The next day the Vaudois took Bobbio without much difficulty, and they attacked the large town of Villaro in the midst of the Luserna Valley. This latter place was defended by veteran troops, and the duke’s general succeeded in thronging into it a large body of reinforcements: and then what Arnaud had foreseen occurred. The Vaudois were beaten back, and obliged to disperse, scattering themselves over the Vandalin range, the very ground where Henri Botta and his sons had retreated before that terrible storm of death and fanaticism in 1686. The papal forces had triumphed then, the mountaineers were driven like autumn leaves before a gale. Was this to be their fate again, now, after such high hopes and glorious imaginings?
Their chronicler writes: ‘The defeat at Villaro changed their tactics; henceforth they attacked rarely, and then only convoys, advanced posts, and detached columns. They entrenched themselves in mountainous retreats difficult of access, in natural fortresses easy of defence, while their detachments scoured the country to obtain provisions. It was on the declivities of their mountains, in the centre of their verdant pastures, once covered with their flocks, but now solitary, that they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as might be; decided, as they were, to die in their heritage, on their widowed and desolate soil, or to wring from their prince an honourable peace, and freedom to worship their God.’
But during these trial days they had what they lacked in 1686. Arnaud was their leader, their comforter, their minister. With a courage that never flagged, and a simple faith that was as strong as the sunlight, he preached to them the old enthusiastic trust in the power and the grace of God.
These critical days lasted throughout September, and on the 22nd of October two thousand French troops crossed the frontier, to unite with the duke’s forces, and once more ‘sweep the valleys clean of heresy.’ Then Arnaud called a council, and asked each man if he had any plan to propose, any refuge or resource to indicate. But, for the most part, they recognised the dire necessity of the case, without being able to advise a remedy.
‘We can conquer the villages, we can force the passes,’ they said sadly, ‘but we cannot hold possession of the valleys—we, so poor a remnant, so helpless a company.’
‘Neither so poor nor so helpless as those with less righteousness in their cause,’ said Gaspard Botta. But he was a young man, and modest, as became his years, therefore his words were almost unheard in the conclave.
It was the leader, Arnaud, who decided on what was to be done. At best it was but a forlorn hope.
Northwards, just within the frontiers of the Vaudois valleys, is Balsille, a village on the Germanasque stream: here Arnaud determined to make a stand. It was a natural fortress, and strong enough, he thought, to be held—at least throughout the winter.
It is a wonderful citadel, this Rock of Balsille: a lofty hill broken into terraces, with fountains of water, and a peak commanding the country for miles around, where sentinels might give timely warning of the advance of the foe. Here they were savagely attacked by the whole strength of the French troops; but the soldiers beat against the place in vain, for the mountaineers had seized every corner of vantage, and had strengthened by earthworks and entrenchments the almost precipitous cliff.