The foster-sisters

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

In effect, we heard in a moment, a tremendous outcry, many shots fired, and other sounds which told us that a combat was going on. The tumult died away by degrees, but was renewed once or twice, as though the robbers were making a desperate defense. There was an interval of silence, and then a manly, cheerful voice called aloud, as it seemed, from the stairs:

"The reverend mothers and sisters may now come from their hiding places without fear. Their enemies are all prisoners in the hands of the king's troops. Laudate dominium."

I suppose this Latin phrase was a kind of watchword to let our superiors know that all was right. Anxious as we all were to escape from our prison, there was no haste. We arranged our dresses as decently as possible, for in a convent one learns to dress without the help of a mirror; the priest took up the Host, and, in procession as we descended, we emerged to the light of day—for it was now morning, and the sky was brightening toward sunrise. We found the court occupied by a company of soldiers, with a young officer in command, keeping guard over a number of prisoners. Several dead bodies were stretched out on the stones, and two or three wounded wretches were groaning among them.

Officers and men saluted reverently as the Host was borne past them, and all but those necessary to guard the prisoners, followed into the church. We took our places in the choir, and mass was said at the despoiled altar. Then, measures were taken for the care of the wounded. Two expired almost immediately, in the very act of confession; the other lingered a few days, and died, so Sister Baptista told me, very humble and penitent.

But what a sad sight was our poor house! Windows were dashed to pieces, furniture broken and destroyed in mere wantonness. Our beautiful garden was a trampled waste—even the great rose bush said to have been planted by the hands of Mother Angelique herself, and one of our greatest treasures, was hacked off at the roots.

"The wretches—the wicked sacrilegious villains!" exclaimed Sister Lazarus, bursting into tears as she came on the body of her favorite cat, and saw the poor kittens trying in vain to attract their mother's notice. "I can't help it, if it is wicked—I am glad they fell into the pool—I hope it was the very one that killed my cat—our cat I mean," added the sister, correcting herself, for in a convent it is a great sin to say that any thing is mine. "I made an act of forgiveness when I found my beautiful stew-pans all dashed to pieces, but such a sight as this is too much."

So saying she gathered the bereaved little kittens into her apron and carried them off to comfort them as she best could. One of our cows had been shot, as it seemed, in sheer wantonness; the other being shut in a cow-house at the bottom of the orchard had escaped.

It was only natural that a few tears should be shed over the destruction of pet plants and fowls and the general desolation, but there was no giving way to idle sorrow. All set to work with a will to put things in the best order possible, and so industrious were we, that by the next day when the bishop arrived, things had assumed something of their usual aspect.

But no pains of ours could restore vines and flowers, or set up the ruined fountain, or mend the beautiful and wonderful stained glass, whose fragments strewed the court, or bring our poor old dog and cow to life. The bishop brought with him a magistrate and other officers, and there was a great examination and perquisition about the affair, but I don't know how it was—the thing was hushed up after a while and nothing was done. Only the bishop paid two or three visits, and finally it was made known among us that before cold weather came, the community would be moved to a smaller but much more comfortable and secure house near Toulon.

I must not forget to say that Sister Filomena arrived in the train of the bishop, riding all by herself in a litter, and dressed in a brand new robe of quite another fashion from ours. We were surprised enough to see her, and still more to hear that it was she who had carried the news of our danger to Toulon.