a terrified whisper, putting his hand over Laurent's mouth. "If Father Gerome heard you!" "He may hear me and welcome," said Laurent. "I wish he would put me to death and done with it. He might as well first as last.' "Blessed Madonna!" said poor Father Paul. "If the boy is not as obstinate as ever and I am sure Father Francis, when he had him brought up, said there were signs of grace in him;" and the little old gentleman trotted up and down the cell in great perturbation of mind. "Ah, indeed!" said Laurent; "that explains. No, father, there are no signs of grace, as you understand it, in me at all; and I am sure Father Francis knew better. However, if it was a pious fraud, it was rather better employed than the lies Don Gabriel told our people in Angrogne." "He will destroy himself and me too," said Father Paul, wringing his hands. "Why, blessed saints! Don Gabriel is the uncle of his royal highness." "So much the worse for his royal highness, then," said Laurent, who, having for the first time in three weeks the liberty of his tongue, seemed determined to make a suicidal use of that natural not waste the time in disputing. How does it happen that they let you come to me? For the last three weeks I have seen no one but brother Thomas, who makes a point of never speaking to me, and Father Gerome, whose conversation is not agreeable, and once the Superior, who only came to threaten me with fires, temporal and eternal. Indeed, I am more than glad to see your kind face again." Poor Father Paul gave a sympathetic little sigh, and wiped his eyes. He was a gentle, soft-hearted creature, and not even convent training had been able to overcome his natural humanity. "O! my son, my little son, my dear little bit of a son!" said the good father, in his caressing Italian. "If you would but let me tell the reverend Superior that you would conform, O, how glad I should be! Now do, my dear child, do," pleaded the old man. "Dearest father," said Laurent, "if I were to be converted for any one, it would certainly be for you; but after all this time, it is useless to urge me. How does it happen that you are here?" "Brother Gerome is with the reverend Superior, having just returned from Turin, where he has been, as you know, for the last ten days. Brother Thomas is in the infirmary, and I asked permission to bring you your supper." "I am glad of that, at any rate, for I have had nothing but a piece of bread since morning. It is an odd way to make Easter a fast." "It is but a poor supper," said Father Paul, ruefully; and opening the door he brought in a pitcher of water and a tolerable piece of the hard bread of the valleys, very much like ship biscuit, which he had left outside in his hurry. "It don't depend on me, you know, my son," said Father Paul, with a wistful look. "I know that very well. If everything had depended on you, even the heretics would have had a very easy life. You were never made for a persecutor, dear father. It is not in you to be a very active member of the society 'De extirpandis hereticis'-is that the style and title?" "It might be my duty, you know, to root out heresy," said Father Paul, timidly, "and keep people from destroying the souls of others." "You might be made to think it was your duty," said Laurent; "but, father, you never would do it. No preaching friar, however eloquent, would ever make you into a Moneta."* "St. Francis! How audacious he is, this boy! The venerable Father Moneta was a most learned, a most holy man!" "I have nothing to say about his learning, but his idea of holiness and yours must be very different. Do you think, dear father, that this most holy man would have treated me as you do?" "Ave Maria gratiæ plena, ora pro nobis nunc et in hora mortis nostrae," said the monk, devoutly crossing himself. "What can I do? The flesh is weak, and I never could bear to see so much as a dog hurt, and you barbetti are obstinate heretics to be sure; but flesh and blood are what they are. It is true the Church and his Royal Highness have only done their duty in rooting out heresy with fire and sword, and our reverend Superior is quite right to try to bring you to a sense of your errors, my son, even by means that are painful to the flesh; but yet-hush now, hush, my dear boy!" and here Father Paul bent down cautiously, and peered through the hole in the door to see that no one was looking or listening. Then with nervous haste he drew from the breast of his robe a plump little flask of red wine, a slice of white bread, and a most tempting bunch of raisins, obtained in some mysterious manner from the convent stores. It is much to be feared that, to get hold of these refreshments, the good father had indulged in some representations not strictly in accordance with facts. Lying, however, in the Church of Rome, is a venial sin, and Father Paul probably said paters and aves enough to settle this little account between himself and the saints to his own satisfaction. * Moneta, originally a professor at Bologna, afterwards distinguished as Inquisitor at Milan, was "converted by a preaching friar. "Drink it, my son, quick!" said the old man, pouring the wine into the earthen cup intended to hold nothing but water, and almost choking the boy in his eagerness to make him swallow the forbidden luxury. "Ah! it has made me miserable to think of you shut up here on bread and water, and I fear scant measure of that. I give you my word, that I could hardly eat my portion. though it was the feast, and I would have slipped a bit of something into my sleeve, only that Brother Thomas was watching me all the time with his sharp eyes, as if he knew just what I wanted, and he would be sure to tell Father Gerome. Ah! he is a gifted man, a zealous man, Father Gerome. I wish he might be removed to some station in the Church where his gifts might be better exercised." "Indeed I wish he might be!" said Laurent, recovering his breath with some difficulty. "Thank you most kindly, Father Paul, but do not get into trouble for me, I entreat." "No; I am safe enough. Holy saints! There is some one coming!" and Father Paul whipped the raisins under the bed covering, and hid the flask in his gown, with a dexterity which bespoke some practice in the art of concealment. "Ah!" he said, with an accent of joyful relief and welcome, as the door opened, "it is our blessed Father Francis, come back from Pignerol." The new comer was a tall monk, strikingly noble in feature and presence, but so white, worn, and emaciated, that he looked more like a ghost than a man. His manner and movements were remarkably graceful and dignified, and his whole air had the quiet, unconcious authority of one "Less used to sue than to command." Nevertheless, his fine face had a strained, suffering, half anxious look that might be the result of ill health, for Father Francis had very nearly killed himself with fasting and penance, and was looked upon by the devout as a saint. Though he was little Father Paul's superior in office, he knelt and respectfully asked the old man's blessing, which the elder priest, for Father Paul was of that rank, bestowed with mingled reverence and affection, and then looked up at his tall friend, as he rose, with a half scared, beseeching expression, as much as to say: "Now don't tell of me, if you do know what I have been about." Peace be with you, my son," said Father Francis to Laurent, in a very measured but not unkindly voice. "I hope you are stronger than when I saw you last." "Thanks, reverend father," said Laurent, with respect, "I think I am.' "You will go with Father Paul to the service?" said Father Francis, half asking a question, half issuing a command. "I must needs obey you, reverend father," said Laurent, "but you know that I can take no part in the invocation of the saints, nor bow down before the host." A troubled look came over the monk's face. "My son," he said, with some anxiety in his tone, "I had hoped you were less obstinate, and would not treat our holy services with contempt." me. They can torture, they can kill me, but nothing more; and would to God my time were come!" "But-but," said poor Father Paul, sorely distracted in mind, "can't you just say the word, you know-that will be no harm surely-only one little word." "Nothing but a lie," said Laurent. "I tell you, Father Paul, I don't care a straw for my life. Every one is gone that I cared for on earth. If my father is living, and I hope he is not, I shall never see him again; my friends are dead or exiled, my house is left to me desolate, and I have no wish remaining, but to join those who have gone before." Father Francis turned away suddenly, and as he did so, his eyes fell on the device which Laurent had scratched on the wall with a little piece of broken glass. He bit his lip, and contracted his forehead, as if with some sudden pain. For a moment he stood gazing at the rude picture, and then carefully effaced it with the sleeve of his robe, until there was nothing but a mass of indistinct marks, which would mean nothing to any new comer. "You can put it out there, reverend father," said Laurent, with a sad smile, "I"but pardon me, I think the light will shine in darkness yet." "I have never done so, reverend father," said Laurent, respectfully. have only refrained from taking part in ceremonies which I thought idolatry. I would not insult any man's worship, if he were a Mahommedan." "Holy saints!" said Father Paul, unspeakably horrified. "He compares the litany of the saints with the worship of Mahommed;" and the little monk crossed himself devoutly. The shadow of a smile passed over Father Francis' white, worn face. "No, my father," he said, "I think that is not his meaning-but, Laurent, I do fear that if you continue obstinate, you may have worse things to suffer than anything you have known." Laurent quietly turned back his loose sleeve, and showed the deep red scar, but half healed, the mark of galling fetters which he had worn for months. "You know what I have endured, reverend father," he said, steadily, "and from what misery your kindness saved "You do not understand of what you talk, my son," said Father Francis, half reproving, half pitying; "I wish you could assure yourself that your cause is hopeless against the power of his royal highness, the Church, and the King of France." "No more hopeless than it was in Holland under Philip of Spain—is it, reverend father?" said Laurent, steadily. "I will not try to argue the matter with you now, my son," said Father Francis, with a faint, sad smile. "But there is the bell for the benediction. Father Paul, will you take the boy with you?" and Father Francis went away, and left Laurent to follow with his old friend. Not having been out of his cell for three weeks, Daurent was not sorry to go even to the chapel of the convent, to which the brethren were now hurrying. Then as now, the Franciscans, in their themselves.* The people of Villar and various brigades and divisions, had the the assembly of the Vaudois Church name, whether deservedly or not, of being proved their innocence so clearly, that the most illiterate of all the monastic or- the threatened destruction was averted ders. Most of the fraternity were of the for a time, but the act was afterwards same type, which may be seen to this made a pretence for the monstrous cruday in any Italian city; some stupid,elties committed in the valleys in 1655. some sensual, some with cruel faces, and The convent had, however, been reëstaball having that mingled expression of fa- lished in March, 1653, by the summary naticism and self-satisfied sanctimonious-process of confiscating a house belonging ness which monastic training seems so apt to produce in men. The broad shoulders, the sturdy limbs and bullet heads of most of the brotherhood, seemed to bespeak them fitter for the ranks of the temporal than of the spiritual army. Among the brethren little meek Father Paul looked as much out of place as a sheep among a herd of buffaloes, and Father Francis' stately air and noble features presented a contrast but too distinctly marked. Many a look of contempt and hatred was bestowed upon Laurent, as one after another went by; and it was only near the door of the chapel that Father Paul's heart betrayed him into a kindly smile and a word of encouragement. to one Jacques Ghiot, to which the monks returned and busied themselves more eagerly than ever, in what they were pleased to call their "holy mission." As a great part of this mission consisted in carrying away, by force or stratagem, the children of the heretics about them, it may be conceived that the fathers were not popular among the primitive inhabitants of the valleys. The original mansion of Jacques Ghiot had been much enlarged and beautified by the gifts of the faithful. The chapel had been built and decorated, and the tall silver candlesticks, the jewelled censer, the rich robes and splendid altar cloths were an offering from the pious ladies of the "society for the propagation of the faith, and the extirpation of hereties." This society was then flourishing at Turin, in the full power and glory of "Be a good boy, figliuolo mio," he said in a whisper, "and no one will harm you." Now this was against all rule, for Fa-sanctity and fashion combined. The asther Paul's eyes should, according to the cheerful convent custom, have been fixed either on the floor or on vacancy, in supposed devout meditation. But Father Paul, being more given to think of others than of himself, did not always adhere as strictly to discipline as the severer members of his order thought proper. A monk, who saw the glance, gave him a stern look of reproval, and instantly took the prisoner into his own custody; and Father Paul dropped his eyes and passed on, lamenting the evil chance which had brought the sub-prior, Father Gerome, up at that precise moment. The convent at Villar, reëstablished under the auspices of Garlaldo, one of the bitterest enemies of the Vaudois Church, had been burned to the ground in 1653, by the inconsiderate passion of a few of the persecuted Vaudois-led on, as was fully proved, by an agent of the monks sociation not only worked energetically for the conversion of heretics, by every means which fanaticism, aristocracy and wealth could bring to bear upon society, but it gave itself greatly to church decoration, partly from devotion, partly because the pretty in religion exerts a great influence over a certain class of minds, and partly, one may be allowed to sus * Leger gives the history of this transaction, with the official correspondence that followed. When one considers the purposes for which this convent was used, and the peculiar manners and customs of the misthat it should have been attacked. It had sionary fathers, it does not seem surprising been established in the face of the Duke's promises to the contrary, and was used not only as a depot for stolen children, but occasionally as a garrison of soldiers to plunder and oppress the people at pleasure. The monks fled on Arnaud's return, and he blew up the building with a mine. pect, because it is possible to heap more millinery upon a whole church than upon one's own small person. These altar decorations, it had been hoped, would have had a great influence upon the heretical mind. But whether it was that the Vaudois had no artistic instincts, or that the mass was too intimately associated in their minds with murder, plunder and torture; or whether the oppressive fanaticism of the monks counteracted the pious influences of gold tinsel, lace, and painted glass, certain it is that very few were tempted to forsake the faith of their fathers by the decorations of the altar, and death, torture and imprisonment had been called on to add their powerful aid to art. Over the altar was a large painting of St. Francis, the founder of the order, when, casting off all his garments but his hair shirt, he renounced all allegiance to Peter Bernardine, his earthly father. Above the altar various angels and saints, all of whom bore a strong resemblance | to monks, were depicted in fresco, soaring among clouds toward a figure intended to represent the Deity. It being Easter Sunday, the altar was in its most gorgeous dress. The usual vesper services had taken place in the afternoon, and the present ceremony was that known as the benediction of the most holy sacrament or as it is usually called, the benediction. The ceremony was got up with every conceivable attraction which the convent resources could furnish, but the silver candlesticks, the rich embroidery, the flowers, the fine statue of the Virgin, which, with their usual taste, the monks had dressed up in colored silk, failed to make any impression on the mind of Laurent Leidet. tually the body of the Lord. Then he knew that much of this magnificence had been purchased by the plundered goods and lands of those whom these very monks had helped to banish, murder and imprison. The price of the very fields, the poor little patrimony that his father had tilled, might have contributed toward those magnificent vestments. "Will ye lie and steal, and commit adultery, and come before me and say, The temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord are these?" As he entered the chapel, the words rang in the boy's ears, as though they had been spoken by a voice from without. For a moment a wild impulse came over him to speak out, then and there, the feeling of his heart, the protest against idolatry which centuries of persecution have only ingrained more deeply in the blood and spirit of his race. Perhaps Father Gerome understood something of the prisoner's rebellious frame of mind, for he closed his hand so tightly on Laurent's arm that the boy could hardly suppress a cry; but he did suppress it, for he would have suffered much before he would have given way before Father Gerome, who led him to a seat apart from the rest, in a well guarded corner of the chapel. When Laurent had first occupied that seat, almost three years before, he had not been alone. There had been several other Vaudois children in the convent, some saved from the massacre, some stolen from their parents before. His companions had, however, been dispersed in various parts of Savoy and Piedimont ; some to private families, some to religious houses; and he alone was, as the monks said, the most obstinate of all the barbets.* Laurent's heart swelled as though it would break, but he bowed his head on his hands, and tried to compose his mind, in some degree, by an almost mechanical repetition of that ancient religious poem, To him the whole thing seemed, as it always had seemed, a puerile ceremony, unworthy alike of the worshipper and of Him whom it was intended to honor. As he watched Father Francis, who, though scarcely able to stand, took the chief part in the service, he could not but wonder whether such a man really believed that means a dog. The word was applied to the Vaudois as a sort of play on the word barbe the little bit of bread shut up in its mag--the well known title of the Vaudois pasnificant case was, as Rome teaches, ac * Barbet, in the dialect of the country, tors. |