University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
The Convent.

It was nearly midnight when Bertrand reached the wood at the entrance of
which Moses told him the lovely fugitive had secured her horse, and at which
point she had disappeared. He and Moses were both on horseback.

`Dis am de very tree, Massa Frank,' said Moses, dismounting and placing his
hand emphatically against the trunk.

`How far it is from here into Boston?' asked Bertrand, after surveying the
place closely.

`It 'bout four mile, p'raps not so much, p'raps it mout be litty bit ober,' answered
Moses. `But she no go to town, coz if she wos I cotch up with her sure,
Massa Frank, coz dat was de fuss road I go looking after her on, soon as I get
the hosses.'

`I will examine this place accurately by daylight, survey the country round
from the top of the hill, see what roads lead from this point and then make my
search; for I shall not let myself rest until I obtain some trace of her,' added
Edward with firmness.

`I hope we find her, Massa Frank; but I 'fraid we nebber see her agen! She
tell me not to look ater her, coz it would be unpossible to find her.'

Bertrand made no reply. He remained walking vp and down before the tree
in a little patch of moonlight that found its way to the ground through the
branches above him. All around him was still. Not a sound disturbed the
woodland stillness of the midnight hour. Bertrand was revolving in his mind
the events that had transpired, and endeavoring to come to some conclusion as
to the place which Marie would be most likely to choose for a refuge.

Suddenly he was conscious of a shout of human voices borne through the air
to his ears, apparently from a great distance.

`Did you hear dat, Massa Frank?' exclaimed Moses starting to his feet, for
he had thrown himself upon the ground to indulge in a nap.

`Yes. There it is repeated and more distinctly. It is the shout of a multitude!
What can it mean?'

`It werry 'markable, massa! P'raps it massa Haywood comin' arter dis
Moses!

`Dont be alarmed! The voices are in another direction—apparently over
this hill and beyond it! Let us hasten to the summit?'

`Mounting, and putting spurs to their horses they galloped to the top of the
hill; and Bertrand seeing the side path which led to the highest elevation, and
the same which Marie had taken four nights before, he entered it and dashed on
to the top, the voices of the multitude growing louder and more imposing in
their volume as he advanced. He soon emerged in the open space, described in
the first chapter of this story, from which he had a full moonlight view of the
convent upon the summit of Mount Benedict over against him. The edifice
stood stately and beautiful in the moon-beams, and a holy calm seemed to surround
and rest upon it. But to the right of the sacred edifice farther down the
hill he beheld a vast black moving mass of human beings, from the bosom of
which ever and anon up rose the fierce shouts that had reached Bertrand's ears
beyond the woodland. He reined in his horse, and stood gazing upon the hill
and listening to the appalling cries with amazement. The dark masses moved
onward and upward like a huge billow, and went roaring as it rolled towards
the convent like the surges of the ocean.

Some of the men he saw bore torches which were waved above their heads
uttering shouts and fierce cries that were undistinguishable from his position.

`What can all this mean?' he exclaimed turning to Moses as if possibly he
might explain.

`Why dat am impossible to say, massa Frank,' answered Moses who looked
quite terrified at the scene before him; but you knows dat is de Convent; and

I hear say t' oder day dat dere was a mity great quarrel tween de town people
and the Catolic's bout a young 'ooman as dey say was stole by em and 'locked
up in dere; and p'raps dis is de people wot is gwine to let her out; coz I stinctly
hearn one voice say jiss now,

`Down wid de gate!'

`Is it possible that this outrage can be meditated? I heard nothing of this
quarrel; but I have been at sea! It impossible that this ferocious multitude
are bent on the destruction of that beautiful and hallowed structure, that seems
so calmly reposing, as if unconsious of the tempestuous waves of human passion
about to break against its walls. Hark! what savage cries! Follow me or remain
here, as you will, Moses; I must go there. There needs one at least who
is not mad at such a scene as this is likely to be! Some one to save and protect
the innocent—for doobtless that building, so fearfully menaced by that
that rolling onward mass, contains females--the young and unprotected, the old
and infirm.

`Me nebber stay behind you, Massa Frank,' answered Moses stoutly.

But his reply did not reach Bertrand's ears, who had put spurs to his horse
and dashed down the hill and across the intervale. As he ascended Mount
Benediet, the shouts of the mob filled the air, and when he came upon the level
of the hill, the gates were already assailed, and men with stones were dashing
in the windows of the convent and others hurling blazing torches through the
openings into the interior. The walls were encompassed with people and cries
of the most terrific and sanguinary character rose on all sides. Being mounted,
Bertrand, who had but one thought, and thnt was of protecting the inmates
whom he could see flying from window to window, filling the air with shrieks,
spurred his horse round to the rear, as the crowd was so dense in front as to
render approach to the entrance they were battering down altogether impossible.
Giving his horse the rein he galloped around the walls to the rear, while
the shouts of the assailants, the thunder of their blows upon the gate, the constant
ringing of the convent bell, and the cries of the inmates fell upon
his ears.

On reaching the rear he saw the garden door thrown open and several females
rush wildly forth.

`Nay—flee not from me, I am here to protect you!' called out Bertrand, as
some of them would have turned back. Haste to some shelter. There is a
house across the field which you had best try to reach. Are there any within
that I can aid? Are all alarmed?'

`I fear not, sir,' answered Teresa, the portress, whom the reader has already
before seen; there are many sleeping in the different rooms—but the lady-Superior
is behind alarming and collecting them all.'

`Fly you with these young girls to yonder house. I will see what I can do
within; for in a few minutes the convent will be in flames and the mob in possession.'

Teresa shrieked and gathering her young charges, full twenty in number,
about her, took the way across the fields. Leaping from his horse and throwing
the rein to Moses, Bertrand hastened through the gardens and entered the
court of the convent. It was filled with females.

`Are all assembled here, my dear madam?' he asked of the lady-Superior
whose dignified appearance at once declared her rank.

`All, sir. We have then a friend among all these foes,' she exclaimed.

`Yes. I am here to do what I can to save you and yours, before the mob enter.
You have no time to lose. The cornice of the wing and the tower are already
in flames; and in another moment the gate will give way.'

`Were it not for these I would here remain and meet the storm and perish,'
answered the lady-Superior firmly.

`Do not hesitate. Through the gardens and to the house in the valley. The
other party have fled in that direction. Haste, and if anything can be done to
save the edifice after you are gone in safety, I will do it.'

`Heaven will not forget your goodness, sir,' answered the lady-Superior as
she retired with the rest of the youthful family under her protection. She had
not reached the outlet of the garden, when the gate yielded, and the mob rushed
in like a torrent. Armed with torches they flew to all parts of the edifice and
kindled it in a hundred different places at once. In a few minutes the red flames

shot their forked tongues high above the roofs and towers, and illuminated the
landscape far and wide. Wildly the convent bell, rang by an aged nun who remainded,
sounded to and fro the alarm, and the bells of the town answered back
from every steeple; but it seemed more like the merry peal of rejoicing than
the stirring fire alarm which rouse all men from deep sleep and moves them to
fly to protect and to save. None came now but to gaze from a distance in wonder
and awe, and some perhaps with sorrow, or to rush onward to aid in the
work of destruction.

Bertrand confronted the mob and made an eloquent appeal to them within
hearing of his voice in behalf of religion, humanity and order. He was not listened
to, and even ferocious looking men with blackened faces pressed upon him
with threats of violence. Every where over the edifice, in the gardens and chapel
the mob dispersed seeking what to destroy, as if fearing the fire would not
do its work. Driven from one wing by the flames and dense smoke they would
retreat to another. Sickened with the scene and his bosom burning with anger
and shame for his country, and melting with pity for the unfortunates who had
been driven forth at midnight, from the sacred covert that was now tumbling
into ruins around him, he mounted his horse on the outside and rode over to see
how the unprotected victims of popular fury, ignorance and guilt were sheltered.

`It is then all in ruins, sir,' said the lady-Superior to him gazing from the door
of the dwelling to which he had ridden up.

`I fear no portion of it will escape their vengeance,' answered Bertrand.

`Are you a son of the church, sir?' she asked fixing her eyes upon him with
grateful interest.

`No, lady, not of the Roman church, but of humanity.'

`The Protestants have forgotten that they are Christians, and have made
themselves do the deeds of savages. Bless thee, Mary Mother, that thou hast
taken to thee one lovely child ere this storm burst. Bless thee that dear Marie
was sheltered by thee ere the refuge she sought was destroyed by the ruthless
violence of men.'

`Whom do yon mean, lady? You have mentioned a name—though a common
one—yet which I cannot hear without emotion.'

`I mean, son, a fair sweet maiden of scarcely eighteen summers, who four
nights since sought an asylum with me in yonder Convent around which our
enemies are now gathered and above which rise, instead of the voice of prayer,
the shouts of blasphemy.'

`Did a young girl, called Marie, seek asylum with you four nights since?'
demanded Bertrand, hardly believing that he heard aright, or that it could be
he had found the beloved fugitive at last.

`Yes, my son. She came and asked me for shelter in the name of charity and
love. I was instantly struck with her beauty and an expression of intense suffering.
She asked me to give her an asylum from the evils of the world without,
and not betray her to any one who sought her there. She told me it was
her wish to pass her life in penitence and prayer; but adding that she felt she
should live but a few days. In my hand she deposited jewels of great value,
which she told me were lawfully hers, but which she desired to bestow upon the
church. The day after I received her, I visited her to learn her history for I
was deeply interested in her. But she communicated to me nothing save her
name.'

`And that?'

`Marie de Heywode.'

`Oh, madam, go—go on. I listen with my heart.'

`That night she sent for me saying she was ill and wished to see me. I found
her writing; and also in a high fever. I took her pen away and told her she
must lie down. `I shall soon rest, dear mother,' she said with a heavenly smile;
`I shall soon lie down and rest.' I understood her and wept. `I have finished
what I wished to write. Let me seal it and you may direct it,' she said, `and
when I am gone to my rest I wish you to send it to whom it is addressed.'

`And to whom was it addressed?' asked Bertrand, scarcely able to artiulate.

`To Mr. Bertrand, an officer in the navy.'

`Dear—dear Marie. And what more—what more'—he gasped. `Oh, tell

me not she is dead,' he almost shrieked. `Tell me not my beautiful and noble
Marie—my beloved and idolized one is dead. Say not that she died?'

`Alas, sir, she died yesterday morning in my arms'

`Dead. Marie, dead,' he repeated with agony unspeakable.

`Yea, my son. But earth in losing a child has given to Heaven a seraph. Do
not mourn over one whose life here would have been one of tears and sorrow.'

`Died yesterday morning. Then she is not yet entombed. I must behold her
even in death. Where have you laid he?' her asked almost wild with grief.

`She was taken into the chapel; and after vesper's mass for the dead was said
over her; and the body, when we learned that the Convent was to be assailed
and that we must fly, I had placed in the crypt, beneath the altar, all wreathed
with flowers and robed in white as it was; for we did not intend to bury it until
to-morrow after vespers.'

`And the body of Marie is now in the crypt beneath the altar in the
chapel?' said Bertrand with deep emotion.

`Yes, my son.'

Without another word Bertrand dashed his spurs into his horse's flanks and
flew like the wind back to the Convent, which now presented a fearful but magnificent
spectacle rolling upward from a Mælstrom of roaring flame, vast clouds
of lurid smoke, charged with myriads of sparks that filled all the sky and shed
wide and far a baleful glare. As he approached the scene of conflagration, the
red light shining upon the faces and figures of the fierce men around, made
them look like demons.

Blinded by his tears and with his heart nearly breaking, his lips firmly compressed
to control his great sorrow, Bertrand at length reached the garden wall,
and throwing himself to the ground hastened in the direction of the chapel.—
Each step as he approached it, he felt he was pressing upon ground doubly hallowed
by holding the remains of Marie. He passed the burial place, in the gardens,
which he found broken open and desecrated by the sacriligious multitude,
who seemed to take a pride in dehumanizing themselves. The chapel was
broken open, and men were over-turning the altar with levers as he entered
it; while others had even dared to profane the sacred image of the cross by
hurling it to the ground and breaking it in fragments with stones cast upon i.

`Hold, monsters! Do you call yourselves Christian men?' cried Bertrand,
in a voice that made every man start. `That cross, if it be upon the Roman
altar, which is the object of your vengeance, is no less the sign of your salvation.
Are you become heathens, that you spare not even the holy and hallowed.
Stand back! Go forth! Do you not fear the roof of this sacred temple may
fall and crush you in sudden judgment!'

One by one the men withdrew, not one replying—not one offering to delay.
There was a majesty and power in Bertrand's deep grief and holy indignation
combined, that awed them, conscious as they were of guilt, and enforced obedience.
He stood alone within the chapel. Close by his feet was a slab with
a ring affixed to it which opened into the crypt. A fragment of the shattered
cross was upon it which he removed. He then stooped, and with a strong arm
lifted the slab. The crypt was shallow, being but two steps below the pavement,
and about three feet in deptn. The glare from the crackling flames
around, shone broadly into the vault. Bertrand kelt down and bowed his head
low to the very earth and wept like a child. He then raised her head and gazed
fixedly upon the sweet face before him. Calm, beautiful, like an angel sleeping,
she lay before him arrayed in her vestal robes with a crown of white flowers
yet unfaded and fragrant about her temples.

He stooped and kissed the lips and brow. He spoke not! His tears flowed
no longer. His grief had become too deep for expression.

A loud shout rose from the court of the convent and at the same instant the
tower fell with a crash that jarred the earth; and at the same instant the chapel
gnited.

`This is no place for thee, Maria, even when thou art dead!' he said, with
bitter woe. `I will bear thee to a quieter resting place than this. Though dead
thou art dear to me still! I will bear thee hence and find thee a place where
thou canst rest in peace and I can weep over thee.'

As he spoke he bent down and raised the body of her who was so dear to him
in his arms, and coveriag it with a shawl which one of the nuns had dropped in

her flight, he hastened from the chapel and took his way along the avenues of
the garden, half of the time enveloped in the dark clouds of smoke that rolled
along the ground from the subterranean chambers of the convent. On reaching
the gate he found the faithful Moses with the horses. Seeing him bearing
off through the smoke some burden, and believing it to be treasures, several of
the mob set out a shout and followed him. He was already in his saddle, the
body of the lovely girl hanging across his left arm. A man sprung forward to
seize the bit, but Bertrand rode over him hurling him to the ground and the next
moment was descending the hill closely followed by the African, and soon disappeared
in the wood land beyond the summit of the other eminence.

Here terminates the story of the young priest as we have it in the manuscript
to which reference was made at the conclusion of our first chapter.

The reverend author without doubt has communicated therein all that he
knew in reference to the events which he has described; and knowing nothing
of Bertrand or of events that followed his departure from the burning ruins, he
has with this incident ended his romance.

We have had, however, the privilege of access to circumstances of a subsequent
date, and as they will serve to throw light upon the mystery which led
the unhappy Marie to fly to the Convent for an asylum, as well as upon that
enveloping the beautiful stranger-guest, we shall, as in duty bound to our readers,
shortly give them another story developing and unfolding every thing that
the young priest has left in obscurity.