But the life of John Leclerc was not to be limited.  A power has stood here which by its freedom has set at defiance the customary calculation of the worldly-wise.  In high places and in low the people are this night disturbed because of him who has dared to lift his voice in the freedom of the speech of God.  In drawing-rooms odorous with luxury the man’s name has mention, and the vulgarity of his liberated speech and courageous faith is a theme to move the wonder and excite the reprobation of hearts whose languid beating keeps up their show of life, —­to what sufficient purpose expect me not to tell.  His voice is loud and harsh to echo through these music-loving halls; it rends and tears, with almost savage strength, the dainty silences.

But busier tongues are elsewhere more vehement in speech; larger hearts beat faster indignation; grief and vulgarest curiosity are all manifesting themselves after their several necessity.  In solitary places heroes pray throughout the night, wrestling like Jacob, agonizing like Saul, and with some of them the angel left his blessing; for some the golden harp was struck that soothed their souls to peace.  Angels of heaven had work to do that night.  Angels of heaven and hell did prove themselves that night in Meaux:  night of unrest and sleeplessness, or of cruel dreaming; night of bloody visions, tortured by the apprehension of a lacerated body driven through the city streets, and of the hooting shouts of Devildom; night haunted by a gory image,—­the defiled temple of the Holy Ghost.

Did the prospect of torture keep him wakeful?  Could the man bear the disgrace, the derision, shouting, agony?  Was there nothing in this thought, that as a witness of Jesus Christ he was to appear next day, that should soothe him even unto slumber?  Upon the silence of his guarded chamber let none but ministering angels break.  Sacred to him, and to Him who watched the hours of the night, let the night go!

But here—­his mother, Jacqueline with her—­we may linger with these.

V.

When the old woman saw that it was Jacqueline Gabrie who stood waiting admittance, she opened the door wider, as I said; and the dark solemnity of her countenance seemed to be, by so much as a single ray, enlivened for an instant.

She at once perceived the tracts which Jacqueline had brought.  Aware of this, the girl said,—­

“I stayed to hear them read, after I heard that for the sake of the truth in them”—­she hesitated—­“this city will invite God’s wrath to-morrow.”

And she gave the papers to the old woman, who took them in silence.

By-and-by she asked,—­

“Are you just home, Jacqueline?”

“Since sunset,—­though it was nearly dark when I came in,”—­she answered.  “Victor Le Roy was down by the riverbank, and he read them for me.”

“He wanted to get out of town, maybe.  You would surely have thought it was a holiday, Jacqueline, if you could have seen the people.  Anything for a show:  but some of them might well lament.  Did you want to know the truth he pays so dear for teaching?  But you have heard it, my child.”