Chapter VIII

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my little window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu. But was it such? —

COWPER.

THE winter months rolled heavily over the head of the youthful prisoner. With many an anxious thought, he looked forward to the approaching spring, as the momentous crisis in which was to be finally determined, whether the standard of Protestantism or Popery should be erected in the valleys of Lucerna and St Martin.

A large detachment of French troops, who had been occupied in summer among the Waldensian fastnesses, were now stationed at Pignerol; and, often did the heart of Ferdinand sink within him, as he overheard, from the place of his captivity, the fearful imprecations, and deadly vengeance, which they uttered against the persecuted race. Never was so deep a stain affixed on their ensigns, as on the banks of the Germanasca, by a handful of peasants; and the repose of winter only seemed to increase their thirst for revenge, and their resolution to permit the stigma to remain no longer. On the last day of April, 10,000 French, and 12,000 Sardinian troops, were marched to the Balsille,to effect the dislodgement of the mountaineers. “Every barbet shall be hanged in the evening,” was the cry that resounded from the exasperated armies, as they planted their banners at the base of the impregnable fastness. De Catinat, the French general, placed himself at the head of the regiments of Bourbon, Artois, and Lasarre — the invincibles of the seventeenth century. The undaunted Vaudois beheld the terrific armament with unshaken fortitude, and prepared to receive their onset. An incessant fire was poured down upon them from the rocky arsenal — the older and more experienced marksmen occupying the loopholes, while the more youthful were employed in loading their muskets. A quarter of an hour decided the contest. The legions of France and Piedmont quailed at the desperate valour of the undisciplined mountaineers; they retreated in confusion, and left 400 dead on the field, while not a drop of blood had been lost by the Vaudois. De Catinat, covered with shame, threw up the command, which now devolved on M. de Feuquieres; but the shattered legions allowed themselves only a short breathing time, before again venting their unsatiated vengeance. And, on Easter Eve, the 10th of May, the trumpet once more sounded; and French and Savoyards, waving their naked swords in the air, vowed they should never again be sheathed, until drenched with the blood of the barbets. They poured, with furious resolution, across the bridge, seized the village, and, raising a breast-work and parapet from its ruins, protected themselves from the destructive fire of the besieged. By shifting their parapet of faggots, they gradually advanced nearer and nearer, until they were within speaking distance of the enemy. “Surrender, ye base traitors!” was a demand which was again and again made through a speaking trumpet — “surrender, and perchance ye may somewhat mitigate the fate which awaits you. Think you, ye barbets of Satan, that ye shall be permitted any longer to wave defiance in the face of the combined forces of France and Savoy? Surrender, or, by our holy faith, ye shall repent of your folly.”

But threats and menaces were in vain, to strike terror into hearts, who felt that God had espoused their cause; and Feuquieres, finding that a profuse expenditure of ammunition was all that was effected by his daring attack, fell back on the Guigenevert, a hill which rose on the opposite side

H of the valley, and resolved there to erect batteries, and fill them with cannon from Pignerol. The white banner was now uprooted; and a crimson flag, the emblem of indiscriminate carnage, hoisted in its stead.

It was on the 10th of May, that Ferdinand overheard, from his turret, the dreadful intelligence, that several pieces of cannon were next day to leave Pignerol, to be planted on the heights of the Guigenevert, to drive his suffering kinsmen from their stronghold. Young and inexperienced as he was in military tactics, he well knew, that this terrific force would prove too powerful for the intrenchments of the Balsille, and that certain destruction awaited the exiles. It may be imagined, with what feelings he listened at the window of his solitary chamber, to the trampling of the warsteeds, and the heavy wheels of the artillery, that were conveying the destructive engines to the valley of St Martin. His eye followed the dreadful procession, until the last of the rear had turned up Val Perosa.

Three days after, the shrill notes of a trumpet were heard, proclaiming “to all who wished to behold the destruction of the barbets, to repair on the morrow to Pignerol!” Crowds of idle spectators, gathered at the summons, to be the witnesses of the meditated cruelty. As Ferdinand lay tossing on his midnight couch, the streets resounded with bacchanalian revelries, and feasts of rejoicing were held in celebration of the expected tragedy. At an early hour in the morning, every house-top was crowded with spectators; each seemed desirous to catch the first glance of the cavalcade, and communicate the intelligence to the blood-thirsty multitudes.

Ere the sun had climbed the meridian, a body of men were seen in the distance, slowly emerging from the entrance to the valley of Perosa, and the glittering of swords and helmets announced to the crowd, that their sanguinary expectations were about to be realized. “They come — they come!” was echoed with frantic joy from street to street, and from window to window; and the hammers of the workmen that were erecting the scaffolds, seemed to acquire a fresh impetus from the sound. There was at least one heart in Pignerol, which was filled with far other feelings than those of joy, on learning the approach of the conquerors. Ferdinand Arnaud received the appalling intelligence, with the firmness and fortitude, the calmness and resignation, of a Christian martyr; but, at the same time, with all the deep and poignant feeling of a heart that was susceptible of the tenderest sympathies of human nature. It would have ministered a melancholy alleviation to his grief, had he enjoyed the presence of a single friend in this desolate moment; but he had now no longer the affectionate companion, who was wont to rejoice with him in all his joys, and weep with him in all his sorrows: and who, he felt assured, would not have been wanting, in this hour of anguish, in ministering comfort to his fainting spirit. He ventured to look from his little window, which commanded a prospect of the highway, and awful were the sensations of the moment, which disclosed the enormous waggons moving along the road, containing the victims of the approaching tragedy! There followed an interval of agonizing suspense, between their first appearance in the distance, and their arrival in the streets. He drew his ear closer to the bars of his window, to catch every whisper from beneath, that might reveal the truth. His countenance betrayed the deep emotions that were heaving in his bosom. At one moment, he was pale with terror, and his eyes were filled with tears; at another, his hands were clasped to heaven, in earnest supplication that God “would hear the groaning of the prisoner, and free them that were appointed to death.” He listened; but the deafening clamours of the crowd were now exchanged for a gloomy, portentous silence, as if the dreadful prelude and precursor of approaching death. He listened still: suddenly, the death-like paleness of his cheek was suffused with a flush of crimson; once more, his hands were uplifted in prayer, and a flood of tears gushed from his eyes. But — these tears were tears of joy — these prayers were the breathings of wonder, love, and praise! His ear listened to tidings, which were at first too astounding to be credited, that 20,000 of the choicest chivalry of France and Sardinia, with their destructive artillery, had been unable to singe so much as one hair of the Vaudois; and that the waggons which climbed the steeps of St Martino, to be filled with the wretched exiles, had actually been converted by the assailants into hospitals for their own wounded — receptacles for their own slain! It was the work of God! another pledge, that Omnipotence was on the side of the defenceless sufferers. Ferdinand threw himself on his couch, in prostrate adoration to the God of his fathers, who had once more given to his people “help from trouble, when vain was the help of man!”

It was on the 13th of May, that these pieces of artillery first awoke their thunders in Val St Martino. The entrenchments of the Balsille, impervious to musketry, were driven to pieces by this terrific force. The Vaudois retreated from parapet to parapet, till the last embrasure was demolished; and the shades of the evening found them on the very brink of destruction. It was evident, that by no effort of bravery could their mountain stronghold be any longer tenable: death, or a midnight escape, were their only alternatives; but how was the latter to be accomplished? The enemy had posted detachments on all the heights and passes around, to prevent the possibility of escape; and large fires were blazing on every mountain top, to prevent their availing themselves of the darkness of the night. To any other minds, but those of these daring men, all would now have seemed hopelessly and irrecoverably lost; but the thought of falling into the hands of their inhuman oppressors, goaded them on to hazard every peril and endure every suffering, rather than submit to be the victims of their ruthless vengeance.

“Retreat, we must, brave friends!” exclaimed Arnaud; “though our road should lie over ravine and precipice; it is better far to meet our death by being shattered on the rocks, than surrender our bodies to infamy and torture. See,” continued he, as he pointed to a cloud of mist, which at that moment came rolling down the valley, “how the hand of Jehovah is in this, the hour of our extremity, outstretched to save us!” And it was even so: they were enveloped in its sable curtain; which was so dense, as to permit them to descend the rock undiscovered. Their route lay over frightful precipices, down which they contrived to lower themselves, by sliding on their backs, and catching hold of the projecting fragments of stone. It was necessary to take off their shoes, to preserve a more profound silence, and their feet were torn and lacerated by the thorns and rough pieces of rock which were scattered on their path. After indescribable dangers and sufferings, they were seen, two hours after day break, far <above the enemy, on the ridge of the Guigenevert. The alarm was sounded; and Feuquieres at first refused to give credence to the daring retreat. He ordered his troops to attack, without delay, the deserted entrenchments, and the air rang with horrid imprecations, as they beheld nothing left, but the naked rocks, — their labours frustrated, — their schemes disconcerted, — their valour mocked and insulted, — by a handful of undisciplined mountaineers!