And much the same he wrote thirty years after, when he and Pastor Arnaud planned the Glorious Return.
It was no marvel that Rénée, Gaspard Botta’s betrothed wife, blushed as she spoke of fear. The blood of her heroic grandsire ran in her veins. She too could trust in God, and for His sake endure.
There was a time of peace after that terrible persecution. The whole of Protestant Europe had remonstrated against the cruelties and horrors that had taken place. Oliver Cromwell, then governing England, sent an ambassador to Turin to enforce, if possible, his indignant demand for mercy. Holland, Switzerland, the German Protestant powers, and even a large number of French subjects, all sent messengers to the Duke of Savoy. And they sent also large sums—more than a million francs—to relieve the most pressing necessities of the homeless and the destitute.
The Duke of Savoy died, and under the rule of his son, Victor Amadeus II., the Vaudois had some years of peace. They showed their gratitude for this forbearance by loyally defending the frontier against the Genoese, and by eagerly helping to quell the banditti infesting the mountain passes. They sought to prove, with a devotion that borders upon pathos, that they also could be good subjects, that their allegiance to their God only heightened their loyalty to their sovereign.
It was then that Rénée Janavel sang as she sewed the long seams in the linen store that her foster-mother had spun. It was then that Gaspard would whistle as his plane cut through the white plank, and the shavings fell, silky and shining, about his feet.
Even the grim house-master would let the suspicion of a smile lurk under the straight moustache of iron-grey that almost hid his lips. He could remember the times of terror—oh, yes, he could remember them only too well!—but ferns and wreaths of mauve auricula were now growing about the ruins that had then been made so fearsome; and the mulberries were flourishing again; and it was a comfort to see Mother Madeleine about and well after her sharp attack of fever a year or two ago; and Emile and Gaspard had grown sturdy and strong—the finest young men in all Rora; and Rénée—the child—was always singing when she was not laughing: what a gay, sweet heart it was, to be sure! And, all things considered, it was no marvel that Henri Botta now and then forgot all the ghastly doings of the past, and let a smile dawn upon his lips or glimmer in his eyes.
