Long afterwards the story was told in Vaudois’ homes of how the Pass of Guliano was won; of how the mountaineers crept along the dangerous ways, winning foothold and advancement where it was hard to believe that armed men could go; and always before them was Madeleine Botta, hale and noble in her age and homely dignity; and at her side, with hand held ever out to aid her foster-mother, and eye watchful for each sign of danger, trod the grandchild of their hero, Rénée Janavel. And over and over the tale was repeated how the enemy broke and fled, leaving behind them provision, ammunition, and baggage; a welcome store for the men who came empty and poor in all things save belief in their cause and faith in their God.
Before the sun set the Savoy guard were fugitives on the mountain side, and the Vaudois stood shoulder to shoulder on the Col di St. Guliano, gazing down on the Luserna Valley, the very heart of their fatherland, the goal of their dearest hopes.
There was a renewed strength in Henri Botta’s face and mien as he led his wife into the rear, and brought her food from the Savoy stores, and water to bathe her bruised and bleeding feet. And as he tended her and Rénée he turned to kiss the forehead of his adopted child with fervent love and pride.
‘God has indeed blessed me, since my old eyes behold once more not only Piedmont, but you!’ he said, turning from one to the other, as if he found it hard to believe that they were there in very flesh and blood.
‘I have dreamed of you often—of you and of the old house at Rora; as I have dreamed sometimes of God’s angels and the fields of heaven. This then is true,’ he laid his knotted hand on Madeleine’s. ‘I verily behold! and the other dream, the heavenly one, is yet to be realised.’
Rénée was crying softly, for very joy and weariness; it was sweet to feel that the lonely struggle was over at last, that she and her mother, Madeleine, were encircled with friendly care, and held safe in loving companionship. The long months and years of hiding and terror were past—the waiting-time had ended in content. And yet the Vaudois had but entered the borders of their Canaan, the victory was yet to be gained, the return was yet to be accomplished.
Arnaud knew that this was so, and his look, though as firm of faith as ever, was grave to sadness as he gazed down on Luserna from the Col di St. Guliano. He knew that hitherto his men had conquered by the wild dash of their onslaught, by the sudden and unexpected way they attacked the French and Savoy troops. This could not continue.
No reinforcements could come from the wasted Vaudois villages, no ammunition could be reckoned on save what they could wrench from the enemy, unless it were the stones from the hill-side which might be used instead of bullets; and as for food they must trust to the half-ripe corn in the fields, and to the produce of such farms as dotted the glens and slopes.
Every day would raise fresh difficulties for them—every mile of ground must be gained by battle, and held by costly strife; and as the struggle swept here and there through the valleys how were the wounded to be tended, or the dead to have Christian burial?
It was no wonder that Arnaud’s brow was lined with anxious thought, as his glance swept the country lying before the entrance to the pass. There was stern work in front of his men, and he knew it.