I replied, “It is written, ’Fear not, little flock; for it is the Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’”

“The kingdom of France?”

“No, the kingdom of heaven.”

“To whom were the words spoken?”

“To the early Christians, whose praise is in all the churches—­whom the Catholics not only reverence but worship.”

“Hum.  Well, if they weathered such persecution as this, perhaps these may; but I could not stand it, I!—­Do you know (with great awe) there are dungeons called Hippocrates’ Sleeves, the walls of which slope like the inside of a funnel tapering to a point, so that those who are put inside them can neither lie, sit, nor stand?  They are let down into them with cords, and drawn up every day to be whipped.”

“And have any come forth alive from such places?”

“I grant you; but sometimes without teeth or hair.”

“O, what glorious faith, to survive such a test!” exclaimed I.

“But some don’t survive.”

“O, what hallelujahs their freed spirits must sing as they find themselves suddenly released and soaring upward with myriads of rejoicing angels, to receive their welcome at the throne of God!”

“Jean, I never knew anything like you!” said La Croissette.  “The worse the stories I tell you, the greater the triumph and exultation you cap them with.”

I answered, “They overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death.”  Rev. xii.  II.

“Do you think you could bear being put into a Hippocrates’ Sleeve?”

“I am not called on to think what I could bear:  only to bear what is put on me.”

“Your father, every word!  As the old cock crows, so does the young one.  But after all, ’tis a fearful thing to lie at the mercy of those that can devise and carry out such tortures.”

“It is written, ’I say unto you, my friends, Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear.  Fear Him which after He hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear Him.’”

“You seem to have all the texts on this particular head at the tips of your fingers.  Did you learn them for this particular purpose?”

“My dear mother used to repeat to me a text every night, and expect me to repeat it to her the next day.”

“An excellent plan,” said La Croissette, whipping his horse.  And he hummed a tune.

When we reached Montauban, he said,

“I must now begin my old tricks, to earn a little money;” and he drew up in the market-place.  But the people had been as heavily visited as at Nismes, and were in no mood for jesting.  When he began to vend his nostrums, an old man of severe aspect held up his hand, and said: 

“Peace, unfeeling man—­you bring your senseless ribaldry to the wrong market.  Here are only lamentations, and mourning, and woe.”