Part 3 (1/2)
”Good day, shepherdess,” said Pierre. Then a strange thought struck him and he fell on his knees. ”Pardon, lady,” he stammered. ”Forgive my rudeness. You are of the high society of heaven, a saint. You are called Jeanne d'Arc?”
She nodded and smiled. ”That is my name,” said she. ”Sometimes they call me _La Pucelle_, or the Maid of France. But you were right, I am a shepherdess, too. I have kept my father's sheep in the fields down there, and spun from the distaff while I watched them. I knew how to sew and spin as well as any girl in the Barrois or Lorraine. Will you not stand up and talk with me?”
Pierre rose, still abashed and confused. He did not quite understand how to take this strange experience--too simple for a heavenly apparition, too real for a common dream.
”Well, then,” said he, ”if you are a shepherdess why are you here?
There are no sheep here.”
”But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to seek you.”
”Do you know me, then? How can I be one of yours?”
”Because you are a soldier of France and you are in trouble.”
Pierre's head drooped. ”A broken soldier,” he muttered, ”not fit to speak to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear.”
She threw back her head and laughed. ”You speak very bad French. There is no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are afraid of it, you hate it. If you hate it, you will have nothing to do with it. And if you have nothing to do with it, it cannot touch you; it is nothing.”
”But for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You had no fear when you fought. You knew you would not be killed.”
”I was no more sure of that than the other soldiers. Besides, when they bound me to the stake at Rouen and kindled the fire around me I knew very well that I should be killed. But there was no fear in it. Only peace.”
”Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not wounded and broken.”
”Four times I was wounded,” she answered, gravely. ”At Orleans a bolt went through my right shoulder. At Paris a lance tore my thigh. I never saw the blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart stand still. I was not a warrior born. I knew not how to ride or fight. But I did it.
What we must needs do that we can do. Soldier, do not look on the ground. Look up.”
Then a strange thing took place before his eyes. A wondrous radiance, a mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess. When it melted she was clad in s.h.i.+ning armor, sitting on a white horse, and lifting a bare sword in her left hand.
”G.o.d commands you,” she cried. ”It is for France. Be of good cheer. Do not retreat. The fort will soon be yours!”
How should Pierre know that this was the cry with which the Maid had rallied her broken men at Orleans when the fort of _Les Toutelles_ fell? What he did know was that something seemed to spring up within him to answer that call. He felt that he would rather die than desert such a leader.
The figure on the horse turned away as if to go.
”Do not leave me,” he cried, stretching out his hands to her. ”Stay with me. I will obey you joyfully.”
She turned again and looked at him very earnestly. Her eyes shone deep into his heart. ”Here I cannot stay,” answered a low, sweet, womanly voice. ”It is late, and my other children need me.”
”But forgiveness? Can you give that to me--a coward?”
”You are no coward. Your only fault was to doubt a brave man.”
”And my wife? May I go back and tell her?”
”No, surely. Would you make her hear slander of the man she loves? Be what she believes you and she will be satisfied.”
”And the absolution, the word of peace? Will you speak that to me?”
Her eyes shone more clearly; the voice sounded sweeter and steadier than ever. ”After the penance comes the absolution. You will find peace only at the lance's point. Son of France, go, go, go! I will help you.