Chapter VII
“Earth to earth,” and” dust to dust,’7
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest!
MILMAN.
DANGERS and calamities were accumulating around the exiles. Every day witnessed a diminution in their numbers; the enemy, with an increase of troops, and exasperated vengeance, were literally “coming in upon them as a flood;” the piercing storms of winter were beginning to sweep their valleys, “the fields yielded no meat, the flock was cut off from the fold, there was no herd in the stalls,” and no consolation was left to the sufferers, in their unequal contest, but trust in the propitious smiles of Providence.
Passing over the perils they had encountered, and the struggles in which they had engaged, since the Sabbath morning on which we left them at Villar, the evening of the 1 6th of October found them in the vicinity of Rodoretto; and, never since their departure from the banks of Lake Geneva, was there a time fraught with more imminent danger. The foe hemmed them in on every side. Not a moment, therefore, was to be lost: their retreat must be made under cover of darkness, as the first gleam of day would be the signal for their destruction. Before midnight, a council of war was convened, to determine what course they should pursue; and, after mature deliberation and earnest prayer, they resolved, at the suggestion of their leader, to march before break of day, to the Balsille; and Arnaud gave directions, before setting out, to heighten their present intrenchments and add to their fires, that the enemy might be led to believe they were still waiting in readiness to encounter them.
Two hours before dawn of morning they commenced their route. So intense was the darkness, that their guides wrapped themselves in white linen, that they might be more easily seen. Their direct road lay through Salsa, bu i a large body of French troops were stationed on its heights, and discovery would be inevitable. Only one alternative remained, although it was a desperate one, — to climb over rocks, descend precipices, and make their own bodies the bridges over frightful chasms. After a night of unparalleled exertion, they succeeded in surmounting the accumulation of obstacles which opposed their progress; but day light extracted a shudder, as it disclosed the terrific course they had pursued, the full extent of whose dangers the darkness had concealed. At length they planted their little standard on the heights of the Balsille. This remarkable spot, which the God of nature seemed to have upreared as a citadel for his oppressed people, is situated near the extremity of the valley of St Martino, and is composed of a gigantic rampart of rock, almost perpendicular, and commanding both sides of the narrow defile, which is watered by a tributary of the Germanasca. Three fountains supplied the fortress with water: the only side on which there was the least possibility of access, was, by the command of Arnaud, fortified with palisades and parapets of turf, strengthened with timber from the adjoining forests of pine and chesnut. Seventeen of these walls or embankments were constructed, one above another, so that, when dislodged by the enemy from one, they might take refuge behind the next. The Vaudois hailed this new retreat, as affording a sure respite from the sanguinary horrors, to which, for two months, they had been exposed; and, in the prospect of having it as their permanent residence -for the winter, they hollowed out eighty caves or caverns in the solid rock, to serve as barracks.
Several days elapsed, before the place of their retreat was discovered by their enemies. The French, under the command of de TOmbrail, had proceeded, on the morning of their retreat, to their intrenchments at Eodoretto. Their chagrin and disappointment may be conceived, when, after a long and toilsome march, they found the post deserted, and nothing left but the smouldering ashes of their fires, a few chesnuts, and a little wine. Infuriated with disappointment, they descended to Prali, to wreak their vengeance there; but they found its hamlets also deserted; and it was only after many fruitless wanderings that they at last discovered the refugees on the summit of the Balsille.
As the rigours of winter now demanded a cessation of hostilities, they resolved to make a last desperate effort to crush the mountaineers, and wipe out the disgrace of an inglorious campaign. Their only hope of success, lay in obtaining possession of the village, which was situated at the base of the rock, on the opposite bank of the stream. Thither the French general despatched the bravest of his troops, while Arnaud descended with the flower of his legion, to dispute their entrance. The French poured across the bridge with desperate resolution; Arnaud, for a while, remained aloof, in hopes that the stones and musketry, that were pouring destruction on the assailants from the rocks above, would have driven them back; but, perceiving that they were resolved to hazard every thing, he shouted his watchword, and a dreadful conflict ensued. For a time, the issue remained doubtful, but at length numbers prevailed: the little band were overpowered, and their spirits sunk within them, as they beheld the invaders planting their banner in the middle of the huts, and, a moment after, the flames bursting from their roofs, and threatening to lay the whole in ashes! Their leader himself, seemed about to give up all for lost; when, on a sudden, a voice was heard behind, shouting to the desponding Vaudois, “Courage!” brave friends, “the sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” “It is, it is,” exclaimed Arnaud, in a burst of rapture, “the champion of Sei, — on! on! to victory, to victory!” The very sight of this mysterious ally inspired fresh courage into every heart. He and Arnaud led the way; — “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon,” rose to heaven, and was re-echoed by the voices of the spectators from above. Plunging across the bridge, the furious onset struck terror into the foe; the flag that was waving in triumph on the height, was uprooted, and the discomfited legion left sixty comrades behind them, weltering in their blood. The air rang with the acclamation of the conquerors; and their first impulse, after extinguishing the flames, was to render the tribute of their grateful acknowledgments to him who had turned the tide of victory. One comrade only, of their little band, had suffered in the combat; but, how was their joy turned into lamentation, when they found that it was the unknown hero, who had fallen a victim to his own valour! He had received a mortal wound in the side, and lay amid the heaps of the slain!
“It is even so, it is even so,” said their pious leader, as he extricated the body from the mass of the dead. “Read here, my brave men, the lesson, to give the glory of every achievement, not to man, but to God, — not to an arm of flesh, but to an arm of Omnipotence!” There were still symptoms of life; and Arnaud, leaving behind a sufficient force to protect the village, carried the wounded man, with the assistance of some of his followers, to the top of the Balsille.
A deep and thrilling sensation spread through the camp, as the tidings were communicated, and all seemed to rival one another in ministering relief to the sufferer. He was laid on Arnaud’s own couch, whilst every endeavour was used to stanch the wound, which was bleeding profusely. He seemed to revive, on a little wine being administered to him, and gazed wildly around, as if just awakening from a swoon, and at a loss to discover where he was. At last, recollecting his position, and feeling that his hours were now numbered, he made an effort to speak: — “Is Herbert Vin9on here 2” said he, with a trembling voice;” if he be, tell him to come quickly hither.11 Herbert, who had been busied in repairing the intrenchments which had suffered in the late struggle, was, in an instant, in the cabin, where the dying man was laid. He started back as he entered, — the broad cap which had covered the upper part of the sufferer’s face was removed, and he beheld features, somewhat altered, indeed, but which he could not mistake. There lay before him, stretched on a couch of death, his preserver, his benefactor, — the monk of Chartreuse!
“Herbert, my son, my son Herbert, knowest thou the countenance that is now soon to be cold in death r
“Kindest father!” exclaimed the affectionate youth, grasping the paralysed hand, and a tear rolling down his cheek, such as had never filled his eye since the night he stood by the sod which covered his aged parent, —” can it be, that I see before me, my best benefactor, to whom I owe my own life, and that of the only other remaining joy which makes life a blessing f
“Thou dost, thou dost, my child; and glad I am, ere I close these eyes, to clasp the hand I most love, and breathe on thy noble spirit, the benediction of a grateful, though unworthy heart.”
“How sad,” said Herbert, “that our meeting is not a more joyful one; and sadder still that / should have been, as I fear I have, the cause of bringing thee hither, and of preparing thy grave.”
“My grave has been dug by Heaven, not by thee,” replied the resigned sufferer. “Our days are in the hands of One, who knows the time that is best for withdrawing the breath which he gave; but. even had it been as thou sayest, what proportion would the sorrow, caused by the wounds of this body, bear to the joy of having been the instrument of the salvation of this soul? Yes, Herbert, my beloved boy,” the tear starting for the last time to the eye of Hubert Durand; u I would like thee and thy friends to behold the breastplate, which I have borne in all my wanderings, over hill and valley, rock and precipice, and which, even in this hour of fiercer than mortal conflict, is bidding defiance to the darts of the king of terrors!” With a dying effort, he raised his hands, undid his cassock, and disclosed to the eyes of Herbert the sacred legacy, which, three years ago, he had deposited in the cell of his monastery! “In this blessed volume,” said he, a gleam of joy lighting up his pale features, “I have found a peace, which, during years of monastic penance, never dawned upon me; and now that I am standing on the borders of eternity, I can exult in the assurance, that the vilest of sinners — a blasphemer, a murderer, can yet die a child of Grod — an heir of glory!”
Herbert was unable to utter a word, amid the conflicting emotions of wonder, gratitude, and praise; but mingled his tears with the friends around, at the recital of the touching story.
“My beloved Herbert,” said the dying man, once more, “I feel that my strength is fast failing me; and ere this tongue be silent, I wish to inform thee of the continued health of thy sister and her companion, and the kindness of those, whom Providence has appointed their guardians. And thou, brave leader of a persecuted race,1’ said he, turning to Arnaud, “know, that by my intercession, thy young relative has been snatched from a cruel death, and is now consigned to an honourable captivity: but the place I am strictly forbidden, by the solemn compact by which clemency was extended, to disclose.” Arnaud had long ere now concluded that the name of Ferdinand had been added to the noble army of martyrs, and it may be conceived, therefore, with what feelings of astonishment and joy he listened to the tidings that he yet lived!
The dying Christian had only strength remaining to encourage the exiles in their arduous struggle. “Go on,” said he;” victory will soon be yours; ye have espoused a righteous cause; and, in the strength of your fathers God, your insulted
sanctuaries shall yet once more be your own.”
His voice grew fainter and fainter; he sunk exhausted under loss of blood, and muttering a feeble farewell, closed his eyes in peace!
The spectators of this affecting scene, stood for many minutes in breathless stillness; overpowered and paralyzed by what they had seen and heard. “Witness,” said Arnaud, at length breaking silence, his eyes fixed on the pallid countenance which lay before him, — “witness the triumph of truth, — the power of faith, — the peace and joy of believing! Is not this a noble recompense for every peril and suffering we have undergone? Yes, it is even so! The Lord ever makes the afflictions of his people, turn out for the furtherance of his cause, — bringing good out of evil, order out of confusion, light out of darkness; making the very ’ wrath of man to praise him, Who would have supposed, that a dreadful edict, which drove an innocent people from their native hearths, was to be the means, in His hand, of plucking a brand from the burning, — and of converting the cell of a monk, into the gate of heaven, — and filling a bosom with hope, that was once dark with despair? But,” continued the pious conqueror, “let us give the praise, to whom the praise alone is due!” They united together in singing a few appropriate verses; after which, Arnaud, unclasping the Bible, from whose pages, the spirit that was departed, had first learned the peace, whose celestial blessedness it was now called to enjoy, read aloud the sublime apostrophe of the Apostle Paul, “Oh death, where is thy sting? oh grave, where is thy victory? the sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law; but thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.” After an affecting address on these words, preparations were made for the interment of the body. A solitary cluster of pines, about two hundred yards from the castle, was selected as the spot for his grave. In a short time, the rude sepulchre was completed; and, in solemn silence, the mournful procession wound their way to pay the last sad tribute to the Christian hero. Herbert supported his head as he was lowered into his resting-place. Once more, with uncovered heads, they joined together in prayer; and left the ashes of their fallen friend, to mingle with their kindred dust, in the sure and certain hope of an immortality beyond the grave.*
The death-bed we have just described, will now have revealed to our readers, who the mysterious intercessor was, who procured for Ferdinand Arnaud a respite from a cruel and protracted death. He had left the walls of his monastery, without having communicated to any of his order the cause of his departure; and, on hearing of the daring enterprise of the exiled Waldenses, he resolved not to be premature in disclosing to the world, the triumph which truth had effected in his heart. By still retaining the outward form of a religion which, in his heart, he had learned to condemn, he thought he might possibly prove serviceable to the sufferers in their adversity, and help to aid a cause, which he now espoused as Heaven’s and his own. He had often, unknown to them, mingled in disguise with their ranks, in the hour of battle. He had been present in the skirmish on the Col de Julien, which had loaded our two young Vaudois with chains; and had followed their oppressors to the place of their confinement, where he
* See Appendix, note F.
had the unexpected interview we have described, with Herbert Vhon. At first, he thought of tempting the guard with a large bribe for the liberation of the captives; but, on overhearing their intention of conducting them to the citadel of Pignerol, he resolved to delay, and sue for clemency at the hands of the governor himself, formerly one of his accomplices in guilt and cruelty, and who, when the world was about to be rid of a villain, owed his preservation to the hands of Hubert Durand. Hardened as was the spirit of this stern inquisitor, he was not so utterly dead to feeling, as to forget the claim which his intercessor thus had for an extension of his mercy. He refused to grant the prisoner release; but agreed to mitigate his punishment, by consigning him to the solitary tower where we left him at the end of the last chapter, and promised, that nothing should be wanting to conduce to his safety and comfort.
The disconsolate females, whom we left in Switzerland, under the roof of the shepherd of Lauterbrunnen, were beginning, long ere now, to feel the deepest anxiety for the fate of their countrymen. Reports, indeed, had reached the chalet, which Albert and Mariette tried in vain to conceal from their young charge, that the whole band had been given up to indiscriminate slaughter, without one having been left to tell the tale. Weeks rolled along, without anything transpiring to remove their gloomy apprehensions; and the exiled girls were beginning to think, they had too good ground to conclude, that the day on which they bade farewell to their beloved relatives on the banks of Lake Thun, was the last on which they were to be permitted to see their faces on earth!
One evening, in the beginning of October, Alice and Julia were seated at the fire of the little chalet, brooding in silence over prospects that were every day growing darker. Albert had just returned from the mountain with his fleecy charge; his sagacious attendant, Blancho, lay stretched at his feet; while Mariette was busied in preparations for their frugal meal.
As the little group were thus occupied, a knock was heard at the door; the females started at the sotmd at that unwonted hour, nor was the surprise of the shepherdess diminished, when, on opening it, she beheld a figure, wrapped in a dark mantle, standing before her.
“Fear not, my good woman,” said the stranger, seeing her agitation; “I come on no evil errand. Are you the benefactress, and is this the home, which for three long years has sheltered two helpless exiles underneath its roof 2”
Alice and her companion had, in their timidity, crept behind the chair of Albert. Unwilling to disturb unnecessarily the profound slumbers of Blancho, Julia grasped in her hand his shaggy hide, to be in readiness to solicit his services, if required.
No sooner had Alice Vin9on heard the voice of the stranger, than, uttering a shriek of joy, she rushed to the door, and with open arms, welcomed in her kind friend and benefactor, Father Bernard. It was a day of jubilee to the two desolate exiles. They listened, with a joy, which no words can describe, to the intelligence, that their beloved friends were now once more among their
native fastnesses. A thousand interrogatories
about the little band, were poured in upon the stranger — fresh wood was heaped on the fire — a simple feast was spread on their humble board — and never was happiness greater, nor attention more rivetted, than when they listened to the daring achievements, the hair-breadth escapes, and the imminent perils, of a handful of brave mountaineers, who had spread the terror of their name, into the camps and armies, the courts and cabinets, of France and Sardinia.
Still deeper and more intense, was the interest with which Alice heard her kind benefactor relate the change which had taken place in his own soul, through the instrumentality of the sacred memento of gratitude which her beloved brother had deposited in his cloister. He drew the treasured volume from his bosom, and the little circle united together in pouring out a thankoffering of gratitude and praise to God, for his providential protection to their wandering countrymen.
Several days were spent by Father Bernard at this peaceful retreat, before returning to the camp of the Vaudois, to carry the equally welcome tidings of their preservation to their anxious friends. It was when reaching the termination of this benevolent pilgrimage, that the fatal event took place, which deprived the Vaudois of a faithful ally, and Herbert and Alice Vin9on of one, who, next to the leader of the exiles, had proved their kindest and most devoted friend.
But we must now pass over the intervening months, during which, the Waldenses remained encamped in their mountain stronghold, unmolested by the foe, who had retired to their winter quarters, and once more introduce our readers to the lonely turret of the young captive at Pignerol. Let us only remark in passing, that notwithstanding the rigours of the season, most of the little band had survived its inclemencies in their Alpine citadel. The surrounding forests contributed an abundant supply of fuel; and the harvest of the preceding summer, which had been allowed to remain uncut by their enemies, had been rniraculously preserved uninjured, under a deep covering of snow, and warded off the certain famine that must otherwise have overtaken them.
This fact is recorded to this day, by then- pious descendants, as one of the most striking of the many signal proofs of the interposition of the Great Head of the Church in behalf of this persecuted remnant, and as a remarkable fulfilment of his own promise to his suffering people — “Their bread shall be given them, and their water shall be sure.”