by one still dearer. This he resolved to conceal in some corner of the cell, and either leave it to God to discover it to its inmate, or else take an opportunity of apprizing him of the circumstance in the course of their journey. After searching, he found some rude writing materials, with which he wrote on the first leaf, a selection of passages which he thought most appropriate to the state of mind of his benefactor. He headed the list in larger characters than the rest, with that touchingly simple gospel antidote to the guilty soul, “the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,” and concluded with an earnest and affectionate exhortation, prayerfully to peruse its contents. Herbert hurried with this precious token of his gratitude to the couch where the monk slept. He placed the little volume under the bricks which he used for his pillow; and, scattering the straw into the same disordered condition in which he found it, committed his enterprise to Him “who turneth the heart of man, even as he turneth the rivers of water!”

It was eleven o’clock when the monk re-entered his cell, and found Herbert fast asleep. The boy started up at the sound of the good father’s voice. “It is still an hour,” said he, “ere we can leave. The midnight bell is only about to toll, but I called thee thus soon, that thou mightest, if thou please, accompany me to vespers. I will place thee where thy presence will not be discovered; and these midnight devotions may be profitable to thy soul, as I trust they will prove to mine, ere we ‘prosecute our journey.”

Herbert, four days ago, would have recoiled at the very idea of being an auditor in such a place; but he thought, at the present moment, a refusal would have betrayed a bigotry to his own opinions, which would have militated much against the success of the little scheme, which, a few hours ago, he had left in the hands of Providence,. Besides, he was curious to be the eye-witness of one of the ceremonials of the Romish church; and notwithstanding the mass of mummery and superstition which he was prepared to witness, he thought he could confide in the sincerity at least, of these pious, though deluded ascetics. Mustering courage, therefore, he gave his assent, and followed in silence the footsteps of his conductor. After ascending a flight of steps, he was led through a succession of long arched passages. In the centre of one of these, was a low door, by which the monk whispered to him to enter. “You will find,” said he, “a narrow trap stair, which will conduct you to a gallery overlooking the chapel; there, await my return at the termination of the service.”

Strange and thrilling were the sensations with which the boy seated himself alone in this solitary place. He could see nothing around him but the indistinct outline of massive arches, dimly shone upon by the moonbeams, which a cloudier sky, and thicker atmosphere, had shorn of much of the strength they had exhibited the preceding night. Seven or eight dim, sickly tapers, were burning at the upper end of the chapel, only sufficient to disclose a large gilded crucifix which surmounted the altar. Herbert sat motionless for many minutes, before a single breath disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned around him, and which would have led one to suppose it rather a place for the dead, than for living worshippers. At length, the low measured tones of the midnight bell, broke the silence of the hour. The door under the gallery opened, and the fathers assembled one by one. They first crossed themselves with the consecrated water, and after slowly pacing up the chapel with a dim lantern in their hands, sunk on their knees before the figure already mentioned — touching the cold pavement with their foreheads, and then returned each to his appropriated seat. This being done, they commenced chanting their vesper hymns; and from the mournful, lugubrious strains in which they uttered them, Herbert thought he could almost read the inward disquietude which reigned in the bosoms of the deluded votaries. An aged father stood in front of the altar, with a massive silver chain round his body, at the end of which was suspended a censer of incense, which he continued at stated intervals to wave before the object of adoration.

For a full hour the worshippers continued their mournful confessions. At length the convent bell gave one solitary toll, the signal of a new day, and of the close of their devotions. They rose, and paced in silent procession, like so many spectres, along the passage, towards the door by which they entered, and immediately all was again silent as death. In a few minutes, Herbert heard the voice of Father Bernard. “Haste thee, my child,” said he, “the mules wait us at the door, ready for our departure; speak not a word, but silently follow me.” So saying, they stole softly along the passage by which they had entered, and obtained a readier outlet at the convent gate than they had received admission.

Herbert found Alice already seated on the patient animal that had borne her so well through the previous part of her journey, and which pawed the ground, as if to assure his burden of his readiness for farther service, notwithstanding the fatigues of the past. Herbert had only time to press, first the hand of his dear sister, in token of his joy at being again at the side; and then that of the old lady who still held her bridle, whispering into her ear a heartfelt expression of gratitude for her kindness, when the little cavalcade was once more in motion.

After four days and a half of fatiguing journey through many a desolate glen, and across many a bleak and barren mountain path, where they encountered perils and difficulties which it would encroach on the sequel of our story to enumerate, the travellers had reached a gentle eminence, immediately under the rugged peaks of the Jura range, overlooking a panorama of wonders, to this day the admiration of every traveller. The mist, that had till now obscured the landscape, rose like a curtain from their feet — the glorious orb of day had risen high in the firmament, and was pouring a flood of glory over rock and meadow, plain and mountain — his rays seemed to have metamorphosed into molten gold the broad expanse of water which lay sleeping in unruffled stillness at their feet, and the beautiful villas that lined its banks were mirrored in a thousand reflections in the glassy waters. A magnificent Alp soared majestically in the distance above the rest of the landscape, and appeared to the eyes of Herbert and Alice, a giant to any of their native mountains, the guardian spirit of a scene which seemed rather to have been conjured up by the wand of an enchanter, than to wear the “sober livery” of nature. The bells of a cathedral, whose towers peeped above the valley below, were pealing their melodious chimes over this fairy domain; and when, a few steps farther on, they beheld the smoke and heard the distant hum of a busy city, they had no difficulty in discovering that they were about to enter the gates of lovely, Protestant GENEVA!

“Here we must stop,” said the monk; “safety forbids that I go farther — but ye will find hundreds within yonder gates, ready to welcome you, and to impart better counsels and abler assistance than a secluded monk. Farewell, then,” said he, the tear starting in his eye, “farewell; may the God of your fathers guide you in peace! I have an interest in your welfare, which you know not of; there is a tie which binds you to my soul, which is shared by no other who breathes the air of this polluted world.”

The grateful children embraced their kind deliverer, and loaded him with many assurances of the depth and sincerity of their gratitude. He was just about to leave, when Herbert once more addressed him. “Dear father,” said the boy, “thy kindness has indeed been like that of a parent, and I feel at this moment all the bitterness of being for a second time orphaned; but never shall this head repose on its nightly pillow, without sending up a prayer of gratitude to Heaven for having sent us such a benefactor, and a prayer for that benefactor’s eternal weal; thy kindness will not pass unnoticed nor unrewarded by Him who hath said, that ’ whosoever shall give even a cup of cold water to a disciple, shall not lose his reward. Although thy love,” continued he, “admits of no earthly remuneration, even had it been mine to give, yet I was unwilling to quit thy humble cell, without leaving behind me some token of my gratitude, some memorial of my affection. It so happened, that I had in my possession, one little gem, whose value I will leave to thyself to estimate. When thou returnest to thy chamber, remove the bricks thou hast placed for a pillow to thy couch, and underneath thou wilt find this ‘pearl of great price,1 brighter far than ever glittered on mitred heads, or in kingly diadems.”

“Thy gift, my child,” said the monk, “thou mightest better have bestowed on those who are still enamoured with the tinsel glitter of the world’s vanities. The brightest and costliest of earthly gems, are utterly valueless to one whose worldly desires and prospects are now bounded by the walk of his cloister; but I feel, and duly appreciate the motive which has induced thy kindness, and I shall preserve it for thy sake. Farewell — farewell!” With these words, they each took their different paths — the monk, with his docile charge, to the valleys of Dauphiny — the young Vaudois to the city, which formed a temporary rendezvous for many of their exiled countrymen.