The two women could give Arnaud very full and important information as
to the whereabouts of the enemy. Madeleine, who knew every yard of the
ground, could explain just where a passage was possible, exactly where
the best hope lay of forcing or outflanking the Savoy guard. In their
hurried escape at daybreak they had seen the spot chosen for the defence
of the pass, and they could guess at the number of men entrenched behind
the giant boulders, and the means they had taken to render the natural
defences of the place impregnable.
The Vaudois halted about three or four miles from the crest of the
gorge, well on the Prali side, and out of sight of the duke’s men. There
was not one amongst them all but knew the enormous importance of the
next few hours. If they were repulsed and beaten back, the Marquis de
Larrey, who was in command of the French troops beyond the Doire, or the
Marquis de Parelle, who held the Valley of St. Martino, would be on
their track, and
[Illustration: THE ROCK OF BALSILLE.]
they must die on the threshold of their own land, like rats caught in a
trap. There was no time for much calculation. Arnaud drew his men
together, and briefly told them what they must do.
‘Beyond the pass is the vale of Luserna, Angrogna, and the homes we
love. The pass is held by two, perhaps three, or even four hundred
troops. We must force it, or die. God, who hath helped thus far, will
not forsake us now. Ask His aid, Vaudois, not with your lips only, but
with your lifted hearts. His strength is with us, as He hath indeed
shown us from the moment we left the wood at Nyon. For my part, I can
trust Him to give us victory even here. What say you, Vaudois?’
There was a hoarse murmur, a sound more significant than articulate
words. The haggard, hungry faces were alight with a living faith, an
ardent hope.
‘Lead on,’ said one in whom they trusted, Montoux, the second in command
to Arnaud. ‘Lead on! a blow struck swiftly needs not to be struck twice.
Two hundred or four, what matters it, since they must be encountered?
and so lead on.’
Then Henri Botti stepped to the front, leading Madeleine.
‘My wife well knows these hills; here she was reared, and her father’s
farm stretched yonder up towards Mount Cornan. She crossed the pass
this morning at the sunrising, and saw where the enemy lies to bar our
path. There is a way, a toilsome and dangerous way truly, but still one
that can be trodden by Vaudois’ feet, and it will lead us out beyond the
crown of the defile, beyond the garrison that holds it against us.’
‘It is really so,’ said Madeleine, speaking out simply before them all.
‘The path is scarcely more than a track for wild goats, but it will
serve.’
‘Aye, it will serve,’ said Arnaud. ‘Gaspard Botta, do thou go with thy
mother in advance. And as for this maiden----’
‘She stays at my side, an it please thee,’ interrupted the foster-mother
quickly. ‘She is my comfort, my charge, my daughter that is to be--Rénée
Janavel of Rora.’
The name was enough. Some few who had looked grave at the idea of
trusting at so important a crisis to a woman’s guidance turned eagerly
to look at this girl, the descendant of the old chief Janavel, the man
who was waiting even now at Geneva to hear how they had fared. She had
something of his bearing too, the same high brow and lofty carriage of
the head; ah, yes, it was only fitting that one of the name of Janavel
should lead again the warriors of the valleys.
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.
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.