“This is a dark hour, a time of misery, of bitterness, of despair. The tyrant triumphs; vanity, lust, and blood walk hand in hand across our land! But God, who planted in your breast this fervour, will not patiently endure the blasphemer. You can save His faith, you can raise His land from bondage, you can be the captain of His armies; you can humble the arrogant, break the power of France, and establish a freedom the world has never yet known.”
He turned his luminous gaze on to the upturned face of the young Prince, who seemed to have hushed his very breath to listen.
“Your way will not be easy; there will be dangers, disappointments, sneers, oppositions, failures. You must taste humiliation, you must endure sickness, you must have great patience and great courage. When you long for peace you will be driven into the combat. Very few will understand; there will be railing, calumny—factions to be met and silenced. I see ahead down the years, and I see this: struggles, bitterness, despair—but in your heart you will know that you are the elect of God, and that you fight His battles.”
There was a tense silence. Slowly, in a low voice, at last the Prince answered—
“I will try to be worthy.”
He dropped his face into his hands and hid it against the coverlet. M. Triglandt lightly stroked the long brown locks.
“And I see something of your reward too. I see this land a refuge for God’s people, I see them bless your name. In sickness and defeat it shall comfort you that you have so protected the Reformed religion that she shall never be in danger again; you will have opened the floodgates of liberty, and no one shall close them more.”
He gasped, struggling with his breath; then his clear, inspired voice went on—
“Maybe you will die before this reward comes, maybe you will never see the result of your labours. Men may never give you the honour; but yours will be the glory if now you dare what no other man does dare—or will!”