The Chevalier's daughter : $b or, An exile for the truth — John Shaqi
The Chevalier's daughter : $b or, An exile for the truthGuernsey, Lucy Ellen
History
The Chevalier's daughter : $b or, An exile for the truth
Guernsey, Lucy Ellen
France -- History -- Louis XIV, 1643-1715 -- Juvenile fiction; Historical fiction; Huguenots -- France -- Juvenile fiction
Worse still, many convents were known to be schools of worldliness and
vice, where the most dissolute manners prevailed. This was notably the
case with the rich houses near Paris, where the superiors were often
appointed by the king's mistress for the time being, and the convent
was a resort for the young gentlemen of the court.
But it was upon the pastors that the vials of wrath were most lavishly
poured out. Some, whose flocks were already scattered, escaped to
foreign lands, but many remained behind to comfort their afflicted
brethren. These were never for one moment in security. They journeyed
from place to place in all sorts of disguises. They slept in dens and
caves of the earth, or under the open sky; holding a midnight meeting
here, comforting a dying person or a bereaved parent there; now
celebrating the Lord's Supper, in some lonely grange or barn, to those
of the faithful who had risked everything to break together the bread
of life once more; now baptizing a babe, perhaps by the bedside of its
dying mother, or uniting some loving and faithful pair of lovers who
wished to meet the evils of life together. *
* See any collection of Huguenot memoirs.
Hunted down like wild beasts, they were condemned, if captured, to the
gallows or the wheel, without even the pretence of a trial, after all
temptations of pardons and rewards had failed to shake their faith.
Now and then—very rarely—some one abjured; but, as I have said, these
usually abjured their abjuration at the first opportunity, or died in
agonies of remorse and despair.
As I have remarked before, our narrow corner of the world had hitherto
got off easily, and we lived in comparative safety and in friendship
with our neighbors. But the time was coming, and close at hand, when
the storm was to reach alike the lofty aerie and the lowly nest.
My mother, I believe, would have been glad to emigrate at once. She
thought with longings inexpressible of her quiet English home in the
valley of Tre Madoc, of the old red stone house overhung with trees,
where dwelt peace and quietness, with none to molest or make afraid; of
the little gray church on the moor, with its tall tower, which served
as a beacon to the wandering sailor, where the pure word of God was
preached, and the old people and little children came every Sunday.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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