The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

The only gentry beside ourselves were the Le Roys, from near Sartilly, who had brought their child for baptism. Not one of the family is alive now. Of that little company, more than half witnessed for their faith on the scaffold or under the muskets of their enemies. I suppose so many of the Religion could not now be gathered in all Normandy.

It was touching to see the joy of the poor people at having a pastor once more. Many of them had seen Monsieur Bertheau before. These crowded round him, and happy was the man or woman who could obtain a grasp of his hand or a word from his lips. But there was little time to be spent in friendly greetings. The congregation took their places, and the service began.

When I shut my eyes, how vividly the whole scene comes before me—the rough vault, but dimly lighted by a few wax torches; the earnest, calm face and silver hair of the pastor; the solemn, attentive congregation, the old people occupying the front rank, that their dull ears might not lose a word; Monsieur and Madame Le Roy, with their beautiful babe wrapped in a white cashmere shawl. I can smell the scent of the apples and the hay mingled with the earthy, mouldy smell of the vault, and hear the melodious voice, trembling a little with age, as the old man read:

"I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you."
"If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you."

I think no one can fully understand these words who has not heard them under circumstances of danger, or at least of sorrow. Andrew was deeply affected by them; and when the little lily-white babe was brought forward for baptism, he put down his head and almost sobbed aloud. My father had been somewhat unwilling to have him run the risk of attending the meeting, but he had insisted, and he told me afterward, and has often told me since, that he would not have missed it for anything.

I know that the service was greatly blessed to my own heart, and for a long time afterward, I was quite a different creature—I may say, indeed, for all my life, since, though for a time choked by the thorns of this world, the seed sown that night always remained, and at last, as I hope, has borne some fruit to the sower.

Our meeting was not to pass off without an alarm. The pastor had just finished distributing the bread and wine when one of the lookouts came down to say that he had heard a distant sound like the galloping of horses, which drew nearer every moment. All were at once on the alert. The lights were extinguished below, and also in the kitchen above. Another great cellar opened from the one we were in, and here, since there was no time to get away, we hid ourselves, waiting in breathless suspense, but calm and collected, for whatever might be coming. The very youngest children never uttered a cry or whimper, and the only sound heard was a whispered prayer or encouragement passed from one to another.

But oh how welcome was the voice which announced that the alarm was a false one! A herd of young horses had broken from their pasture and rushed abroad over the fields, scared, perhaps, by some stray wolf. It was thought best to break up our gathering at once, and exchanging short but earnest farewells, we all reached our homes in safety. Several of the old people, worn-out by the fatigue and agitation, died within a short time, and the sweet babe only survived its baptism for a few weeks. Happy child to be taken in its innocence from the evil to come.

The next night the pastor left us. He went out in a fishing-boat, hoping to meet an English ship which was expected off the coast, but the ship was detained by contrary winds. A sudden storm came up, and the boat was capsized. With him were two sailors, sons of a widow in the little village from which he embarked. One perished; the other was picked up and carried to Jersey, where he lay long ill of a fever. But he recovered at last, and it was from him we heard the story.