they must die on the threshold of their own land, like rats caught in a trap. There was no time for much calculation. Arnaud drew his men together, and briefly told them what they must do.
‘Beyond the pass is the vale of Luserna, Angrogna, and the homes we love. The pass is held by two, perhaps three, or even four hundred troops. We must force it, or die. God, who hath helped thus far, will not forsake us now. Ask His aid, Vaudois, not with your lips only, but with your lifted hearts. His strength is with us, as He hath indeed shown us from the moment we left the wood at Nyon. For my part, I can trust Him to give us victory even here. What say you, Vaudois?’
There was a hoarse murmur, a sound more significant than articulate words. The haggard, hungry faces were alight with a living faith, an ardent hope.
‘Lead on,’ said one in whom they trusted, Montoux, the second in command to Arnaud. ‘Lead on! a blow struck swiftly needs not to be struck twice. Two hundred or four, what matters it, since they must be encountered? and so lead on.’
Then Henri Botti stepped to the front, leading Madeleine.
‘My wife well knows these hills; here she was reared, and her father’s farm stretched yonder up towards Mount Cornan. She crossed the pass this morning at the sunrising, and saw where the enemy lies to bar our path. There is a way, a toilsome and dangerous way truly, but still one that can be trodden by Vaudois’ feet, and it will lead us out beyond the crown of the defile, beyond the garrison that holds it against us.’
‘It is really so,’ said Madeleine, speaking out simply before them all. ‘The path is scarcely more than a track for wild goats, but it will serve.’
‘Aye, it will serve,’ said Arnaud. ‘Gaspard Botta, do thou go with thy mother in advance. And as for this maiden——’
‘She stays at my side, an it please thee,’ interrupted the foster-mother quickly. ‘She is my comfort, my charge, my daughter that is to be—Rénée Janavel of Rora.’
The name was enough. Some few who had looked grave at the idea of trusting at so important a crisis to a woman’s guidance turned eagerly to look at this girl, the descendant of the old chief Janavel, the man who was waiting even now at Geneva to hear how they had fared. She had something of his bearing too, the same high brow and lofty carriage of the head; ah, yes, it was only fitting that one of the name of Janavel should lead again the warriors of the valleys.