zealous, as well as their most powerful intercessor, His compassion for the sufferers was increased, by his hatred of the perfidy of him who was the author of their wrongs; and to humble the haughty spirit, and curb the intolerant ambition of Louis of France, formed his reigning passion. That his sympathy for the persecuted, however, and his hostility to the persecutor, were dictated by a nobler and purer motive than the desire of humbling a rival, is evident from his faithful and unflinching adherence to their cause, when prosperity had placed him beyond the intrigues of those of whom he was formerly jealous, by adding to his hereditary dominions the royal sceptre of England.

Seldom did he listen to the tale of suffering with such deep emotion, as to that of Arnaud and his companion regarding their countrymen. Often had he desired to learn more of the history of the extraordinary race, which, for a succession of ages, had braved undaunted the storms of persecution; and as the humble mountaineer recounted, in his hearing, the merciless cruelties and sanguinary horrors that had attended their late exile, chords of sympathy were touched in the royal bosom, which never vibrated before. He exhorted them to a patient endurance of their present wrongs, and encouraged them in the hope of being restored ere long to their ancient possessions.

A portion of his own territories was appropriated to those of the fugitives who were still without a home; and Arnaud was liberally furnished with money for the supply of the more urgent necessities of his brethren. William took an accurate memorandum of his interview with the representatives of the innocent race; and, on his subsequent exaltation to the throne of Britain, shewed the sincerity of his repeated assurances of favour, by renewing the munificent benefaction originally granted by Cromwell from the national treasury, "for the assistance and relief of the suffering Protestants of Piedmont."*

But we must now pass over the events of several succeeding months, and present our readers with a change of scene.

* See Appendix, Note C.

CHAPTER IV.

They lived unknown,

Till persecution dragged them into fame,

And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew,
No marble tells us whither. With their names

No bard embalms and sanctifies his song,

And history, so warm on other themes,
Is cold on this!

COWPER.

On the 16th of August, 1689, in the depths of a forest, which stretched along the shores of Lake Leman, between Nion and Rolle, a band of intrepid adventurers had mustered together at nightfall. Their place of rendezvous was a dell, in the centre of this secluded retreat, surrounded by a dense covering of copse and brushwood, whose silence was disturbed, only by the murmuring of a little stream, which gurgled through the valley. The moonbeams, which struggled through the thick branches of the surrounding pines, disclosed partial glimpses of the persons and countenances of those, who composed this nocturnal assemblage. On the fragment of a rock that stemmed the current of the rivulet, stood an individual, muffled in a coarse martial cloak. On

either side of him, reclined two athletic figures; each holding a flambeau in his hand, which threw a lurid glare on the swarthy countenance of the speaker. His raven locks hung in confusion over his shoulders; and his eye kindled into lustre, as he addressed the listening throng, who seemed, at every sentence, to imbibe the same enthusiasm, which animated their leader.

Need we say, that this midnight convocation, was composed of the scattered remnant of the exiled Waldenses, sighing to return once more to their native hearths; with their intrepid champion, the patriotic, the dauntless, the pious, Henri Arnaud!

For nearly two years, they had enjoyed, amid the sequestered retreats and villages of Switzerland, a respite from the sword of persecution; and their brethren of a common faith, seemed to rival one another in compassionating the fugitives, soothing their sorrows, relieving their sufferings, and binding up the wounds which the loss of friends, and the cruelty of foes, had inflicted.

But the kindness of friends, the hospitality of strangers, and the free toleration of their religion, could not atone for the want of their native homes. The bleak mountains of Jura, or even the gigantic Alps of Berne, had to them no grandeur, when compared with the savage wonders of Pragelas or St Martin. Geneva, with its verdant banks, its

rich plains, and varied loveliness, had in their eyes nothing attractive, when they thought of the vines, and pasturages, and grassy meads, of Villar or Angrogna. The massive towers of its cathedral, bore no aspect half so beautiful, as the lowly roof of their mountain "temples."* The deep tones of its organ, and the solemn chimes of its Sabbath bell, were music that seemed tame in their ears, when they thought of the sweet and artless melody, which rose from the sanctuaries of their fathers.

And besides the thought of their own exile, their blood ran cold, while they remembered that "the holy and beautiful houses, where they and their fathers worshipped," were now made the temples of antichrist; their lowly altars laid waste; and the idolatrous pageantry of Rome, planted in their stead! The lofty spirits of these mountaineers, could endure personal suffering and degradation, but they could not brook the thought of sacrilegious rites, and popish ceremonies, polluting the spots that were hallowed by all that was dear to them. They resolved on death, rather than stand tamely by, to be the silent spectators of the outrage. The martial spirit of Arnaud had kindled the flame. It spread with the rapidity of a conflagration. "Death or our hearths!" was the cry

* The name by which the Waldenses designate their churches.