The Silent Prince/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
THE HUGUENOT PREACHER.
In all the large towns and cities throughout Holland and Belgium, and even in Brussels, where resided the Regent, the preaching of the reformed faith was carried forward. Now winked at, now persecuted with the utmost vigor, always exposed to mortal peril, the Reformation never lacked fearless and devoted preachers. Some of these were converted monks, like Christopher Fabricius, Hermann Strycker and Peter Dathenus. Others were men of humble calling and no education, who, unfortunately for themselves and others, remembered at this time that the early disciples were not doctors of theology or the proud possessors of diplomas from the centres of learning. These curriers, barbers, tinkers, and dyers began to preach also. It is a sad fact that their ill-timed exhortations sometimes did more to retard the cause of the Reformation than to advance it.
But the charge of illiteracy could not be levelled at stich preachers as Ambrose Wille, Guy de Bray, Peregrine de la Grange and Francis Junius, all men of culture and learning, and all scions of the noblest houses in France and Belgium. These men had been educated at the most celebrated universities, and had studied theology at the feet of Calvin.
After his meeting with the preacher, Hugo Berlaymont spent the remainder of the day in the library. At dusk, he had no difficulty in leaving the house unobserved, for his uncle was away, and the servants were too much occupied with their own affairs to watch his movements. This night expedition had about it all the coloring of a romance, and the spice of danger only deepened the fascination.
The shop of the celebrated hairdresser was brilliantly lighted, and several patrons were receiving the attentions of the tonsorial artists, when Hugo entered the door. Monsieur le Févre came forward with smiles and eloquent gestures of welcome. Yet a gleam of suspicion lurked in his eye, as he beheld the nephew of Baron Berlaymont,—the man of whom it was asserted that he had but one passion stronger than his pride, and that was his bigotry: that slavish vassal of the Church, whose fanaticism and cruelty had earned for him the title, “Tiger of Brussels.”
“How can I serve my lord?” said Monsieur, bowing obsequiously.
Hugo drew the hairdresser aside, and said in a whisper, “I desire speech with the preacher who is to come here to-night. I met and talked with him to-day. He said the word ‘Fidelity’ would admit me to his presence.” Le Févre looked into the youth's honest cyes, and was satisfied with their expression.
“All right!” he said briefly. “Follow me.”
After looking around and seeing that the last customer had been served, Monsieur told his attendants to close the shop for the night. He then said in a loud voice to Hugo, “Perfumes, did you say? Come, my lord, into the next room, and I will show you some perfumes worthy of your inspection. It only remains for you to select the odor you prefer. Many young gentlemen are fond of musk, but to me it is very disagreeable.”
The door which led into the front shop being closed, it is needless to state that Le Févre and his companion did not loiter to test the quality of concentrated extracts. Behind a curtain was a door, and through this the two entered a long, dimly lighted passage, passed through another door, and then down a flight of stairs into a large cellar.
About a hundred people were present, mostly men and women from the humble walks of life―mechanics, artisans, farmers, bakers—all sons of toil, with their wives and children. It needed but a glance into those earnest, devout faces to read the tale of suffering and devotion to a well-chosen cause. Old men with whitened locks were there, who, though unable by reason of feebleness to defend their faith, yet were willing to suffer for its preservation. Tender women were there with faces of sweet resignation. Boys and girls hardly old enough to grasp the great truths of their faith, or to fully comprehend its dangers, were there, as well as men in the prime of their life, who were fully determined to fight valiantly for their own convictions. Calamity and ruin menaced every one present, yet the audience sat listening with eagerness to every word which fell from the lips of their beloved preacher; words which, if overheard by their enemies, would deliver them over to certain destruction. A hymn was being sung when the hairdresser and his companion entered the cellar. They sat down in the rear of the audience, unobserved, except for a few persons. The only light in the cellar was from a single lamp, so placed that its rays shone directly upon the preacher's face, and brought out in bold relief his stern, pale features. Thought and sorrow and hardship had ploughed deep furrows on that noble countenance, and robbed it of every vestige of color. Pale as marble, it gleamed from under the dark hair. His eyes surveyed his unlettered audience, and seemed to divine the secret thoughts of the men and women before him.
The preacher was attired in a dark suit, noticeable for its simplicity and lack of ornamentation. A dagger hung by his side. In fact, every man present had a weapon of some kind concealed about his person. The Netherlanders believed in the righteousness of armed resistance, and their preachers were of necessity men of war.
When Francis Junius rose to speak, Hugo Berlaymont forgot everything else, and gazed as one fascinated into the dark, attractive face. Junius was pre-eminently an orator. Feeling deeply the truth of the message he had to bring, he swept others by storm. Yet he never so far forgot himself but what he held immense forces in reserve. He possessed the graceful eloquence, the picturesque diction, and striking imagery of the south, combined with a magnetic voice, which was capable of expressing every shade of emotion.
God's pioneers in the Reformation were strong, rugged, uncompromising men, like Martin Luther, John Knox, John Calvin. These men were like the backwoodsman, who with axe in hand hews a path through the primeval forest. Junius was the representative of a class of preachers who came after, and who by their persuasive logic won by love what the others had gained through fear. Each type of reformer was necessary in God's plan.
The preacher's text was in the words of Jesus, “I came not to bring peace upon the earth, but a sword”; and his discourse included a vigorous denouncement of the cruel edicts, and an appeal for resistance.
“Brethren of the Netherlands,” he said, “we are commanded to wield the sword in this righteous cause. God calls us to be the weapon with which to overcome falsehood and oppression. Though you are among the least of the nations, you may yet win victories which shall place you among the greatest. The contest shall be that of all humanity. You may yet expel the seeds of disease from this soil. You are not yet exiled and hunted, like your brethren, the unhappy Huguenots. Exert yourselves to save your native land. Linger not until the bloody edicts of the oppressor shall be enforced. I know from experience that ‘the bread of the exile is bitter, and tears fall into his cup.’
“In this age men are tested and judged. What shall be written of you? That you fought the good fight of faith, and delivered your native land from the hand of the destroyer? or that you submitted like cowards, and allowed the tyrant to plant his heel on your necks? Think you that submission will bring mercy? Look at Spain! Then lay aside all dreams of mercy. In Span the auto da fé still sends up its lurid fires; the rack is never without a victim, her prisons are always crowded. Our enemies have shown us that their forbearance is reluctant weakness, that their persecutions are triumphant power. Brethren of the Netherlands, will you suffer such atrocities to take place on this free soil?”
The audience was strongly moved. The men clenched their fists, and their eyes flashed fire. Their labored breathing sounded like a reply to the preacher's question.
Junius raised his hand and all was silent. With a face working with suppressed emotion, he leaned forward and said:
“Brethren, let me relate what I last heard from the Inquisition in Spain. You all know about the dreadful oubliette, that dark, sealed dungeon, where the poor victim is starved by degrees. The other day one of these dreadful places was opened. Only the skeleton of a man was found, but on the wall above his head he had traced with a piece of charcoal his confession of faith: ‘O Christ, they may separate me from Thy Church, but they cannot separate me from Thee.’
“Remember this, my brethren: it is not alone for our own sakes that we are willing to suffer, but for Christ's sake. It is for His sake that we are killed all the day long. But thanks be to God, we shall yet come off more than conquerors, through Him who hath loved us.”
The preacher's face lighted up with a serene smile, which lent to it a singular charm. For the moment he looked youthful. All the traces of care, sorrow and hardship which the last few years had written upon his features were effaced by this expression of exquisite joy. Raising his eyes and lifting his hands he cried, “O Thou, once crucified and now glorified Redeemer, stand Thou before our eyes, as Thou wast last seen by Thine infant church, with Thy hands extended over Thy people to bless them. Thy children need Thee. As Thy reign upon earth was inaugurated by the murder of little children, so even to this day innocent blood is being shed.”
Hardly were these words uttered, when a lurid glare shone through the windows, and made the entire cellar as light as day. Sounds of confusion, accompanied by the tramp of hurried feet and the echo of many voices, broke upon the stillness. A nameless fear fell upon this little band of disciples.