The Scourge of God

Only he might be seen. And then-then-though the heavily accoutred dragoons would undoubtedly not be able to leap the stream and chase him, the balls from their musketoons and fusils would perhaps reach him; one alone out of the number sent hurtling after him might reach its mark. And that would be enough.

Yet all the same it should be done.

The horse he rode was a strong black, handsome creature, its nostrils red and fiery, its eyes possessed of that backward glance which tells the horseman ere he mounts what he is about to bestride, its legs as thin and agile as a cat's. Well, he would see. Now for the stream, fifteen feet across if an inch. Then he found the animal knew what was meant even as his knee pressed beneath the holster, even as his wrist turned inward to draw tighter the rein and as he sat down firmly in the saddle. There was a rush upon the short, crisp grass-crisp both from the salt of the distant sea and from the night frost-a quiver from the body beneath him, a loosened rein now, a flight as of an arrow, as smooth, too, and as swift. Then the animal's feet were upon the other side; the rivulet was skimmed as though by a swallow. Over and away, the black steed bounding like a ball beneath him.

"Thank God!" he said, "thank God!" And, ere he settled into the saddle again, patted the firm, iron-sinewed neck beneath his hand.

Off through vine poles, over another and a smaller rivulet unseen by him for the moment, yet clear as day to the keen eyes of the noble creature that bore him; off now parallel with the dragoons, across the plain-parallel with the dragoons so dangerously near! And with over all, both them and him, a cloudless sky and a full bright moon.

Then, next, a shout from that advancing force, a hoarse clatter that all know and recognise who have ever heard firelocks wrested quickly from saddle-rests, white smoke curling on the night air, spits of flame from twenty different spots near together, puffs of bullets past his face, puffs such as the droning beetle makes as it flies by us; a numbing shock against the saddle-flap, yet on, on, on! The horse uninjured and still going fleet as the deer, or even fleeter still, because of fear and nervousness. But still on, and followed by a dropping fire that ceased almost directly. The musketoons were useless by this time; they were out of range and he was ahead of the others. Nothing could stop him now, the danger was past. Nothing, unless the horse reeled in its stride, was wounded. Yet that he knew was not so, or else that swift, even motion below him would have ceased ere this. "Heaven be praised! Where is she?"

The night wind blew more piercingly as he felt the earth rising beneath the steed. Far up he saw more and more plainly the burning lights that burned near false bridges and declivities, to fall down which meant death and destruction. The air was nipping even to those two whose bodies were heated by their last hour's motion together. The ascent had begun. The horse breathed more heavily now, threw out great snorting gasps from mouth and nostrils, yet hardly halted, or only so far as to change from canter to trot and from trot to walk. But still went on up, until at last one of the red flambeaux on the hilltops was winking and flickering close by.

He was near Urbaine now. Another hour and she would be in his arms.

At that moment three forms sprang lightly into the mountain road from behind a piece of fallen rock, the moon showing that each bore in its hand a firearm-a firearm raised and pointed at the advancing man and horse.

"Who goes there?" one cried. "Quick, your answer, or this," and each weapon's butt was brought to the shoulder.

"The Englishman," Martin called out in reply. "The man doomed to death to-day at Nîmes for consorting with you."

"So! Advance, Englishman. Yet in the name of the Holy One how came you here?"

"To seek for her who was my fellow-prisoner with you," he replied as he got off his horse. "Is she well?"

"She is well-"

"Behind. Up there," and he cast his eyes toward the summits. "She descends with brother Cavalier to-night."

"With Cavalier to-night! Is he back already?"

"Ay, he is back, three hours ago. Now, to-night, he descends. Nîmes is doomed. You would have been rescued by the morning. It was brother Cavalier's second plan. He warned the tyrant, Baville, to free you at pain of the girl's death, but tout de même, he meant to have you out himself. Yet," he repeated, "Nîmes is doomed."

"But why, why, since I am free?"

"To repay the slaughter at the mill. Ho! Doubt not! That goes not unrewarded. Nîmes first, then Alais, then Montpellier. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' It is our holy shibboleth."

"It can never be-"

"Never be! Why not?" asked the man who alone had spoken among the three. "Why not? What shall prevent the Lord's children from outrooting their persecutors? Why not? You are on our side. Is it not so?" and he looked menacingly at Martin.

"You do not know," the latter replied. "Advancing here not two hours behind me there comes a vast body of royalist soldiers in two battalions. Among them the Miquelets. And, though they may never scale your mountain passes, never reach the plateau, yet surely they will bar your way to Nîmes. Even though your full force descend, they will outnumber you."

The man, whom Martin remembered well when he was a prisoner in the caverns and whom he had heard addressed as Montbonneux, pondered a moment; then he said suddenly, with a slight laugh:

"Perhaps they will reach the plateau. Perhaps we shall not bar their way. One catches the rat by leaving the trap-door open, not by shutting it," and as he spoke his companions laughed too, while as they did so Martin again remembered the oubliettes and snares prepared for any who might wander up into the gloomy refuges of the attroupés.

Ere he could reply, however, or announce his intention of proceeding to where Urbaine might be ere setting forth with Cavalier, there rose a sound close to them. A sound borne on the night wind toward where they were, a sound that told him and them that down from their mountain home were coming the Camisards. A chant that, rising above all else; spoke of revenge decided on, of fierce unsparing retaliation:

"Quand tu te léveras, oh, notre Roi celeste!Pour délivrer enfin les élus d'ici-bas,Le vent de ton tonnerre à nos tyrans funesteEn Balaiera le resteAu gouffres du trépas.Venge-Venge-"

"'Tis he, Cavalier," the man Montbonneux exclaimed, "'tis he who comes."

CHAPTER XXXI

BETRAYED

They had met again. Were together, never more to part unless parted by one thing, Death! Death that was imminent at any moment, that might overtake them that very night, or to-morrow, or the next day; for Cavalier was on his way down to the plains to make those reprisals of which Montbonneux had spoken. God only knew what might be the end of all.

She, riding on the captured little mule and enveloped in costly furs-as usual, part of a spoil of a successful foray made by the Camisards on a more or less unprotected manoir-had seen him as the large body of Cavalier's followers had rounded a point in the mountain pass, and, springing from the animal's back, had thrown herself into his outstretched arms, unheeding those who came behind her and the Cévenole chief, thinking of naught at the moment but that he was safe and with her again, deeming all else insignificant beside that one supreme mercy vouchsafed by God. For she knew in what awful danger he had stood not many hours before; knew that, not more for the purpose of exacting vengeance than for that of rescuing him, was this descent from the mountains being made. And now he was safe, by her side again.

He drew her apart from where Cavalier stood with all his followers behind him; drew her apart and whispered words of love and thankfulness at seeing her once more. Then suddenly, observing on the fair young face and in the clear, pure eyes a look that he had never seen before, he murmured:

"What-what is it, Urbaine, my sweet?"

But she would not answer him, only contenting herself with saying, "Not now, not now," while even as she did so he saw beneath the light of the full moon that her eyes were full of tears. Felt, too, the warm hand which he held quiver in his grasp.

And as he noticed those symptoms of unhappiness he wondered if she had learned while among these Camisards that secret which one at least of them knew-that secret which, to prevent her from ever learning, had caused Baville to bid him fly with her out of France, away, anywhere, so that she might never know it. Never know that her father's death lay at his door.

"Come," said Cavalier, approaching them and speaking very quietly, after having carried on a hurried conversation for some moments with Montbonneux and the other two men, "come, we must move forward. Thank God, you are free, out of the tiger's claws; for your sake and ours as well, if what my followers report of the news you bring is true. Is it?" and he looked piercingly at the other in the moonbeam's light.

"It is true if they have told you that a large force is making its way toward these mountains. They must have left Nîmes some time before me, since I followed them a considerable distance before coming up with their rear, and I have outstripped them by perhaps two hours, though not longer, I think."

Then he told Cavalier that Baville had himself released him.

"Baville released you! Because of my threat?"

"Because of-" yet since Urbaine was by his side he paused and told no more, or only with a look which Cavalier understood sufficiently well, for he also now knew of the Intendant's part in the death of Urbain Ducaire, understood that his love for Urbaine had grown out of his remorse.

"Come," he said shortly, after meditating for a moment with his eyes fixed on the ground, "come, we must go forward now. Best meet this force and check it, or part of it. How many strong are they, do you suppose?"

"At least a thousand. Perhaps more. Composed of dragoons, chevaux-légers, and Miquelets. Can you cope with those?"

"If we are united, yes. But Roland is away, ahead, with half our men; yet, stay. We have to meet at the Tour de Bellot. If we can join them before these soldiers reach that, then we can win. If not, if they catch Roland's force alone, then God help Roland!"

As he spoke, from afar off there came a sound that none in all the vast band which had descended from the mountains could have mistaken, unless it were Urbaine alone. A sound deep, muffled, roaring. That of cannons firing. Heard first down in the valley, then reverberating high up amid the clouds that capped the summits of the cold mountain tops.

"You hear?" he said. "You hear? We must on at once. On, on! What will you do with the lady? She is yours now. You see, I remembered my promise. I was bringing her to you, knowing full well that either by threats or siege we would have you out of the hands of Baville. Yet I thought not you could have been free to-night, so soon."

"My place is by her side forever now. Where she is, there am I."

"Be it so. Will you go back with her? Yet I know not, if they gain the passes, the caverns will be surrounded and-and-if they succeed we shall not be there to help or succour. God, he knows what is best!"

"Can they do that, gain the summits?"

"Scarce can I say. Yet now at last I fear. The prophets see visions, speak of rebuffs at last. The extasées, the woman seers, the female children-all foretell disaster. Even I, who have ere now believed that I could read the future, am shaken, not in my courage, but my hopes."

His last words were lost, or almost lost, in the dead muffled roar that rose once more from far down in the valley, and as the sound was heard again Cavalier started.

"We must not tarry, even for her. Decide, therefore, and decide quickly," while, as he spoke, he gave orders briefly to all who surrounded them and commanded that they should be transmitted along the line of Camisards which stretched far behind and up to where the great plateau was.

"I have decided," Martin answered. "That firing is some distance off, some five or six miles at least. At the foot of the mountains there are many side-paths leading east and west. I can convey her by one of those to some haven of shelter, out of harm. Let us accompany you to the valley; then, Cavalier, we part."

"Do as you will," the other answered. "I gave you my word that all should be as you desired when you returned from Cette. I keep it to the last. We part to-night forever. Remember me in years to come as one who was an honourable man."

Then, as though he wished no more said, he gave another order for the band under his command to set forth again upon its descent, and, quitting Martin, went forward and placed himself at its head.

And now Martin took his place by the side of her he loved, walking by the little mule, holding her hand in his beneath the richly-furred cloak. Also he told her what was decided on as best for her safety. Once, too, he asked, after he had informed her of the arranged plan:

"You do not fear? Are content?"

"Content! To be with you!"

And the glance that rested on him, and plainly to be seen beneath the ray of the moon, told more than further words could have done.

"We shall be together forever and always now," he continued, speaking clearly though low, so that she might catch his words above the deep thud of the Camisards' tread as they swept down the mountain road. Above, too, the roar of the cannon that grew louder as they approached nearer and nearer to the spot whence it proceeded. "Forever and always, once we are across the frontier and in the Duke of Savoy's dominions. Man and wife, ma mie, in a week's time if we escape to-night. Will that suffice?"

And once more she answered with a glance.

They were descending fast now toward the plain, yet, as they neared it, it almost seemed as though the booming of the cannon grew less continuous, as if the pauses were longer between each roar. What did it mean? the Camisards asked each other. Was the cannon becoming silent because Julien and his detachments had been caught in some trap, or had the royalist troops been driven back again as they had been so often driven back before? Were the outcasts, the attroupés, again successful, still invincible? Above all else, above that thud of mountaineers' heavy feet and the clatter of musketoon and fusil shifted from shoulder to shoulder; above, too, sword scabbards clanging on the ground, Cavalier's voice arose now.

"Down to meet them!" he cried. "Down! Down! Faster and faster, to join Roland and sweep the tyrant's soldier from out our land, or perish beneath their glaives. On, my brethren, on!" and as he spoke the tramp of the men was swifter and heavier, the march of the band more swinging.

The plain was reached. They poured out upon it, no longer a long, thin line, but a compact body now which marched not only on the straight, white road that gleamed a thread beneath the moon's rays, but spread itself over the sodden marshy lands bordering that road; went on swift and fast, while as they almost ran they saw to the priming of their firelocks, and buckled rough goatskin baudriers and bandoleers, wrenched from many a dying royalist, tighter round them, and loosened swords and knives in their sheaths.

Yet, as they went, the firing ceased or rather rolled farther away from them, sounded now as if coming from where, beneath the moonlit sky, the cathedral spire of Nîmes lifted its head. Surely, all thought, the enemy must be driven back. Otherwise the booming of the cannon would not have ceased altogether; at least would not become more distant, farther off.

And now they were near the Tour de Bellot, the rendezvous, the spot where Roland was to have joined forces with them, if all was well. So near that the solitary and lofty structure-once the round tower of an ancient feudal castle that had stood many a siege in days as far off as those of the Albigensian crusade, but on to which, in later years, had been built a farmhouse, now a ruin also-could be seen rising clear and pointed to the heavens; clearer than the more distant spire of Nîmes itself.

And Roland was not there, nor any of his force. One glance showed that, long ere they reached it, the battle which had been going on for now more than two hours was farther off than they had at first supposed.

The place was deserted, except for the shepherd who dwelt within it, a man holding the creed of the outcasts, one who had also at that time two sons in their ranks.

"Where is Roland?" demanded Cavalier of this man as they all streamed into the place, leaping over the stone walls which surrounded the pasturage and rushing hastily into grange and granary, there to snatch some rest, even though but half an hour's, ere they might have to set forth again. "Where? Where?"

"Forward toward Nîmes," the fellow answered, speaking stolidly and, as it seemed to Martin, who stood by, stupidly; "toward Nîmes. He has driven them back."

"God be praised!" exclaimed Cavalier and many who stood around. Then the former asked: "And followed them toward Nîmes? Is that so?"

"Nay, I know not," the other replied, seeming even more stupid than before. "I know not. They are not here. The battle was afar. I did but hear it."

"We can do nothing as yet," Cavalier said, "nothing. Can but wait and abide events. Yet 'tis strange, strange that of all his force he could not send back one messenger to tell me of his doings, his whereabouts. Our rendezvous was to be ten of the clock; 'tis past that now. Strange!" he repeated, "strange!" And his eyes followed the shepherd searchingly as he moved about preparing rough, coarse food for as many of the band as he could supply. He had been warned that the descent was to be made that night from the mountains, and also to prepare as much bread and wine as possible; and now he produced all that he had, he said, been able to obtain without arousing suspicions.

At this time Martin was standing beside Urbaine, she having been placed in a rude armchair possessing neither pillow nor covering, which had been set in front of the fire for her; and to them Cavalier now addressed himself, saying:

"For you to go forward now would be madness; nay, madness even to quit this house and seek any road either to right or left. For-for-Heaven forgive me if I am wrong, yet I misdoubt me of this man, one of us as he is and the father of two others."

"I have Baville's pass; they would respect that. Would not harm her. Even though the men in command have never seen her, they would understand. And-and-it is imperative that I convey her across the frontier to Savoy without loss of time." Then, drawing the banished chief away from the close neighbourhood of Urbaine, he said in a lower tone, "He dreads that she should learn from any here that he caused her father, Urbain Ducaire's death!"

With a swift glance the other looked up into Martin's face, far above his own; looked up with a glance that was almost a mocking one.

"He dreads that, does he?" Cavalier replied. "Malheureusement pour lui! he dreads too late. He should have taken steps bef-"

"What?"

"She knows it."

"Great God! 'Tis from that her fresh sorrow springs. How-how did she-?"

But ere he could finish his question there came an interruption which prevented it from ever being answered.

Across the broken flags of the farmhouse kitchen there came a man, one of the prophets, known as Le Léopard, because of his fierce staring eyes, a man in whose belt there was a long knife, the hilt of which he fingered savagely, and on whose back was strapped a long military carabine, another spoil of the enemy. And, reaching Cavalier's side, he muttered hoarsely from beneath his ragged, dishevelled mustache:

"We are betrayed. There has been no battle. Roland is not within leagues of this spot. The cannon was a snare, a lure. And-and-come forth into the moonlight and see what is without."

CHAPTER XXXII

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH

From that old, dismantled farmhouse, built on to the tower, there sloped down, toward where a small stream ran some four hundred yards away, a long stretch of bare land, covered sometimes in the summer heat by short, coarse grass, while in the winter time it was, if any of it were left uneaten by the sheep, frost-bound or snow-covered. It was so now on this clear, cold winter night, its surface being dotted by innumerable folds and pens into which those sheep had once been driven, but which, since the mountaineers had been forced into revolution and had raided the place, were empty. They were so on this night, of sheep. Yet not of other living things, unless the moon played strange tricks with the eyes of those regarding the pens. Instead, were being filled rapidly with human forms creeping like Indians or painted snakes toward them, wriggling their bodies beneath the hurdles they were composed of, entering by that way into the ready-found ambush-the forms of the Miquelets, the most hated by the Camisards of all the troops which had been sent against them; the men whose extermination was more vowed and determined than the extermination of either dragoon, chevau-léger, or milice.

"You see?" whispered Le Leopard to Cavalier and Montbonneux as they stood together sheltering themselves from observation behind the great stone posts of the farmhouse's antique stoop, "you see? They first, then next the cavalry. Observe, beyond the stream; look through the trunks of the trees across it. The moon sparkles on breast and back and the splints of the gorgets. You see?" Then added, "And hear?"

For from down toward where Le Léopard had directed the other's attention there rang that which told beyond all doubt that the foe was lurking there; discovered them to the surrounded, hemmed-in Camisards. The neigh of a horse, long, loud, and shrill, taken up a moment later by others in their company and answered.

After that no need for further disguise or hiding. The presence of the enemy was made known. An instant later the trumpets rang out the "Advance!" Across the stretch of bare land the cavalry of Montrevel were seen riding fast.

"To arms! To arms!" sounded Cavalier's voice on the night air, it rivalling almost in distinctness the clear sounds of the royal trumpeters. "To arms! The tyrants are upon us. To arms! I say," and ere, with one wild shriek in unison from the throats of the Miquelets, the latter sprang from their ambush, the Protestants had leaped from the floors where they had flung themselves and were in the open, face to face with the Pyrenean wolves.

Instantly the whole surface of the earth beneath the bright rays of the moon was changed. Soon no moon was seen. The smoke from countless firelocks covered, obscured her. Smoke dispelled for an instant now and again by volleys of flame belched forth from fusil and carabine, flame that showed Miquelets dashing at huge mountaineers' throats, their long knives in their hands or 'twixt their teeth as they so sprang and clutched; that showed, too, these savage creatures forced to release their grasp, hurled to the earth, their brains clubbed out by butt and stock. Showed also the dragoons in the midst of all, sabring, thrusting, cutting down, overriding ally and foeman indiscriminately, reeling back themselves over their chargers' haunches as, from the windowless apertures of the tower, came hail after hail of bullets from Camisards ensconced therein.

But still the battle raged. Still from the Protestants' throats rang their war cry, "For God and his children!" from those of the royalists, "For God and the King!" from those of the Miquelets, in their hideous shrieking falsetto, "Guerra al Culchielo!" "Guerra al Morté!"

"Save yourself and her," cried Cavalier, rushing back for a moment to the farmhouse kitchen and stumbling over the dead body of the treacherous peasant, Guignon, who had been poniarded by Le Léopard the moment he was certain that the man had betrayed them, "save yourself-and her. There is a backway by the fosse to an ancient passage 'neath the old castle; save yourselves. We are lost, lost! Outnumbered! Save yourselves!"

Then in a moment he saw that neither Martin nor Urbaine were there. Gone! either to destruction or safety, he knew not which, yet gone. And he rushed back to his doomed band; rushed back to see that the tower was in flames, that all of his men who were in it were beyond earthly salvation. Already it seemed to rock beneath the great spouting flames that leaped forth from roofless summit and openings where windows might once have been. Doomed!