The Scourge of God

e. It was July of the next year when a gentleman, looking somewhat travel-stained and weary, halted his horse at the foot of the Mont de Lozère, in Languedoc--th

own and identified as such. But with an assumed name, or rather with part of his own name discarded--Martin being common to both countries--and with his knowledge of the French language perfect, owing to his long residence in the country as a child, the identification

And, though he should still be willing, will that scourge of God, Louis, that curse of France, his wife, let one penny ever come to his hands? A Huguenot,

is horse forward at a walk, making his way on slowl

before. Coming here, I was told that it was almost impossible that Cyprien de Beauvilliers could have settled in the Cévennes without being known; t

and from Geneva within the last three weeks, and the banks of a river named Le Tarn being slowly followed, the rider entered Montvert, and passing across the bridge, proceeded slo

ville. Also your evil fame has travelled far. You are known and hated in Geneva, Lausanne, Vevey--maybe in Holland by now. 'Tis best you pray

kept garden, in which there grew all kinds of simple flowers that made the place gay with their colours, and here he dismounte

pleasant smile, "here I am back agai

was bid and led the animal away, while Martin, going up to the door, knocked lightly

r an elderly gray-haired man, who held out both his

e bed kept aired, the lavender in the drawers. Welcome! Welcome!" Then, after looking at him and sayin

met a man at Geneva who had known Cyprien de Beauvilliers, but he was v

ears! A

wledge, to have died. That, I fear, is what has happened. Otherwise, this m

ak off forever from them and their customs, he may have resolved to obliterate every clew. He told the princess's

rtin Ashurst into his little salon, and he called

rgot; a good one to-night to

nd murmured also some words of greeting, while she

n ounce, and with the true deep speckles. Ma foi! he was a fool, he clung too much to the neighbourhood of the lower bridge, derided Leroux with his wicked eye; yet

he merry days, or nights, at Locket's and Pontac's, and the jokes and jeers and flashes of wit of Betterton and Nok

de Fleuville! Then, Margot, the rago?t and the white chipped bread, and, forget not these, clean serviettes to-night, if we never have others, and the cheese from Joyeuse. Oh! we will faire la noce to-ni

consequently, a home for refugees of all classes and denominations; talked also of what results that journey had had, or had failed to have. But all ended, or was comprised, in what the young man had already told the other--namely, that it seemed certain

years, until--until the unhappy events of '85. Alas! that revocation! That revocation, born of that fearful woman! What--what will be the outcome of all, for even now it is but

it as ba

pport neither Baville's tyranny, which extends over all the district, nor--her

Chaila! What i

the story false. O Martin! there, in that house by the bridge, are done things that would almost excite the envy of the Inquisition, ay! of Torquemada himself, were he still in existence. And he, this abbé, is the man who

do you fear? Also to what e

t see the thing each morning when she rose, he tortures us, the Protestants. Keeps prisoners confined, too, in the cellars deeper than the river itself. In

uis kno

s eyes glancing through the windows, opened to let in the soft autumn air, cool and luscious as though it had passed over countless groves of flowers: "Listen. Masip--you have heard of him,

r w

y--they went dressed as boys. The girls escaped into

help

ended, my hour may come--to-night--to-morrow. Sooner or later it must come. Then for me the wheel or the flames or th

the old man's arm. "Never, while I have a s

ather denounce--myself as a Protestant. My aunt died ere I could tell the secret which would have caused her to curse me instead of leaving me her heir. Here, I wi

penetrating outside. "No, no! In God's name, no! I forbid you. If you do that, how will you ever find de Beauvilliers--de Rochebazon,

see those of my own faith slaughtered like oxen in the sh

ubly threatening. Yet, oh, oh, my son," he exclaimed in a broken voice, "how I love, how I reverence you! Brave man, brave, h

dy donning them, while he whispered through white lips, "It has come! It has come! The storm has burst," while even as

every moment--there came a deep sound. At first a hum, then, next, a clearer, more defin

the mountain tops o'erhanging the village. Rolled up and swelled, and sunk and rose again, telling how the Lord set ambushments against the children of A

"They have risen. They ha

r own faith? The Protestants?

m his prayers. And he began to pray aloud to God to a

and borne also upon their shoulders, swords, old halberds, musketoons and pistols, in some cases scythes and reaping ho

th. Disturb not the children of God, his persecuted ones. No harm is meant to those who in

To the vile abbé's! To the murderer's! To the house on the bridge! On

l among the moving crowd, and was left lying in the white dust of the roadway, as from th

knelt and cried aloud, "From battle, murder, and s