The fairies were still there when we were children, but we never saw

them; because, a hundred years before that, the priest of Domremy had

held a religious function under the tree and denounced them as being

blood-kin to the Fiend and barred them from redemption; and then he

warned them never to show themselves again, nor hang any more

immortelles, on pain of perpetual banishment from that parish.

All the children pleaded for the fairies, and said they were their good

friends and dear to them and never did them any harm, but the priest

would not listen, and said it was sin and shame to have such friends. The

children mourned and could not be comforted; and they made an agreement

among themselves that they would always continue to hang flower-wreaths

on the tree as a perpetual sign to the fairies that they were still loved

and remembered, though lost to sight.

But late one night a great misfortune befell. Edmond Aubrey's mother

passed by the Tree, and the fairies were stealing a dance, not thinking

anybody was by; and they were so busy, and so intoxicated with the wild

happiness of it, and with the bumpers of dew sharpened up with honey

which they had been drinking, that they noticed nothing; so Dame Aubrey

stood there astonished and admiring, and saw the little fantastic atoms

holding hands, as many as three hundred of them, tearing around in a

great ring half as big as an ordinary bedroom, and leaning away back and

spreading their mouths with laughter and song, which she could hear quite

distinctly, and kicking their legs up as much as three inches from the

ground in perfect abandon and hilarity--oh, the very maddest and

witchingest dance the woman ever saw.

But in about a minute or two minutes the poor little ruined creatures

discovered her. They burst out in one heartbreaking squeak of grief and

terror and fled every which way, with their wee hazel-nut fists in their

eyes and crying; and so disappeared.

The heartless woman--no, the foolish woman; she was not heartless, but

only thoughtless--went straight home and told the neighbors all about it,

whilst we, the small friends of the fairies, were asleep and not witting

the calamity that was come upon us, and all unconscious that we ought to

be up and trying to stop these fatal tongues. In the morning everybody

knew, and the disaster was complete, for where everybody knows a thing

the priest knows it, of course. We all flocked to Pere Fronte, crying and

begging--and he had to cry, too, seeing our sorrow, for he had a most

kind and gentle nature; and he did not want to banish the fairies, and

said so; but said he had no choice, for it had been decreed that if they

ever revealed themselves to man again, they must go. This all happened at

the worst time possible, for Joan of Arc was ill of a fever and out of

her head, and what could we do who had not her gifts of reasoning and

persuasion? We flew in a swarm to her bed and cried out, "Joan, wake!

Wake, there is no moment to lose! Come and plead for the fairies--come

and save them; only you can do it!"

But her mind was wandering, she did not know what we said nor what we

meant; so we went away knowing all was lost. Yes, all was lost, forever

lost; the faithful friends of the children for five hundred years must

go, and never come back any more.

It was a bitter day for us, that day that Pere Fronte held the function

under the tree and banished the fairies. We could not wear mourning that

any could have noticed, it would not have been allowed; so we had to be

content with some poor small rag of black tied upon our garments where it

made no show; but in our hearts we wore mourning, big and noble and

occupying all the room, for our hearts were ours; they could not get at

them to prevent that.

The great tree--l'Arbre Fee do Bourlemont was its beautiful name--was

never afterward quite as much to us as it had been before, but it was

always dear; is dear to me yet when I got there now, once a year in my

old age, to sit under it and bring back the lost playmates of my youth

and group them about me and look upon their faces through my tears and

break my heart, oh, my God! No, the place was not quite the same

afterward. In one or two ways it could not be; for, the fairies'

protection being gone, the spring lost much of its freshness and

coldness, and more than two-thirds of its volume, and the banished

serpents and stinging insects returned, and multiplied, and became a

torment and have remained so to this day.

When that wise little child, Joan, got well, we realized how much her

illness had cost us; for we found that we had been right in believing she

could save the fairies. She burst into a great storm of anger, for so

little a creature, and went straight to Pere Fronte, and stood up before

him where he sat, and made reverence and said:

"The fairies were to go if they showed themselves to people again, is it

not so?"

"Yes, that was it, dear."

"If a man comes prying into a person's room at midnight when that person

is half-naked, will you be so unjust as to say that that person is

showing himself to that man?"

"Well--no." The good priest looked a little troubled and uneasy when he

said it.

"Is a sin a sin, anyway, even if one did not intend to commit it?"

Pere Fronte threw up his hands and cried out:

"Oh, my poor little child, I see all my fault," and he drew here to his

side and put an arm around her and tried to make his peace with her, but

her temper was up so high that she could not get it down right away, but

buried her head against his breast and broke out crying and said:

"Then the fairies committed no sin, for there was no intention to commit

one, they not knowing that any one was by; and because they were little

creatures and could not speak for themselves and say the saw was against

the intention, not against the innocent act, because they had no friend

to think that simple thing for them and say it, they have been sent away

from their home forever, and it was wrong, wrong to do it!"

The good father hugged her yet closer to his side and said:

"Oh, out of the mouths of babes and sucklings the heedless and unthinking

are condemned; would God I could bring the little creatures back, for

your sake. And mine, yes, and mine; for I have been unjust. There, there,

don't cry--nobody could be sorrier than your poor old friend--don't cry,

dear."

"But I can't stop right away, I've got to. And it is no little matter,

this thing that you have done. Is being sorry penance enough for such an

act?"

Pere Fronte turned away his face, for it would have hurt her to see him

laugh, and said:

"Oh, thou remorseless but most just accuser, no, it is not. I will put on

sackcloth and ashes; there--are you satisfied?"

Joan's sobs began to diminish, and she presently looked up at the old man

through her tears, and said, in her simple way:

"Yes, that will do--if it will clear you."

Pere Fronte would have been moved to laugh again, perhaps, if he had not

remembered in time that he had made a contract, and not a very agreeable

one. It must be fulfilled. So he got up and went to the fireplace, Joan

watching him with deep interest, and took a shovelful of cold ashes, and

was going to empty them on his old gray head when a better idea came to

him, and he said:

"Would you mind helping me, dear?"

"How, father?"

He got down on his knees and bent his head low, and said:

"Take the ashes and put them on my head for me."

The matter ended there, of course. The victory was with the priest. One

can imagine how the idea of such a profanation would strike Joan or any

other child in the village. She ran and dropped upon her knees by his

side and said:

"Oh, it is dreadful. I didn't know that that was what one meant by

sackcloth and ashes--do please get up, father."

"But I can't until I am forgiven. Do you forgive me?"

"I? Oh, you have done nothing to me, father; it is yourself that must

forgive yourself for wronging those poor things. Please get up, gather,

won't you?"

"But I am worse off now than I was before. I thought I was earning your

forgiveness, but if it is my own, I can't be lenient; it would not become

me. Now what can I do? Find me some way out of this with your wise little

head."

The Pere would not stir, for all Joan's pleadings. She was about to cry

again; then she had an idea, and seized the shovel and deluged her own

head with the ashes, stammering out through her chokings and

suffocations:

"There--now it is done. Oh, please get up, father."

The old man, both touched and amused, gathered her to his breast and

said:

"Oh, you incomparable child! It's a humble martyrdom, and not of a sort

presentable in a picture, but the right and true spirit is in it; that I

testify."

Then he brushed the ashes out of her hair, and helped her scour her face

and neck and properly tidy herself up. He was in fine spirits now, and

ready for further argument, so he took his seat and drew Joan to his side

again, and said:

"Joan, you were used to make wreaths there at the Fairy Tree with the

other children; is it not so?"

That was the way he always started out when he was going to corner me up

and catch me in something--just that gentle, indifferent way that fools a

person so, and leads him into the trap, he never noticing which way he is

traveling until he is in and the door shut on him. He enjoyed that. I

knew he was going to drop corn along in front of Joan now. Joan answered:

"Yes, father."

"Did you hang them on the tree?"

"No, father."

"Didn't hang them there?"

"No."

"Why didn't you?"

"I--well, I didn't wish to."

"Didn't wish to?"

"No, father."

"What did you do with them?"

"I hung them in the church."

"Why didn't you want to hang them in the tree?"

"Because it was said that the fairies were of kin to the Fiend, and that

it was sinful to show them honor."

"Did you believe it was wrong to honor them so?"

"Yes. I thought it must be wrong."

"Then if it was wrong to honor them in that way, and if they were of kin

to the Fiend, they could be dangerous company for you and the other

children, couldn't they?"

"I suppose so--yes, I think so."

He studied a minute, and I judged he was going to spring his trap, and he

did. He said:

"Then the matter stands like this. They were banned creatures, of fearful

origin; they could be dangerous company for the children. Now give me a

rational reason, dear, if you can think of any, why you call it a wrong

to drive them into banishment, and why you would have saved them from it.

In a word, what loss have you suffered by it?"

How stupid of him to go and throw his case away like that! I could have

boxed his ears for vexation if he had been a boy. He was going along all

right until he ruined everything by winding up in that foolish and fatal

way. What had she lost by it! Was he never going to find out what kind of

a child Joan of Arc was? Was he never going to learn that things which

merely concerned her own gain or loss she cared nothing about? Could he

never get the simple fact into his head that the sure way and the only

way to rouse her up and set her on fire was to show her where some other

person was going to suffer wrong or hurt or loss? Why, he had gone and

set a trap for himself--that was all he had accomplished.

The minute those words were out of his mouth her temper was up, the

indignant tears rose in her eyes, and she burst out on him with an energy

and passion which astonished him, but didn't astonish me, for I knew he

had fired a mine when he touched off his ill-chosen climax.

"Oh, father, how can you talk like that? Who owns France?"

"God and the King."

"Not Satan?"

"Satan, my child? This is the footstool of the Most High--Satan owns no

handful of its soil."

"Then who gave those poor creatures their home? God. Who protected them

in it all those centuries? God. Who allowed them to dance and play there

all those centuries and found no fault with it? God. Who disapproved of

God's approval and put a threat upon them? A man. Who caught them again

in harmless sports that God allowed and a man forbade, and carried out

that threat, and drove the poor things away from the home the good God

gave them in His mercy and His pity, and sent down His rain and dew and

sunshine upon it five hundred years in token of His peace? It was their

home--theirs, by the grace of God and His good heart, and no man had a

right to rob them of it. And they were the gentlest, truest friends that

children ever had, and did them sweet and loving service all these five

long centuries, and never any hurt or harm; and the children loved them,

and now they mourn for them, and there is no healing for their grief. And

what had the children done that they should suffer this cruel stroke? The

poor fairies could have been dangerous company for the children? Yes, but

never had been; and could is no argument. Kinsmen of the Fiend? What of

it? Kinsmen of the Fiend have rights, and these had; and children have

rights, and these had; and if I had been there I would have spoken--I

would have begged for the children and the fiends, and stayed your hand

and saved them all. But now--oh, now, all is lost; everything is lost,

and there is no help more!"

Then she finished with a blast at that idea that fairy kinsmen of the

Fiend ought to be shunned and denied human sympathy and friendship

because salvation was barred against them. She said that for that very

reason people ought to pity them, and do every humane and loving thing

they could to make them forget the hard fate that had been put upon them

by accident of birth and no fault of their own. "Poor little creatures!"

she said. "What can a person's heart be made of that can pity a

Christian's child and yet can't pity a devil's child, that a thousand

times more needs it!"

She had torn loose from Pere Fronte, and was crying, with her knuckles in

her eyes, and stamping her small feet in a fury; and now she burst out of

the place and was gone before we could gather our senses together out of

this storm of words and this whirlwind of passion.

The Pere had got upon his feet, toward the last, and now he stood there

passing his hand back and forth across his forehead like a person who is

dazed and troubled; then he turned and wandered toward the door of his

little workroom, and as he passed through it I heard him murmur

sorrowfully:

"Ah, me, poor children, poor fiends, they have rights, and she said

true--I never thought of that. God forgive me, I am to blame."

When I heard that, I knew I was right in the thought that he had set a

trap for himself. It was so, and he had walked into it, you see. I seemed

to feel encouraged, and wondered if mayhap I might get him into one; but

upon reflection my heart went down, for this was not my gift.

Chapter 3 All Aflame with Love of France

SPEAKING of this matter reminds me of many incidents, many things that I

could tell, but I think I will not try to do it now. It will be more to

my present humor to call back a little glimpse of the simple and

colorless good times we used to have in our village homes in those

peaceful days--especially in the winter. In the summer we children were

out on the breezy uplands with the flocks from dawn till night, and then

there was noisy frolicking and all that; but winter was the cozy time,

winter was the snug time. Often we gathered in old Jacques d'Arc's big

dirt-floored apartment, with a great fire going, and played games, and

sang songs, and told fortunes, and listened to the old villagers tell

tales and histories and lies and one thing and another till twelve

o'clock at night.

One winter's night we were gathered there--it was the winter that for

years afterward they called the hard winter--and that particular night

was a sharp one. It blew a gale outside, and the screaming of the wind

was a stirring sound, and I think I may say it was beautiful, for I think

it is great and fine and beautiful to hear the wind rage and storm and

blow its clarions like that, when you are inside and comfortable. And we

were. We had a roaring fire, and the pleasant spit-spit of the snow and

sleet falling in it down the chimney, and the yarning and laughing and

singing went on at a noble rate till about ten o'clock, and then we had a

supper of hot porridge and beans, and meal cakes with butter, and

appetites to match.

Little Joan sat on a box apart, and had her bowl and bread on another

one, and her pets around her helping. She had more than was usual of them

or economical, because all the outcast cats came and took up with her,

and homeless or unlovable animals of other kinds heard about it and came,

and these spread the matter to the other creatures, and they came also;

and as the birds and the other timid wild things of the woods were not

afraid of her, but always had an idea she was a friend when they came

across her, and generally struck up an acquaintance with her to get

invited to the house, she always had samples of those breeds in stock.

She was hospitable to them all, for an animal was an animal to her, and

dear by mere reason of being an animal, no matter about its sort or

social station; and as she would allow of no cages, no collars, no

fetters, but left the creatures free to come and go as they liked, that

contented them, and they came; but they didn't go, to any extent, and so

they were a marvelous nuisance, and made Jacques d'Arc swear a good deal;

but his wife said God gave the child the instinct, and knew what He was

doing when He did it, therefore it must have its course; it would be no

sound prudence to meddle with His affairs when no invitation had been

extended. So the pets were left in peace, and here they were, as I have

said, rabbits, birds, squirrels, cats, and other reptiles, all around the

child, and full of interest in her supper, and helping what they could.

There was a very small squirrel on her shoulder, sitting up, as those

creatures do, and turning a rocky fragment of prehistoric chestnut-cake

over and over in its knotty hands, and hunting for the less indurated

places, and giving its elevated bushy tail a flirt and its pointed ears a

toss when it found one--signifying thankfulness and surprise--and then it

filed that place off with those two slender front teeth which a squirrel

carries for that purpose and not for ornament, for ornamental they never

could be, as any will admit that have noticed them.

Everything was going fine and breezy and hilarious, but then there came

an interruption, for somebody hammered on the door. It was one of those

ragged road-stragglers--the eternal wars kept the country full of them.

He came in, all over snow, and stamped his feet, and shook, and brushed

himself, and shut the door, and took off his limp ruin of a hat, and

slapped it once or twice against his leg to knock off its fleece of snow,

and then glanced around on the company with a pleased look upon his thin

face, and a most yearning and famished one in his eye when it fell upon

the victuals, and then he gave us a humble and conciliatory salutation,

and said it was a blessed thing to have a fire like that on such a night,

and a roof overhead like this, and that rich food to eat, and loving

friends to talk with--ah, yes, this was true, and God help the homeless,

and such as must trudge the roads in this weather.

Nobody said anything. The embarrassed poor creature stood there and

appealed to one face after the other with his eyes, and found no welcome

in any, the smile on his own face flickering and fading and perishing,

meanwhile; then he dropped his gaze, the muscles of his face began to

twitch, and he put up his hand to cover this womanish sign of weakness.

"Sit down!"

This thunder-blast was from old Jacques d'Arc, and Joan was the object of

it. The stranger was startled, and took his hand away, and there was Joan

standing before him offering him her bowl of porridge. The man said:

"God Almighty bless you, my darling!" and then the tears came, and ran

down his cheeks, but he was afraid to take the bowl.

"Do you hear me? Sit down, I say!"

There could not be a child more easy to persuade than Joan, but this was

not the way. Her father had not the art; neither could he learn it. Joan

said:

"Father, he is hungry; I can see it."

"Let him work for food, then. We are being eaten out of house and home by

his like, and I have said I would endure it no more, and will keep my

word. He has the face of a rascal anyhow, and a villain. Sit down, I tell

you!"

"I know not if he is a rascal or no, but he is hungry, father, and shall

have my porridge--I do not need it."

"If you don't obey me I'll-- Rascals are not entitled to help from honest

people, and no bite nor sup shall they have in this house. Joan!"

She set her bowl down on the box and came over and stood before her

scowling father, and said:

"Father, if you will not let me, then it must be as you say; but I would

that you would think--then you would see that it is not right to punish

one part of him for what the other part has done; for it is that poor

stranger's head that does the evil things, but it is not his head that is

hungry, it is his stomach, and it has done no harm to anybody, but is

without blame, and innocent, not having any way to do a wrong, even if it

was minded to it. Please let--"

"What an idea! It is the most idiotic speech I ever heard."

But Aubrey, the maire, broke in, he being fond of an argument, and having

a pretty gift in that regard, as all acknowledged. Rising in his place

and leaning his knuckles upon the table and looking about him with easy

dignity, after the manner of such as be orators, he began, smooth and

persuasive:

"I will differ with you there, gossip, and will undertake to show the

company"--here he looked around upon us and nodded his head in a

confident way--"that there is a grain of sense in what the child has

said; for look you, it is of a certainty most true and demonstrable that

it is a man's head that is master and supreme ruler over his whole body.

Is that granted? Will any deny it?" He glanced around again; everybody

indicated assent. "Very well, then; that being the case, no part of the

body is responsible for the result when it carries out an order delivered

to it by the head; ergo, the head is alone responsible for crimes done by

a man's hands or feet or stomach--do you get the idea? am I right thus

far?" Everybody said yes, and said it with enthusiasm, and some said, one

to another, that the maire was in great form to-night and at his very

best--which pleased the maire exceedingly and made his eyes sparkle with

pleasure, for he overheard these things; so he went on in the same

fertile and brilliant way. "Now, then, we will consider what the term

responsibility means, and how it affects the case in point.

Responsibility makes a man responsible for only those things for which he

is properly responsible"--and he waved his spoon around in a wide sweep

to indicate the comprehensive nature of that class of responsibilities

which render people responsible, and several exclaimed, admiringly, "He

is right!--he has put that whole tangled thing into a nutshell--it is

wonderful!" After a little pause to give the interest opportunity to

gather and grow, he went on: "Very good. Let us suppose the case of a

pair of tongs that falls upon a man's foot, causing a cruel hurt. Will

you claim that the tongs are punishable for that? The question is

answered; I see by your faces that you would call such a claim absurd.

Now, why is it absurd? It is absurd because, there being no reasoning

faculty--that is to say, no faculty of personal command--in a pair of

togs, personal responsibility for the acts of the tongs is wholly absent

from the tongs; and, therefore, responsibility being absent, punishment

cannot ensue. Am I right?" A hearty burst of applause was his answer.

"Now, then, we arrive at a man's stomach. Consider how exactly, how

marvelously, indeed, its situation corresponds to that of a pair of

tongs. Listen--and take careful note, I beg you. Can a man's stomach plan

a murder? No. Can it plan a theft? No. Can it plan an incendiary fire?

No. Now answer me--can a pair of tongs?" (There were admiring shouts of

"No!" and "The cases are just exact!" and "Don't he do it splendid!")

"Now, then, friends and neighbors, a stomach which cannot plan a crime

cannot be a principal in the commission of it--that is plain, as you see.

The matter is narrowed down by that much; we will narrow it further. Can

a stomach, of its own motion, assist at a crime? The answer is no,

because command is absent, the reasoning faculty is absent, volition is

absent--as in the case of the tongs. We perceive now, do we not, that the

stomach is totally irresponsible for crimes committed, either in whole or

in part, by it?" He got a rousing cheer for response. "Then what do we

arrive at as our verdict? Clearly this: that there is no such thing in

this world as a guilty stomach; that in the body of the veriest rascal

resides a pure and innocent stomach; that, whatever it's owner may do, it

at least should be sacred in our eyes; and that while God gives us minds

to think just and charitable and honorable thoughts, it should be, and

is, our privilege, as well as our duty, not only to feed the hungry

stomach that resides in a rascal, having pity for its sorrow and its

need, but to do it gladly, gratefully, in recognition of its sturdy and

loyal maintenance of its purity and innocence in the midst of temptation

and in company so repugnant to its better feelings. I am done."

Well, you never saw such an effect! They rose--the whole house rose--an

clapped, and cheered, and praised him to the skies; and one after

another, still clapping and shouting, they crowded forward, some with

moisture in their eyes, and wrung his hands, and said such glorious

things to him that he was clear overcome with pride and happiness, and

couldn't say a word, for his voice would have broken, sure. It was

splendid to see; and everybody said he had never come up to that speech

in his life before, and never could do it again. Eloquence is a power,

there is no question of that. Even old Jacques d'Arc was carried away,

for once in his life, and shouted out:

"It's all right, Joan--give him the porridge!"

She was embarrassed, and did not seem to know what to say, and so didn't

say anything. It was because she had given the man the porridge long ago

and he had already eaten it all up. When she was asked why she had not

waited until a decision was arrived at, she said the man's stomach was

very hungry, and it would not have been wise to wait, since she could not

tell what the decision would be. Now that was a good and thoughtful idea

for a child.

The man was not a rascal at all. He was a very good fellow, only he was

out of luck, and surely that was no crime at that time in France. Now

that his stomach was proved to be innocent, it was allowed to make itself

at home; and as soon as it was well filled and needed nothing more, the

man unwound his tongue and turned it loose, and it was really a noble one

to go. He had been in the wars for years, and the things he told and the

way he told them fired everybody's patriotism away up high, and set all

hearts to thumping and all pulses to leaping; then, before anybody

rightly knew how the change was made, he was leading us a sublime march

through the ancient glories of France, and in fancy we saw the titanic

forms of the twelve paladins rise out of the mists of the past and face

their fate; we heard the tread of the innumerable hosts sweeping down to

shut them in; we saw this human tide flow and ebb, ebb and flow, and

waste away before that little band of heroes; we saw each detail pass

before us of that most stupendous, most disastrous, yet most adored and

glorious day in French legendary history; here and there and yonder,

across that vast field of the dead and dying, we saw this and that and

the other paladin dealing his prodigious blows with weary arm and failing

strength, and one by one we saw them fall, till only one remained--he

that was without peer, he whose name gives name to the Song of Songs, the

song which no Frenchman can hear and keep his feelings down and his pride

of country cool; then, grandest and pitifulest scene of all, we saw his

own pathetic death; and out stillness, as we sat with parted lips and

breathless, hanging upon this man's words, gave us a sense of the awful

stillness that reigned in that field of slaughter when that last

surviving soul had passed.

And now, in this solemn hush, the stranger gave Joan a pat or two on the

head and said:

"Little maid--whom God keep!--you have brought me from death to life this

night; now listen: here is your reward," and at that supreme time for

such a heart-melting, soul-rousing surprise, without another word he

lifted up the most noble and pathetic voice that was ever heard, and

began to pour out the great Song of Roland!

Think of that, with a French audience all stirred up and ready. Oh, where

was your spoken eloquence now! what was it to this! How fine he looked,

how stately, how inspired, as he stood there with that mighty chant

welling from his lips and his heart, his whole body transfigured, and his

rags along with it.

Everybody rose and stood while he sang, and their faces glowed and their

eyes burned; and the tears came and flowed don their cheeks and their

forms began to sway unconsciously to the swing of the song, and their

bosoms to heave and pant; and moanings broke out, and deep ejaculations;

and when the last verse was reached, and Roland lay dying, all alone,

with his face to the field and to his slain, lying there in heaps and

winrows, and took off and held up his gauntlet to God with his failing

hand, and breathed his beautiful prayer with his paling pips, all burst

out in sobs and wailings. But when the final great note died out and the

song was done, they all flung themselves in a body at the singer, stark

mad with love of him and love of France and pride in her great deeds and

old renown, and smothered him with their embracings; but Joan was there

first, hugged close to his breast, and covering his face with idolatrous

kisses.

The storm raged on outside, but that was no matter; this was the

stranger's home now, for as long as he might please.

Chapter 4 Joan Tames the Mad Man

ALL CHILDREN have nicknames, and we had ours. We got one apiece early,

and they stuck to us; but Joan was richer in this matter, for, as time

went on, she earned a second, and then a third, and so on, and we gave

them to her. First and last she had as many as half a dozen. Several of

these she never lost. Peasant-girls are bashful naturally; but she

surpassed the rule so far, and colored so easily, and was so easily

embarrassed in the presence of strangers, that we nicknamed her the

Bashful. We were all patriots, but she was called the Patriot, because

our warmest feeling for our country was cold beside hers. Also she was

called the Beautiful; and this was not merely because of the

extraordinary beauty of her face and form, but because of the loveliness

of her character. These names she kept, and one other--the Brave.

We grew along up, in that plodding and peaceful region, and got to be

good-sized boys and girls--big enough, in fact, to begin to know as much

about the wars raging perpetually to the west and north of us as our

elders, and also to feel as stirred up over the occasional news from

these red fields as they did. I remember certain of these days very

clearly. One Tuesday a crowd of us were romping and singing around the

Fairy Tree, and hanging garlands on it in memory of our lost little fairy

friends, when Little Mengette cried out:

"Look! What is that?"

When one exclaims like that in a way that shows astonishment and

apprehension, he gets attention. All the panting breasts and flushed

faces flocked together, and all the eager eyes were turned in one

direction--down the slope, toward the village.

"It's a black flag."

"A black flag! No--is it?"

"You can see for yourself that it is nothing else."

"It is a black flag, sure! Now, has any ever seen the like of that

before?"

"What can it mean?"

"Mean? It means something dreadful--what else?"

"That is nothing to the point; anybody knows that without the telling.

But what?--that is the question."

"It is a chance that he that bears it can answer as well as any that are

here, if you contain yourself till he comes."

"He runs well. Who is it?"

Some named one, some another; but presently all saw that it was Etienne

Roze, called the Sunflower, because he had yellow hair and a round

pock-marked face. His ancestors had been Germans some centuries ago. He

came straining up the slope, now and then projecting his flag-stick aloft

and giving his black symbol of woe a wave in the air, whilst all eyes

watched him, all tongues discussed him, and every heart beat faster and

faster with impatience to know his news. At last he sprang among us, and

struck his flag-stick into the ground, saying:

"There! Stand there and represent France while I get my breath. She needs

no other flag now."

All the giddy chatter stopped. It was as if one had announced a death. In

that chilly hush there was no sound audible but the panting of the

breath-blown boy. When he was presently able to speak, he said:

"Black news is come. A treaty has been made at Troyes between France and

the English and Burgundians. By it France is betrayed and delivered over,

tied hand and foot, to the enemy. It is the work of the Duke of Burgundy

and that she-devil, the Queen of France. It marries Henry of England to

Catharine of France--"

"Is not this a lie? Marries the daughter of France to the Butcher of

Agincourt? It is not to be believed. You have not heard aright."

"If you cannot believe that, Jacques d'Arc, then you have a difficult

task indeed before you, for worse is to come. Any child that is born of

that marriage--if even a girl--is to inherit the thrones of both England

and France, and this double ownership is to remain with its posterity

forever!"

"Now that is certainly a lie, for it runs counter to our Salic law, and

so is not legal and cannot have effect," said Edmond Aubrey, called the

Paladin, because of the armies he was always going to eat up some day. He

would have said more, but he was drowned out by the clamors of the

others, who all burst into a fury over this feature of the treaty, all

talking at once and nobody hearing anybody, until presently Haumette

persuaded them to be still, saying:

"It is not fair to break him up so in his tale; pray let him go on. You

find fault with his history because it seems to be lies. That were reason

for satisfaction--that kind of lies--not discontent. Tell the rest,

Etienne."

"There is but this to tell: Our King, Charles VI., is to reign until he

dies, then Henry V. of England is to be Regent of France until a child of

his shall be old enough to--"

"That man is to reign over us--the Butcher? It is lies! all lies!" cried

the Paladin. "Besides, look you--what becomes of our Dauphin? What says

the treaty about him?"

"Nothing. It takes away his throne and makes him an outcast."

Then everybody shouted at once and said the news was a lie; and all began

to get cheerful again, saying, "Our King would have to sign the treaty to

make it good; and that he would not do, seeing how it serves his own

son."

But the Sunflower said: "I will ask you this: Would the Queen sign a

treaty disinheriting her son?"

"That viper? Certainly. Nobody is talking of her. Nobody expects better

of her. There is no villainy she will stick at, if it feed her spite; and

she hates her son. Her signing it is of no consequence. The King must

sign."

"I will ask you another thing. What is the King's condition? Mad, isn't

he?"

"Yes, and his people love him all the more for it. It brings him near to

them by his sufferings; and pitying him makes them love him."

"You say right, Jacques d'Arc. Well, what would you of one that is mad?

Does he know what he does? No. Does he do what others make him do? Yes.

Now, then, I tell you he has signed the treaty."

"Who made him do it?"

"You know, without my telling. The Queen."

Then there was another uproar--everybody talking at once, and all heaping

execrations upon the Queen's head. Finally Jacques d'Arc said:

"But many reports come that are not true. Nothing so shameful as this has

ever come before, nothing that cuts so deep, nothing that has dragged

France so low; therefore there is hope that this tale is but another idle

rumor. Where did you get it?"

The color went out of his sister Joan's face. She dreaded the answer; and

her instinct was right.

"The cur, of Maxey brought it."

There was a general gasp. We knew him, you see, for a trusty man.

"Did he believe it?"

The hearts almost stopped beating. Then came the answer:

"He did. And that is not all. He said he knew it to be true."

Some of the girls began to sob; the boys were struck silent. The distress

in Joan's face was like that which one sees in the face of a dumb animal

that has received a mortal hurt. The animal bears it, making no

complaint; she bore it also, saying no word. Her brother Jacques put his

hand on her head and caressed her hair to indicate his sympathy, and she

gathered the hand to her lips and kissed it for thanks, not saying

anything. Presently the reaction came, and the boys began to talk. Noel

Rainguesson said:

"Oh, are we never going to be men! We do grow along so slowly, and France

never needed soldiers as she needs them now, to wipe out this black

insult."

"I hate youth!" said Pierre Morel, called the Dragon-fly because his eyes

stuck out so. "You've always got to wait, and wait, and wait--and here

are the great wars wasting away for a hundred years, and you never get a

chance. If I could only be a soldier now!"

"As for me, I'm not going to wait much longer," said the Paladin; "and

when I do start you'll hear from me, I promise you that. There are some

who, in storming a castle, prefer to be in the rear; but as for me, give

me the front or none; I will have none in front of me but the officers."

Even the girls got the war spirit, and Marie Dupont said:

"I would I were a man; I would start this minute!" and looked very proud

of herself, and glanced about for applause.

"So would I," said Cecile Letellier, sniffing the air like a war-horse

that smells the battle; "I warrant you I would not turn back from the

field though all England were in front of me."

"Pooh!" said the Paladin; "girls can brag, but that's all they are good

for. Let a thousand of them come face to face with a handful of soldiers

once, if you want to see what running is like. Here's little Joan--next

she'll be threatening to go for a soldier!"

The idea was so funny, and got such a good laugh, that the Paladin gave

it another trial, and said: "Why you can just see her!--see her plunge

into battle like any old veteran. Yes, indeed; and not a poor shabby

common soldier like us, but an officer--an officer, mind you, with armor

on, and the bars of a steel helmet to blush behind and hide her

embarrassment when she finds an army in front of her that she hasn't been

introduced to. An officer? Why, she'll be a captain! A captain, I tell

you, with a hundred men at her back--or maybe girls. Oh, no

common-soldier business for her! And, dear me, when she starts for that

other army, you'll think there's a hurricane blowing it away!"

Well, he kept it up like that till he made their sides ache with

laughing; which was quite natural, for certainly it was a very funny

idea--at that time--I mean, the idea of that gentle little creature, that

wouldn't hurt a fly, and couldn't bear the sight of blood, and was so

girlish and shrinking in all ways, rushing into battle with a gang of

soldiers at her back. Poor thing, she sat there confused and ashamed to

be so laughed at; and yet at that very minute there was something about

to happen which would change the aspect of things, and make those young

people see that when it comes to laughing, the person that laughs last

has the best chance. For just then a face which we all knew and all

feared projected itself from behind the Fairy Tree, and the thought that

shot through us all was, crazy Benoist has gotten loose from his cage,

and we are as good as dead! This ragged and hairy and horrible creature

glided out from behind the tree, and raised an ax as he came. We all

broke and fled, this way and that, the girls screaming and crying. No,

not all; all but Joan. She stood up and faced the man, and remained so.

As we reached the wood that borders the grassy clearing and jumped into

its shelter, two or three of us glanced back to see if Benoist was

gaining on us, and that is what we saw--Joan standing, and the maniac

gliding stealthily toward her with his ax lifted. The sight was

sickening. We stood where we were, trembling and not able to move. I did

not want to see the murder done, and yet I could not take my eyes away.

Now I saw Joan step forward to meet the man, though I believed my eyes

must be deceiving me. Then I saw him stop. He threatened her with his ax,

as if to warn her not to come further, but she paid no heed, but went

steadily on, until she was right in front of him--right under his ax.

Then she stopped, and seemed to begin to talk with him. It made me sick,

yes, giddy, and everything swam around me, and I could not see anything

for a time--whether long or brief I do not know. When this passed and I

looked again, Joan was walking by the man's side toward the village,

holding him by his hand. The ax was in her other hand.

One by one the boys and girls crept out, and we stood there gazing,

open-mouthed, till those two entered the village and were hid from sight.

It was then that we named her the Brave.

We left the black flag there to continue its mournful office, for we had

other matter to think of now. We started for the village on a run, to

give warning, and get Joan out of her peril; though for one, after seeing

what I had seen, it seemed to me that while Joan had the ax the man's

chance was not the best of the two. When we arrived the danger was past,

the madman was in custody. All the people were flocking to the little

square in front of the church to talk and exclaim and wonder over the

event, and it even made the town forget the black news of the treaty for

two or three hours.

All the women kept hugging and kissing Joan, and praising her, and

crying, and the men patted her on the head and said they wished she was a

man, they would send her to the wars and never doubt but that she would

strike some blows that would be heard of. She had to tear herself away

and go and hide, this glory was so trying to her diffidence.

Of course the people began to ask us for the particulars. I was so

ashamed that I made an excuse to the first comer, and got privately away

and went back to the Fairy Tree, to get relief from the embarrassment of

those questionings. There I found Joan, but she was there to get relief

from the embarrassment of glory. One by one the others shirked the

inquirers and joined us in our refuge. Then we gathered around Joan, and

asked her how she had dared to do that thing. She was very modest about

it, and said:

"You make a great thing of it, but you mistake; it was not a great

matter. It was not as if I had been a stranger to the man. I know him,

and have known him long; and he knows me, and likes me. I have fed him

through the bars of his cage many times; and last December, when they

chopped off two of his fingers to remind him to stop seizing and wounding

people passing by, I dressed his hand every day till it was well again."

"That is all well enough," said Little Mengette, "but he is a madman,

dear, and so his likings and his gratitude and friendliness go for

nothing when his rage is up. You did a perilous thing."

"Of course you did," said the Sunflower. "Didn't he threaten to kill you

with the ax?"

"Yes."

"Didn't he threaten you more than once?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you feel afraid?"

"No--at least not much--very little."

"Why didn't you?"

She thought a moment, then said, quite simply:

"I don't know."

It made everybody laugh. Then the Sunflower said it was like a lamb

trying to think out how it had come to eat a wolf, but had to give it up.

Cecile Letellier asked, "Why didn't you run when we did?"

"Because it was necessary to get him to his cage; else he would kill some

one. Then he would come to the like harm himself."

It is noticeable that this remark, which implies that Joan was entirely

forgetful of herself and her own danger, and had thought and wrought for

the preservation of other people alone, was not challenged, or

criticized, or commented upon by anybody there, but was taken by all as

matter of course and true. It shows how clearly her character was

defined, and how well it was known and established.

There was silence for a time, and perhaps we were all thinking of the

same thing--namely, what a poor figure we had cut in that adventure as

contrasted with Joan's performance. I tried to think up some good way of

explaining why I had run away and left a little girl at the mercy of a

maniac armed with an ax, but all of the explanations that offered

themselves to me seemed so cheap and shabby that I gave the matter up and

remained still. But others were less wise. Noel Rainguesson fidgeted

awhile, then broke out with a remark which showed what his mind had been

running on:

"The fact is, I was taken by surprise. That is the reason. If I had had a

moment to think, I would no more have thought of running that I would

think of running from a baby. For, after all, what is Theophile Benoist,

that I should seem to be afraid of him? Pooh! the idea of being afraid of

that poor thing! I only wish he would come along now--I'd show you!"

"So do I!" cried Pierre Morel. "If I wouldn't make him climb this tree

quicker than--well, you'd see what I would do! Taking a person by

surprise, that way--why, I never meant to run; not in earnest, I mean. I

never thought of running in earnest; I only wanted to have some fun, and

when I saw Joan standing there, and him threatening her, it was all I

could do to restrain myself from going there and just tearing the livers

and lights out of him. I wanted to do it bad enough, and if it was to do

over again, I would! If ever he comes fooling around me again, I'll--"

"Oh, hush!" said the Paladin, breaking in with an air of disdain; "the

way you people talk, a person would think there's something heroic about

standing up and facing down that poor remnant of a man. Why, it's

nothing! There's small glory to be got in facing him down, I should say.

Why, I wouldn't want any better fun than to face down a hundred like him.

If he was to come along here now, I would walk up to him just as I am

now--I wouldn't care if he had a thousand axes--and say--"

And so he went on and on, telling the brave things he would say and the

wonders he would do; and the others put in a word from time to time,

describing over again the gory marvels they would do if ever that madman

ventured to cross their path again, for next time they would be ready for

him, and would soon teach him that if he thought he could surprise them

twice because he had surprised them once, he would find himself very

seriously mistaken, that's all.

And so, in the end, they all got back their self-respect; yes, and even

added somewhat to it; indeed when the sitting broke up they had a finer

opinion of themselves than they had ever had before.

Chapter 5 Domremy Pillaged and Burned

THEY WERE peaceful and pleasant, those young and smoothly flowing days of

ours; that is, that was the case as a rule, we being remote from the seat

of war; but at intervals roving bands approached near enough for us to

see the flush in the sky at night which marked where they were burning

some farmstead or village, and we all knew, or at least felt, that some

day they would come yet nearer, and we should have our turn. This dull

dread lay upon our spirits like a physical weight. It was greatly

augmented a couple of years after the Treaty of Troyes.

It was truly a dismal year for France. One day we had been over to have

one of our occasional pitched battles with those hated Burgundian boys of

the village of Maxey, and had been whipped, and were arriving on our side

of the river after dark, bruised and weary, when we heard the bell

ringing the tocsin. We ran all the way, and when we got to the square we

found it crowded with the excited villagers, and weirdly lighted by

smoking and flaring torches.

On the steps of the church stood a stranger, a Burgundian priest, who was

telling the people new which made them weep, and rave, and rage, and

curse, by turns. He said our old mad King was dead, and that now we and

France and the crown were the property of an English baby lying in his

cradle in London. And he urged us to give that child our allegiance, and

be its faithful servants and well-wishers; and said we should now have a

strong and stable government at last, and that in a little time the

English armies would start on their last march, and it would be a brief

one, for all that it would need to do would be to conquer what odds and

ends of our country yet remained under that rare and almost forgotten

rag, the banner of France.

The people stormed and raged at him, and you could see dozens of them

stretch their fists above the sea of torch-lighted faces and shake them

at him; and it was all a wild picture, and stirring to look at; and the

priest was a first-rate part of it, too, for he stood there in the strong

glare and looked down on those angry people in the blandest and most

indifferent way, so that while you wanted to burn him at the stake, you

still admired the aggravating coolness of him. And his winding-up was the

coolest thing of all. For he told them how, at the funeral of our old

King, the French King-at-Arms had broken his staff of office over the

coffin of "Charles VI. and his dynasty," at the same time saying, in a

loud voice, "Good grant long life to Henry, King of France and England,

our sovereign lord!" and then he asked them to join him in a hearty Amen

to that! The people were white with wrath, and it tied their tongues for

the moment, and they could not speak. But Joan was standing close by, and

she looked up in his face, and said in her sober, earnest way:

"I would I might see thy head struck from thy body!"--then, after a

pause, and crossing herself--"if it were the will of God."

This is worth remembering, and I will tell you why: it is the only harsh

speech Joan ever uttered in her life. When I shall have revealed to you

the storms she went through, and the wrongs and persecutions, then you

will see that it was wonderful that she said but one bitter thing while

she lived.

From the day that that dreary news came we had one scare after another,

the marauders coming almost to our doors every now and then; so that we

lived in ever-increasing apprehension, and yet were somehow mercifully

spared from actual attack. But at last our turn did really come. This was

in the spring of '28. The Burgundians swarmed in with a great noise, in

the middle of a dark night, and we had to jump up and fly for our lives.

We took the road to Neufchateau, and rushed along in the wildest

disorder, everybody trying to get ahead, and thus the movements of all

were impeded; but Joan had a cool head--the only cool head there--and she

took command and brought order out of that chaos. She did her work

quickly and with decision and despatch, and soon turned the panic flight

into a quite steady-going march. You will grant that for so young a

person, and a girl at that, this was a good piece of work.

She was sixteen now, shapely and graceful, and of a beauty so

extraordinary that I might allow myself any extravagance of language in

describing it and yet have no fear of going beyond the truth. There was

in her face a sweetness and serenity and purity that justly reflected her

spiritual nature. She was deeply religious, and this is a thing which

sometimes gives a melancholy cast to a person's countenance, but it was

not so in her case. Her religion made her inwardly content and joyous;

and if she was troubled at times, and showed the pain of it in her face

and bearing, it came of distress for her country; no part of it was

chargeable to her religion.

A considerable part of our village was destroyed, and when it became safe

for us to venture back there we realized what other people had been

suffering in all the various quarters of France for many years--yes,

decades of years. For the first time we saw wrecked and smoke-blackened

homes, and in the lanes and alleys carcasses of dumb creatures that had

been slaughtered in pure wantonness--among them calves and lambs that had

been pets of the children; and it was pity to see the children lament

over them.

And then, the taxes, the taxes! Everybody thought of that. That burden

would fall heavy now in the commune's crippled condition, and all faces

grew long with the thought of it. Joan said:

"Paying taxes with naught to pay them with is what the rest of France has

been doing these many years, but we never knew the bitterness of that

before. We shall know it now."

And so she went on talking about it and growing more and more troubled

about it, until one could see that it was filling all her mind.

At last we came upon a dreadful object. It was the madman--hacked and

stabbed to death in his iron cage in the corner of the square. It was a

bloody and dreadful sight. Hardly any of us young people had ever seen a

man before who had lost his life by violence; so this cadaver had an

awful fascination for us; we could not take our eyes from it. I mean, it

had that sort of fascination for all of us but one. That one was Joan.

She turned away in horror, and could not be persuaded to go near it

again. There--it is a striking reminder that we are but creatures of use

and custom; yes, and it is a reminder, too, of how harshly and unfairly

fate deals with us sometimes. For it was so ordered that the very ones

among us who were most fascinated with mutilated and bloody death were to

live their lives in peace, while that other, who had a native and deep

horror of it, must presently go forth and have it as a familiar spectacle

every day on the field of battle.

You may well believe that we had plenty of matter for talk now, since the

raiding of our village seemed by long odds the greatest event that had

really ever occurred in the world; for although these dull peasants may

have thought they recognized the bigness of some of the previous

occurrences that had filtered from the world's history dimly into their

minds, the truth is that they hadn't. One biting little fact, visible to

their eyes of flesh and felt in their own personal vitals, became at once

more prodigious to them than the grandest remote episode in the world's

history which they had got at second hand and by hearsay. It amuses me

now when I recall how our elders talked then. The fumed and fretted in a

fine fashion.

"Ah, yes," said old Jacques d'Arc, "things are come to a pretty pass,

indeed! The King must be informed of this. It is time that he cease from

idleness and dreaming, and get at his proper business." He meant our

young disinherited King, the hunted refugee, Charles VII.

"You way well," said the maire. "He should be informed, and that at once.

It is an outrage that such things would be permitted. Why, we are not

safe in our beds, and he taking his ease yonder. It shall be made known,

indeed it shall--all France shall hear of it!"

To hear them talk, one would have imagined that all the previous ten

thousand sackings and burnings in France had been but fables, and this

one the only fact. It is always the way; words will answer as long as it

is only a person's neighbor who is in trouble, but when that person gets

into trouble himself, it is time that the King rise up and do something.

The big event filled us young people with talk, too. We let it flow in a

steady stream while we tended the flocks. We were beginning to feel

pretty important now, for I was eighteen and the other youths were from

one to four years older--young men, in fact. One day the Paladin was

arrogantly criticizing the patriot generals of France and said:

"Look at Dunois, Bastard of Orleans--call him a general! Just put me in

his place once--never mind what I would do, it is not for me to say, I

have no stomach for talk, my way is to act and let others do the

talking--but just put me in his place once, that's all! And look at

Saintrailles--pooh! and that blustering La Hire, now what a general that

is!"

It shocked everybody to hear these great names so flippantly handled, for

to us these renowned soldiers were almost gods. In their far-off splendor

they rose upon our imaginations dim and huge, shadowy and awful, and it

was a fearful thing to hear them spoken of as if they were mere men, and

their acts open to comment and criticism. The color rose in Joan's face,

and she said:

"I know not how any can be so hardy as to use such words regarding these

sublime men, who are the very pillars of the French state, supporting it

with their strength and preserving it at daily cost of their blood. As

for me, I could count myself honored past all deserving if I might be

allowed but the privilege of looking upon them once--at a distance, I

mean, for it would not become one of my degree to approach them too

near."

The Paladin was disconcerted for a moment, seeing by the faces around him

that Joan had put into words what the others felt, then he pulled his

complacency together and fell to fault-finding again. Joan's brother Jean

said:

"If you don't like what our generals do, why don't you go to the great

wars yourself and better their work? You are always talking about going

to the wars, but you don't go."

"Look you," said the Paladin, "it is easy to say that. Now I will tell

you why I remain chafing here in a bloodless tranquillity which my

reputation teaches you is repulsive to my nature. I do not go because I

am not a gentleman. That is the whole reason. What can one private

soldier do in a contest like this? Nothing. He is not permitted to rise

from the ranks. If I were a gentleman would I remain here? Not one

moment. I can save France--ah, you may laugh, but I know what is in me, I

know what is hid under this peasant cap. I can save France, and I stand

ready to do it, but not under these present conditions. If they want me,

let them send for me; otherwise, let them take the consequences; I shall

not budge but as an officer."

"Alas, poor France--France is lost!" said Pierre d'Arc.

"Since you sniff so at others, why don't you go to the wars yourself,

Pierre d'Arc?"

"Oh, I haven't been sent for, either. I am no more a gentleman than you.

Yet I will go; I promise to go. I promise to go as a private under your

orders--when you are sent for."

They all laughed, and the Dragon-fly said:

"So soon? Then you need to begin to get ready; you might be called for in

five years--who knows? Yes, in my opinion you'll march for the wars in

five years."

"He will go sooner," said Joan. She said it in a low voice and musingly,

but several heard it.

"How do you know that, Joan?" said the Dragon-fly, with a surprised look.

But Jean d'Arc broke in and said:

"I want to go myself, but as I am rather young yet, I also will wait, and

march when the Paladin is sent for."

"No," said Joan, "he will go with Pierre."

She said it as one who talks to himself aloud without knowing it, and

none heard it but me. I glanced at her and saw that her knitting-needles

were idle in her hands, and that her face had a dreamy and absent look in

it. There were fleeting movements of her lips as if she might be

occasionally saying parts of sentences to herself. But there was no

sound, for I was the nearest person to her and I heard nothing. But I set

my ears open, for those two speeches had affected me uncannily, I being

superstitious and easily troubled by any little thing of a strange and

unusual sort.

Noel Rainguesson said:

"There is one way to let France have a chance for her salvation. We've

got one gentleman in the commune, at any rate. Why can't the Scholar

change name and condition with the Paladin? Then he can be an officer.

France will send for him then, and he will sweep these English and

Burgundian armies into the sea like flies."

I was the Scholar. That was my nickname, because I could read and write.

There was a chorus of approval, and the Sunflower said:

"That is the very thing--it settles every difficulty. The Sieur de Conte

will easily agree to that. Yes, he will march at the back of Captain

Paladin and die early, covered with common-soldier glory."

"He will march with Jean and Pierre, and live till these wars are

forgotten," Joan muttered; "and at the eleventh hour Noel and the Paladin

will join these, but not of their own desire." The voice was so low that

I was not perfectly sure that these were the words, but they seemed to

be. It makes one feel creepy to hear such things.

"Come, now," Noel continued, "it's all arranged; there's nothing to do

but organize under the Paladin's banner and go forth and rescue France.

You'll all join?"

All said yes, except Jacques d'Arc, who said:

"I'll ask you to excuse me. It is pleasant to talk war, and I am with you

there, and I've always thought I should go soldiering about this time,

but the look of our wrecked village and that carved-up and bloody madman

have taught me that I am not made for such work and such sights. I could

never be at home in that trade. Face swords and the big guns and death?

It isn't in me. No, no; count me out. And besides, I'm the eldest son,

and deputy prop and protector of the family. Since you are going to carry

Jean and Pierre to the wars, somebody must be left behind to take care of

our Joan and her sister. I shall stay at home, and grow old in peace and

tranquillity."

"He will stay at home, but not grow old," murmured Joan.

The talk rattled on in the gay and careless fashion privileged to youth,

and we got the Paladin to map out his campaigns and fight his battles and

win his victories and extinguish the English and put our King upon his

throne and set his crown upon his head. Then we asked him what he was

going to answer when the King should require him to name his reward. The

Paladin had it all arranged in his head, and brought it out promptly:

"He shall give me a dukedom, name me premier peer, and make me Hereditary

Lord High Constable of France."

"And marry you to a princess--you're not going to leave that out, are

you?"

The Paladin colored a trifle, and said, brusquely:

"He may keep his princesses--I can marry more to my taste."

Meaning Joan, though nobody suspected it at that time. If any had, the

Paladin would have been finely ridiculed for his vanity. There was no fit

mate in that village for Joan of Arc. Every one would have said that.

In turn, each person present was required to say what reward he would

demand of the King if he could change places with the Paladin and do the

wonders the Paladin was going to do. The answers were given in fun, and

each of us tried to outdo his predecessors in the extravagance of the

reward he would claim; but when it came to Joan's turn, and they rallied

her out of her dreams and asked her to testify, they had to explain to

her what the question was, for her thought had been absent, and she had

heard none of this latter part of our talk. She supposed they wanted a

serious answer, and she gave it. She sat considering some moments, then

she said:

"If the Dauphin, out of his grace and nobleness, should say to me, 'Now

that I am rich and am come to my own again, choose and have,' I should

kneel and ask him to give command that our village should nevermore be

taxed."

It was so simple and out of her heart that it touched us and we did not

laugh, but fell to thinking. We did not laugh; but there came a day when

we remembered that speech with a mournful pride, and were glad that we

had not laughed, perceiving then how honest her words had been, and

seeing how faithfully she made them good when the time came, asking just

that boon of the King and refusing to take even any least thing for

herself.

Chapter 6 Joan and Archangel Michael

ALL THROUGH her childhood and up to the middle of her fourteenth year,

Joan had been the most light-hearted creature and the merriest in the

village, with a hop-skip-and-jump gait and a happy and catching laugh;

and this disposition, supplemented by her warm and sympathetic nature and

frank and winning ways, had made her everybody's pet. She had been a hot

patriot all this time, and sometimes the war news had sobered her spirits

and wrung her heart and made her acquainted with tears, but always when

these interruptions had run their course her spirits rose and she was her

old self again.

But now for a whole year and a half she had been mainly grave; not

melancholy, but given to thought, abstraction, dreams. She was carrying

France upon her heart, and she found the burden not light. I knew that

this was her trouble, but others attributed her abstraction to religious

ecstasy, for she did not share her thinkings with the village at large,

yet gave me glimpses of them, and so I knew, better than the rest, what

was absorbing her interest. Many a time the idea crossed my mind that she

had a secret--a secret which she was keeping wholly to herself, as well

from me as from the others. This idea had come to me because several

times she had cut a sentence in two and changed the subject when

apparently she was on the verge of a revelation of some sort. I was to

find this secret out, but not just yet.

The day after the conversation which I have been reporting we were

together in the pastures and fell to talking about France, as usual. For

her sake I had always talked hopefully before, but that was mere lying,

for really there was not anything to hang a rag of hope for France upon.

Now it was such a pain to lie to her, and cost me such shame to offer

this treachery to one so snow-pure from lying and treachery, and even

from suspicion of such baseness in others, as she was, that I was

resolved to face about now and begin over again, and never insult her

more with deception. I started on the new policy by saying--still opening

up with a small lie, of course, for habit is habit, and not to be flung

out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a time:

"Joan, I have been thinking the thing all over last night, and have

concluded that we have been in the wrong all this time; that the case of

France is desperate; that it has been desperate ever since Agincourt; and

that to-day it is more than desperate, it is hopeless."

I did not look her in the face while I was saying it; it could not be

expected of a person. To break her heart, to crush her hope with a so

frankly brutal speech as that, without one charitable soft place in

it--it seemed a shameful thing, and it was. But when it was out, the

weight gone, and my conscience rising to the surface, I glanced at her

face to see the result.

There was none to see. At least none that I was expecting. There was a

barely perceptible suggestion of wonder in her serious eyes, but that was

all; and she said, in her simple and placid way:

"The case of France hopeless? Why should you think that? Tell me."

It is a most pleasant thing to find that what you thought would inflict a

hurt upon one whom you honor, has not done it. I was relieved now, and

could say all my say without any furtivenesses and without embarrassment.

So I began:

"Let us put sentiment and patriotic illusions aside, and look at the

facts in the face. What do they say? They speak as plainly as the figures

in a merchant's account-book. One has only to add the two columns up to

see that the French house is bankrupt, that one-half of its property is

already in the English sheriff's hands and the other half in

nobody's--except those of irresponsible raiders and robbers confessing

allegiance to nobody. Our King is shut up with his favorites and fools in

inglorious idleness and poverty in a narrow little patch of the

kingdom--a sort of back lot, as one may say--and has no authority there

or anywhere else, hasn't a farthing to his name, nor a regiment of

soldiers; he is not fighting, he is not intending to fight, he means to

make no further resistance; in truth, there is but one thing that he is

intending to do--give the whole thing up, pitch his crown into the sewer,

and run away to Scotland. There are the facts. Are they correct?"

"Yes, they are correct."

"Then it is as I have said: one needs but to add them together in order

to realize what they mean."

She asked, in an ordinary, level tone:

"What--that the case of France is hopeless?"

"Necessarily. In face of these facts, doubt of it is impossible."

"How can you say that? How can you feel like that?"

"How can I? How could I think or feel in any other way, in the

circumstances? Joan, with these fatal figures before, you, have you

really any hope for France--really and actually?"

"Hope--oh, more than that! France will win her freedom and keep it. Do

not doubt it."

It seemed to me that her clear intellect must surely be clouded to-day.

It must be so, or she would see that those figures could mean only one

thing. Perhaps if I marshaled them again she would see. So I said:

"Joan, your heart, which worships France, is beguiling your head. You are

not perceiving the importance of these figures. Here--I want to make a

picture of them, her eon the ground with a stick. Now, this rough outline

is France. Through its middle, east and west, I draw a river."

"Yes, the Loire."

"Now, then, this whole northern half of the country is in the tight grip

of the English."

"Yes."

"And this whole southern half is really in nobody's hands at all--as our

King confesses by meditating desertion and flight to a foreign land.

England has armies here; opposition is dead; she can assume full

possession whenever she may choose. In very truth, all France is gone,

France is already lost, France has ceased to exist. What was France is

now but a British province. Is this true?"

Her voice was low, and just touched with emotion, but distinct:

"Yes, it is true."

"Very well. Now add this clinching fact, and surely the sum is complete:

When have French soldiers won a victory? Scotch soldiers, under the

French flag, have won a barren fight or two a few years back, but I am

speaking of French ones. Since eight thousand Englishmen nearly

annihilated sixty thousand Frenchmen a dozen years ago at Agincourt,

French courage has been paralyzed. And so it is a common saying to-day

that if you confront fifty French soldiers with five English ones, the

French will run."

"It is a pity, but even these things are true."

"Then certainly the day for hoping is past."

I believed the case would be clear to her now. I thought it could not

fail to be clear to her, and that she would say, herself, that there was

no longer any ground for hope. But I was mistaken; and disappointed also.

She said, without any doubt in her tone:

"France will rise again. You shall see."

"Rise?--with this burden of English armies on her back!"

"She will cast it off; she will trample it under foot!" This with spirit.

"Without soldiers to fight with?"

"The drums will summon them. They will answer, and they will march."

"March to the rear, as usual?"

"No; to the front--ever to the front--always to the front! You shall

see."

"And the pauper King?"

"He will mount his throne--he will wear his crown."

"Well, of a truth this makes one's head dizzy. Why, if I could believe

that in thirty years from now the English domination would be broken and

the French monarch's head find itself hooped with a real crown of

sovereignty--"

"Both will have happened before two years are sped."

"Indeed? and who is going to perform all these sublime impossibilities?"

"God."

It was a reverent low note, but it rang clear.

What could have put those strange ideas in her head? This question kept

running in my mind during two or three days. It was inevitable that I

should think of madness. What other way was there to account for such

things? Grieving and brooding over the woes of France had weakened that

strong mind, and filled it with fantastic phantoms--yes, that must be it.

But I watched her, and tested her, and it was not so. Her eye was clear

and sane, her ways were natural, her speech direct and to the point. No,

there was nothing the matter with her mind; it was still the soundest in

the village and the best. She went on thinking for others, planning for

others, sacrificing herself for others, just as always before. She went

on ministering to her sick and to her poor, and still stood ready to give

the wayfarer her bed and content herself with the floor. There was a

secret somewhere, but madness was not the key to it. This was plain.

Now the key did presently come into my hands, and the way that it

happened was this. You have heard all the world talk of this matter which

I am about to speak of, but you have not heard an eyewitness talk of it

before.

I was coming from over the ridge, one day--it was the 15th of May,

'28--and when I got to the edge of the oak forest and was about to step

out of it upon the turfy open space in which the haunted beech tree

stood, I happened to cast a glance from cover, first--then I took a step

backward, and stood in the shelter and concealment of the foliage. For I

had caught sight of Joan, and thought I would devise some sort of playful

surprise for her. Think of it--that trivial conceit was neighbor, with

but a scarcely measurable interval of time between, to an event destined

to endure forever in histories and songs.

The day was overcast, and all that grassy space wherein the Tree stood

lay in a soft rich shadow. Joan sat on a natural seat formed by gnarled

great roots of the Tree. Her hands lay loosely, one reposing in the

other, in her lap. Her head was bent a little toward the ground, and her

air was that of one who is lost to thought, steeped in dreams, and not

conscious of herself or of the world. And now I saw a most strange thing,

for I saw a white shadow come slowly gliding along the grass toward the

Tree. It was of grand proportions--a robed form, with wings--and the

whiteness of this shadow was not like any other whiteness that we know

of, except it be the whiteness of lightnings, but even the lightnings are

not so intense as it was, for one cal look at them without hurt, whereas

this brilliancy was so blinding that in pained my eyes and brought the

water into them. I uncovered my head, perceiving that I was in the

presence of something not of this world. My breath grew faint and

difficult, because of the terror and the awe that possessed me.

Another strange thing. The wood had been silent--smitten with that deep

stillness which comes when a storm-cloud darkens a forest, and the wild

creatures lose heart and are afraid; but now all the birds burst forth

into song, and the joy, the rapture, the ecstasy of it was beyond belief;

and was so eloquent and so moving, withal, that it was plain it was an

act of worship. With the first note of those birds Joan cast herself upon

her knees, and bent her head low and crossed her hands upon her breast.

She had not seen the shadow yet. Had the song of the birds told her it

was coming? It had that look to me. Then the like of this must have

happened before. Yes, there might be no doubt of that.

The shadow approached Joan slowly; the extremity of it reached her,

flowed over her, clothed her in its awful splendor. In that immortal

light her face, only humanly beautiful before, became divine; flooded

with that transforming glory her mean peasant habit was become like to

the raiment of the sun-clothed children of God as we see them thronging

the terraces of the Throne in our dreams and imaginings.

Presently she rose and stood, with her head still bowed a little, and

with her arms down and the ends of her fingers lightly laced together in

front of her; and standing so, all drenched with that wonderful light,

and yet apparently not knowing it, she seemed to listen--but I heard

nothing. After a little she raised her head, and looked up as one might

look up toward the face of a giant, and then clasped her hands and lifted

them high, imploringly, and began to plead. I heard some of the words. I

heard her say:

"But I am so young! oh, so young to leave my mother and my home and go

out into the strange world to undertake a thing so great! Ah, how can I

talk with men, be comrade with men?--soldiers! It would give me over to

insult, and rude usage, and contempt. How can I go to the great wars, and

lead armies?--I a girl, and ignorant of such things, knowing nothing of

arms, nor how to mount a horse, nor ride it. . . . Yet--if it is

commanded--"

Her voice sank a little, and was broken by sobs, and I made out no more

of her words. Then I came to myself. I reflected that I had been

intruding upon a mystery of God--and what might my punishment be? I was

afraid, and went deeper into the wood. Then I carved a mark in the bark

of a tree, saying to myself, it may be that I am dreaming and have not

seen this vision at all. I will come again, when I know that I am awake

and not dreaming, and see if this mark is still here; then I shall know.

Chapter 7 She Delivers the Divine Command

I HEARD my name called. It was Joan's voice. It startled me, for how

could she know I was there? I said to myself, it is part of the dream; it

is all dream--voice, vision and all; the fairies have done this. So I

crossed myself and pronounced the name of God, to break the enchantment.

I knew I was awake now and free from the spell, for no spell can

withstand this exorcism. Then I heard my name called again, and I stepped

at once from under cover, and there indeed was Joan, but not looking as

she had looked in the dream. For she was not crying now, but was looking

as she had used to look a year and a half before, when her heart was

light and her spirits high. Her old-time energy and fire were back, and a

something like exaltation showed itself in her face and bearing. It was

almost as if she had been in a trance all that time and had come awake

again. Really, it was just as if she had been away and lost, and was come

back to us at last; and I was so glad that I felt like running to call

everybody and have them flock around her and give her welcome. I ran to

her excited and said:

"Ah, Joan, I've got such a wonderful thing to tell you about! You would

never imagine it. I've had a dream, and in the dream I saw you right here

where you are standing now, and--"

But she put up her hand and said:

"It was not a dream."

It gave me a shock, and I began to feel afraid again.

"Not a dream?" I said, "how can you know about it, Joan?"

"Are you dreaming now?"

"I--I suppose not. I think I am not."

"Indeed you are not. I know you are not. And yow were not dreaming when

you cut the mark in the tree."

I felt myself turning cold with fright, for now I knew of a certainty

that I had not been dreaming, but had really been in the presence of a

dread something not of this world. Then I remembered that my sinful feet

were upon holy ground--the ground where that celestial shadow had rested.

I moved quickly away, smitten to the bones with fear. Joan followed, and

said:

"Do not be afraid; indeed there is no need. Come with me. We will sit by

the spring and I will tell you all my secret."

When she was ready to begin, I checked her and said:

"First tell me this. You could not see me in the wood; how did you know I

cut a mark in the tree?"

"Wait a little; I will soon come to that; then you will see."

"But tell me one thing now; what was that awful shadow that I saw?"

"I will tell you, but do not be disturbed; you are not in danger. It was

the shadow of an archangel--Michael, the chief and lord of the armies of

heaven."

I could but cross myself and tremble for having polluted that ground with

my feet.

"You were not afraid, Joan? Did you see his face--did you see his form?"

"Yes; I was not afraid, because this was not the first time. I was afraid

the first time."

"When was that, Joan?"

"It is nearly three years ago now."

"So long? Have you seen him many times?"

"Yes, many times."

"It is this, then, that has changed you; it was this that made you

thoughtful and not as you were before. I see it now. Why did you not tell

us about it?"

"It was not permitted. It is permitted now, and soon I shall tell all.

But only you, now. It must remain a secret for a few days still."

"Has none seen that white shadow before but me?"

"No one. It has fallen upon me before when you and others were present,

but none could see it. To-day it has been otherwise, and I was told why;

but it will not be visible again to any."

"It was a sign to me, then--and a sign with a meaning of some kind?"

"Yes, but I may not speak of that."

"Strange--that that dazzling light could rest upon an object before one's

eyes and not be visible."

"With it comes speech, also. Several saints come, attended by myriads of

angels, and they speak to me; I hear their voices, but others do not.

They are very dear to me--my Voices; that is what I call them to myself."

"Joan, what do they tell you?"

"All manner of things--about France, I mean."

"What things have they been used to tell you?"

She sighed, and said:

"Disasters--only disasters, and misfortunes, and humiliation. There was

naught else to foretell."

"They spoke of them to you beforehand?" "Yes. So that I knew what was

going to happen before it happened. It made me grave--as you saw. It

could not be otherwise. But always there was a word of hope, too. More

than that: France was to be rescued, and made great and free again. But

how and by whom--that was not told. Not until to-day." As she said those

last words a sudden deep glow shone in her eyes, which I was to see there

many times in after-days when the bugles sounded the charge and learn to

call it the battle-light. Her breast heaved, and the color rose in her

face. "But to-day I know. God has chosen the meanest of His creatures for

this work; and by His command, and in His protection, and by His

strength, not mine, I am to lead His armies, and win back France, and set

the crown upon the head of His servant that is Dauphin and shall be

King."

I was amazed, and said:

"You, Joan? You, a child, lead armies?"

"Yes. For one little moment or two the thought crushed me; for it is as

you say--I am only a child; a child and ignorant--ignorant of everything

that pertains to war, and not fitted for the rough life of camps and the

companionship of soldiers. But those weak moments passed; they will not

come again. I am enlisted, I will not turn back, God helping me, till the

English grip is loosed from the throat of France. My Voices have never

told me lies, they have not lied to-day. They say I am to go to Robert de

Baudricourt, governor of Vaucouleurs, and he will give me men-at-arms for

escort and send me to the King. A year from now a blow will be struck

which will be the beginning of the end, and the end will follow swiftly."

"Where will it be struck?"

"My Voices have not said; nor what will happen this present year, before

it is struck. It is appointed me to strike it, that is all I know; and

follow it with others, sharp and swift, undoing in ten weeks England's

long years of costly labor, and setting the crown upon the Dauphin's

head--for such is God's will; my Voices have said it, and shall I doubt

it? No; it will be as they have said, for they say only that which is

true."

These were tremendous sayings. They were impossibilities to my reason,

but to my heart they rang true; and so, while my reason doubted, my heart

believed--believed, and held fast to the belief from that day. Presently

I said:

"Joan, I believe the things which you have said, and now I am glad that I

am to march with you to the great wars--that is, if it is with you I am

to march when I go."

She looked surprised, and said:

"It is true that you will be with me when I go to the wars, but how did

you know?"

"I shall march with you, and so also will Jean and Pierre, but not

Jacques."

"All true--it is so ordered, as was revealed to me lately, but I did not

know until to-day that the marching would be with me, or that I should

march at all. How did you know these things?"

I told her when it was that she had said them. But she did not remember

about it. So then I knew that she had been asleep, or in a trance or an

ecstasy of some kind, at that time. She bade me keep these and the other

revelations to myself for the present, and I said I would, and kept the

faith I promised.

None who met Joan that day failed to notice the change that had come over

her. She moved and spoke with energy and decision; there was a strange

new fire in her eye, and also a something wholly new and remarkable in

her carriage and in the set of her head. This new light in the eye and

this new bearing were born of the authority and leadership which had this

day been vested in her by the decree of God, and they asserted that

authority as plainly as speech could have done it, yet without

ostentation or bravado. This calm consciousness of command, and calm

unconscious outward expression of it, remained with her thenceforth until

her mission was accomplished.

Like the other villagers, she had always accorded me the deference due my

rank; but now, without word said on either side, she and I changed

places; she gave orders, not suggestions. I received them with the

deference due a superior, and obeyed them without comment. In the evening

she said to me:

"I leave before dawn. No one will know it but you. I go to speak with the

governor of Vaucouleurs as commanded, who will despise me and treat me

rudely, and perhaps refuse my prayer at this time. I go first to Burey,

to persuade my uncle Laxart to go with me, it not being meet that I go

alone. I may need you in Vaucouleurs; for if the governor will not

receive me I will dictate a letter to him, and so must have some one by

me who knows the art of how to write and spell the words. You will go

from here to-morrow in the afternoon, and remain in Vaucouleurs until I

need you."

I said I would obey, and she went her way. You see how clear a head she

had, and what a just and level judgment. She did not order me to go with

her; no, she would not subject her good name to gossiping remark. She

knew that the governor, being a noble, would grant me, another noble,

audience; but no, you see, she would not have that, either. A poor

peasant-girl presenting a petition through a young nobleman--how would

that look? She always protected her modesty from hurt; and so, for

reward, she carried her good name unsmirched to the end. I knew what I

must do now, if I would have her approval: go to Vaucouleurs, keep out of

her sight, and be ready when wanted.

I went the next afternoon, and took an obscure lodging; the next day I

called at the castle and paid my respects to the governor, who invited me

to dine with him at noon of the following day. He was an ideal soldier of

the time; tall, brawny, gray-headed, rough, full of strange oaths

acquired here and there and yonder in the wars and treasured as if they

were decorations. He had been used to the camp all his life, and to his

notion war was God's best gift to man. He had his steel cuirass on, and

wore boots that came above his knees, and was equipped with a huge sword;

and when I looked at this martial figure, and heard the marvelous oaths,

and guessed how little of poetry and sentiment might be looked for in

this quarter, I hoped the little peasant-girl would not get the privilege

of confronting this battery, but would have to content herself with the

dictated letter.

I came again to the castle the next day at noon, and was conducted to the

great dining-hall and seated by the side of the governor at a small table

which was raised a couple of steps higher than the general table. At the

small table sat several other guests besides myself, and at the general

table sat the chief officers of the garrison. At the entrance door stood

a guard of halberdiers, in morion and breastplate.

As for talk, there was but one topic, of course--the desperate situation

of France. There was a rumor, some one said, that Salisbury was making

preparations to march against Orleans. It raised a turmoil of excited

conversation, and opinions fell thick and fast. Some believed he would

march at once, others that he could not accomplish the investment before

fall, others that the siege would be long, and bravely contested; but

upon one thing all voices agreed: that Orleans must eventually fall, and

with it France. With that, the prolonged discussion ended, and there was

silence. Every man seemed to sink himself in his own thoughts, and to

forget where he was. This sudden and profound stillness, where before had

been so much animation, was impressive and solemn. Now came a servant and

whispered something to the governor, who said:

"Would talk with me?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"H'm! A strange idea, certainly. Bring them in."

It was Joan and her uncle Laxart. At the spectacle of the great people

the courage oozed out of the poor old peasant and he stopped midway and

would come no further, but remained there with his red nightcap crushed

in his hands and bowing humbly here, there, and everywhere, stupefied

with embarrassment and fear. But Joan came steadily forward, erect and

self-possessed, and stood before the governor. She recognized me, but in

no way indicated it. There was a buzz of admiration, even the governor

contributing to it, for I heard him mutter, "By God's grace, it is a

beautiful creature!" He inspected her critically a moment or two, then

said:

"Well, what is your errand, my child?"

"My message is to you, Robert de Baudricourt, governor of Vaucouleurs,

and it is this: that you will send and tell the Dauphin to wait and not

give battle to his enemies, for God will presently send him help."

This strange speech amazed the company, and many murmured, "The poor

young thing is demented." The governor scowled, and said:

"What nonsense is this? The King--or the Dauphin, as you call him--needs

no message of that sort. He will wait, give yourself no uneasiness as to

that. What further do you desire to say to me?"

"This. To beg that you will give me an escort of men-at-arms and send me

to the Dauphin."

"What for?"

"That he may make me his general, for it is appointed that I shall drive

the English out of France, and set the crown upon his head."

"What--you? Why, you are but a child!"

"Yet am I appointed to do it, nevertheless."

"Indeed! And when will all this happen?"

"Next year he will be crowned, and after that will remain master of

France."

There was a great and general burst of laughter, and when it had subsided

the governor said:

"Who has sent you with these extravagant messages?"

"My Lord."

"What Lord?"

"The King of Heaven."

Many murmured, "Ah, poor thing, poor thing!" and others, "Ah, her mind is

but a wreck!" The governor hailed Laxart, and said:

"Harkye!--take this mad child home and whip her soundly. That is the best

cure for her ailment."

As Joan was moving away she turned and said, with simplicity:

"You refuse me the soldiers, I know not why, for it is my Lord that has

commanded you. Yes, it is He that has made the command; therefore I must

come again, and yet again; then I shall have the men-at-arms."

There was a great deal of wondering talk, after she was gone; and the

guards and servants passed the talk to the town, the town passed it to

the country; Domremy was already buzzing with it when we got back.

Chapter 8 Why the Scorners Relented

HUMAN NATURE is the same everywhere: it defies success, it has nothing

but scorn for defeat. The village considered that Joan had disgraced it

with her grotesque performance and its ridiculous failure; so all the

tongues were busy with the matter, and as bilious and bitter as they were

busy; insomuch that if the tongues had been teeth she would not have

survived her persecutions. Those persons who did not scold did what was

worse and harder to bear; for they ridiculed her, and mocked at her, and

ceased neither day nor night from their witticisms and jeerings and

laughter. Haumette and Little Mengette and I stood by her, but the storm

was too strong for her other friends, and they avoided her, being ashamed

to be seen with her because she was so unpopular, and because of the

sting of the taunts that assailed them on her account. She shed tears in

secret, but none in public. In public she carried herself with serenity,

and showed no distress, nor any resentment--conduct which should have

softened the feeling against her, but it did not. Her father was so

incensed that he could not talk in measured terms about her wild project

of going to the wars like a man. He had dreamed of her doing such a

thing, some time before, and now he remembered that dream with

apprehension and anger, and said that rather than see her unsex herself

and go away with the armies, he would require her brothers to drown her;

and that if they should refuse, he would do it with his own hands.

But none of these things shook her purpose in the least. Her parents kept

a strict watch upon her to keep her from leaving the village, but she

said her time was not yet; that when the time to go was come she should

know it, and then the keepers would watch in vain.

The summer wasted along; and when it was seen that her purpose continued

steadfast, the parents were glad of a chance which finally offered itself

for bringing her projects to an end through marriage. The Paladin had the

effrontery to pretend that she had engaged herself to him several years

before, and now he claimed a ratification of the engagement.

She said his statement was not true, and refused to marry him. She was

cited to appear before the ecclesiastical court at Toul to answer for her

perversity; when she declined to have counsel, and elected to conduct her

case herself, her parents and all her ill-wishers rejoiced, and looked

upon her as already defeated. And that was natural enough; for who would

expect that an ignorant peasant-girl of sixteen would be otherwise than

frightened and tongue-tied when standing for the first time in presence

of the practised doctors of the law, and surrounded by the cold

solemnities of a court? Yet all these people were mistaken. They flocked

to Toul to see and enjoy this fright and embarrassment and defeat, and

they had their trouble for their pains. She was modest, tranquil, and

quite at her ease. She called no witnesses, saying she would content

herself with examining the witnesses for the prosecution. When they had

testified, she rose and reviewed their testimony in a few words,

pronounced it vague, confused, and of no force, then she placed the

Paladin again on the stand and began to search him. His previous

testimony went rag by rag to ruin under her ingenious hands, until at

last he stood bare, so to speak, he that had come so richly clothed in

fraud and falsehood. His counsel began an argument, but the court

declined to hear it, and threw out the case, adding a few words of grave

compliment for Joan, and referring to her as "this marvelous child."

After this victory, with this high praise from so imposing a source

added, the fickle village turned again, and gave Joan countenance,

compliment, and peace. Her mother took her back to her heart, and even

her father relented and said he was proud of her. But the time hung heavy

on her hands, nevertheless, for the siege of Orleans was begun, the

clouds lowered darker and darker over France, and still her Voices said

wait, and gave her no direct commands. The winter set in, and wore

tediously along; but at last there was a change.

BOOK II IN COURT AND CAMP

Chapter 1 Joan Says Good-By

THE 5th of January, 1429, Joan came to me with her uncle Laxart, and

said:

"The time is come. My Voices are not vague now, but clear, and they have

told me what to do. In two months I shall be with the Dauphin."

Her spirits were high, and her bearing martial. I caught the infection

and felt a great impulse stirring in me that was like what one feels when

he hears the roll of the drums and the tramp of marching men.

"I believe it," I said.

"I also believe it," said Laxart. "If she had told me before, that she

was commanded of God to rescue France, I should not have believed; I

should have let her seek the governor by her own ways and held myself

clear of meddling in the matter, not doubting she was mad. But I have

seen her stand before those nobles and might men unafraid, and say her

say; and she had not been able to do that but by the help of God. That I

know. Therefore with all humbleness I am at her command, to do with me as

she will."

"My uncle is very good to me," Joan said. "I sent and asked him to come

and persuade my mother to let him take me home with him to tend his wife,

who is not well. It is arranged, and we go at dawn to-morrow. From his

house I shall go soon to Vaucouleurs, and wait and strive until my prayer

is granted. Who were the two cavaliers who sat to your left at the

governor's table that day?"

"One was the Sieur Jean de Novelonpont de Metz, the other the Sieur

Bertrand de Poulengy."

"Good metal--good metal, both. I marked them for men of mine. . . . What

is it I see in your face? Doubt?"

I was teaching myself to speak the truth to her, not trimming it or

polishing it; so I said:

"They considered you out of your head, and said so. It is true they

pitied you for being in such misfortune, but still they held you to be

mad."

This did not seem to trouble her in any way or wound her. She only said:

"The wise change their minds when they perceive that they have been in

error. These will. They will march with me. I shall see them presently. .

. . You seem to doubt again? Do you doubt?"

"N-no. Not now. I was remembering that it was a year ago, and that they

did not belong here, but only chanced to stop a day on their journey."

"They will come again. But as to matters now in hand; I came to leave

with you some instructions. You will follow me in a few days. Order your

affairs, for you will be absent long."

"Will Jean and Pierre go with me?"

"No; they would refuse now, but presently they will come, and with them

they will bring my parents' blessing, and likewise their consent that I

take up my mission. I shall be stronger, then--stronger for that; for

lack of it I am weak now." She paused a little while, and the tears

gathered in her eyes; then she went on: "I would say good-by to Little

Mengette. Bring her outside the village at dawn; she must go with me a

little of the way--"

"And Haumette?"

She broke down and began to cry, saying:

"No, oh, no--she is too dear to me, I could not bear it, knowing I should

never look upon her face again."

Next morning I brought Mengette, and we four walked along the road in the

cold dawn till the village was far behind; then the two girls said their

good-bys, clinging about each other's neck, and pouring out their grief

in loving words and tears, a pitiful sight to see. And Joan took one long

look back upon the distant village, and the Fairy Tree, and the oak

forest, and the flowery plain, and the river, as if she was trying to

print these scenes on her memory so that they would abide there always

and not fade, for she knew she would not see them any more in this life;

then she turned, and went from us, sobbing bitterly. It was her birthday

and mine. She was seventeen years old.

Chapter 2 The Governor Speeds Joan

After a few days, Laxart took Joan to Vaucouleurs, and found lodging and

guardianship for her with Catherine Royer, a wheelwright's wife, an

honest and good woman. Joan went to mass regularly, she helped do the

housework, earning her keep in that way, and if any wished to talk with

her about her mission--and many did--she talked freely, making no

concealments regarding the matter now. I was soon housed near by, and

witnessed the effects which followed. At once the tidings spread that a

young girl was come who was appointed of God to save France. The common

people flocked in crowds to look at her and speak with her, and her fair

young loveliness won the half of their belief, and her deep earnestness

and transparent sincerity won the other half. The well-to-do remained

away and scoffed, but that is their way.

Next, a prophecy of Merlin's, more than eight hundred years old, was

called to mind, which said that in a far future time France would be lost

by a woman and restored by a woman. France was now, for the first time,

lost--and by a woman, Isabel of Bavaria, her base Queen; doubtless this

fair and pure young girl was commissioned of Heaven to complete the

prophecy.

This gave the growing interest a new and powerful impulse; the excitement

rose higher and higher, and hope and faith along with it; and so from

Vaucouleurs wave after wave of this inspiring enthusiasm flowed out over

the land, far and wide, invading all the villages and refreshing and

revivifying the perishing children of France; and from these villages

came people who wanted to see for themselves, hear for themselves; and

they did see and hear, and believe. They filled the town; they more than

filled it; inns and lodgings were packed, and yet half of the inflow had

to go without shelter. And still they came, winter as it was, for when a

man's soul is starving, what does he care for meat and roof so he can but

get that nobler hunger fed? Day after day, and still day after day the

great tide rose. Domremy was dazed, amazed, stupefied, and said to

itself, "Was this world-wonder in our familiar midst all these years and

we too dull to see it?" Jean and Pierre went out from the village, stared

at and envied like the great and fortunate of the earth, and their

progress to Vaucouleurs was like a triumph, all the country-side flocking

to see and salute the brothers of one with whom angels had spoken face to

face, and into whose hands by command of God they had delivered the

destinies of France.

The brothers brought the parents' blessing and godspeed to Joan, and

their promise to bring it to her in person later; and so, with this

culminating happiness in her heart and the high hope it inspired, she

went and confronted the governor again. But he was no more tractable than

he had been before. He refused to send her to the King. She was

disappointed, but in no degree discouraged. She said:

"I must still come to you until I get the men-at-arms; for so it is

commanded, and I may not disobey. I must go to the Dauphin, though I go

on my knees."

I and the two brothers were with Joan daily, to see the people that came

and hear what they said; and one day, sure enough, the Sieur Jean de Metz

came. He talked with her in a petting and playful way, as one talks with

children, and said:

"What are you doing here, my little maid? Will they drive the King out of

France, and shall we all turn English?"

She answered him in her tranquil, serious way:

"I am come to bid Robert de Baudricourt take or send me to the King, but

he does not heed my words."

"Ah, you have an admirable persistence, truly; a whole year has not

turned you from your wish. I saw you when you came before."

Joan said, as tranquilly as before:

"It is not a wish, it is a purpose. He will grant it. I can wait."

"Ah, perhaps it will not be wise to make too sure of that, my child.

These governors are stubborn people to deal with. In case he shall not

grant your prayer--"

"He will grant it. He must. It is not a matter of choice."

The gentleman's playful mood began to disappear--one could see that, by

his face. Joan's earnestness was affecting him. It always happened that

people who began in jest with her ended by being in earnest. They soon

began to perceive depths in her that they had not suspected; and then her

manifest sincerity and the rocklike steadfastness of her convictions were

forces which cowed levity, and it could not maintain its self-respect in

their presence. The Sieur de Metz was thoughtful for a moment or two,

then he began, quite soberly:

"Is it necessary that you go to the King soon?--that is, I mean--"

"Before Mid-Lent, even though I wear away my legs to the knees!"

She said it with that sort of repressed fieriness that means so much when

a person's heart is in a thing. You could see the response in that

nobleman's face; you could see his eye light up; there was sympathy

there. He said, most earnestly:

"God knows I think you should have the men-at-arms, and that somewhat

would come of it. What is it that you would do? What is your hope and

purpose?"

"To rescue France. And it is appointed that I shall do it. For no one

else in the world, neither kings, nor dukes, no any other, can recover

the kingdom of France, and there is no help but in me."

The words had a pleading and pathetic sound, and they touched that good

nobleman. I saw it plainly. Joan dropped her voice a little, and said:

"But indeed I would rather spin with my poor mother, for this is not my

calling; but I must go and do it, for it is my Lord's will."

"Who is your Lord?"

"He is God."

Then the Sieur de Metz, following the impressive old feudal fashion,

knelt and laid his hands within Joan's in sign of fealty, and made oath

that by God's help he himself would take her to the king.

The next day came the Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy, and he also pledged his

oath and knightly honor to abide with her and follower witherosever she

might lead.

This day, too, toward evening, a great rumor went flying abroad through

the town--namely, that the very governor himself was going to visit the

young girl in her humble lodgings. So in the morning the streets and

lanes were packed with people waiting to see if this strange thing would

indeed happen. And happen it did. The governor rode in state, attended by

his guards, and the news of it went everywhere, and made a great

sensation, and modified the scoffings of the people of quality and raised

Joan's credit higher than ever.

The governor had made up his mind to one thing: Joan was either a witch

or a saint, and he meant to find out which it was. So he brought a priest

with him to exorcise the devil that was in her in case there was one

there. The priest performed his office, but found no devil. He merely

hurt Joan's feelings and offended her piety without need, for he had

already confessed her before this, and should have known, if he knew

anything, that devils cannot abide the confessional, but utter cries of

anguish and the most profane and furious cursings whenever they are

confronted with that holy office.

The governor went away troubled and full of thought, and not knowing what

to do. And while he pondered and studied, several days went by and the

14th of February was come. Then Joan went to the castle and said:

"In God's name, Robert de Baudricourt, you are too slow about sending me,

and have caused damage thereby, for this day the Dauphin's cause has lost

a battle near Orleans, and will suffer yet greater injury if you do not

send me to him soon."

The governor was perplexed by this speech, and said:

"To-day, child, to-day? How can you know what has happened in that region

to-day? It would take eight or ten days for the word to come."

"My Voices have brought the word to me, and it is true. A battle was lost

to-day, and you are in fault to delay me so."

The governor walked the floor awhile, talking within himself, but letting

a great oath fall outside now and then; and finally he said:

"Harkye! go in peace, and wait. If it shall turn out as you say, I will

give you the letter and send you to the King, and not otherwise."

Joan said with fervor:

"Now God be thanked, these waiting days are almost done. In nine days you

will fetch me the letter."

Already the people of Vaucouleurs had given her a horse and had armed and

equipped her as a soldier. She got no chance to try the horse and see if

she could ride it, for her great first duty was to abide at her post and

lift up the hopes and spirits of all who would come to talk with her, and

prepare them to help in the rescue and regeneration of the kingdom. This

occupied every waking moment she had. But it was no matter. There was

nothing she could not learn--and in the briefest time, too. Her horse

would find this out in the first hour. Meantime the brothers and I took

the horse in turn and began to learn to ride. And we had teaching in the

use of the sword and other arms also.

On the 20th Joan called her small army together--the two knights and her

two brothers and me--for a private council of war. No, it was not a

council, that is not the right name, for she did not consult with us, she

merely gave us orders. She mapped out the course she would travel toward

the King, and did it like a person perfectly versed in geography; and

this itinerary of daily marches was so arranged as to avoid here and

there peculiarly dangerous regions by flank movements--which showed that

she knew her political geography as intimately as she knew her physical

geography; yet she had never had a day's schooling, of course, and was

without education. I was astonished, but thought her Voices must have

taught her. But upon reflection I saw that this was not so. By her

references to what this and that and the other person had told her, I

perceived that she had been diligently questioning those crowds of

visiting strangers, and that out of them she had patiently dug all this

mass of invaluable knowledge. The two knights were filled with wonder at

her good sense and sagacity.

She commanded us to make preparations to travel by night and sleep by day

in concealment, as almost the whole of our long journey would be through

the enemy's country.

Also, she commanded that we should keep the date of our departure a

secret, since she meant to get away unobserved. Otherwise we should be

sent off with a grand demonstration which would advertise us to the

enemy, and we should be ambushed and captured somewhere. Finally she

said:

"Nothing remains, now, but that I confide to you the date of our

departure, so that you may make all needful preparation in time, leaving

nothing to be done in haste and badly at the last moment. We march the

23d, at eleven of the clock at night."

Then we were dismissed. The two knights were startled--yes, and troubled;

and the Sieur Bertrand said:

"Even if the governor shall really furnish the letter and the escort, he

still may not do it in time to meet the date she has chosen. Then how can

she venture to name that date? It is a great risk--a great risk to select

and decide upon the date, in this state of uncertainty."

I said:

"Since she has named the 23d, we may trust her. The Voices have told her,

I think. We shall do best to obey."

We did obey. Joan's parents were notified to come before the 23d, but

prudence forbade that they be told why this limit was named.

All day, the 23d, she glanced up wistfully whenever new bodies of

strangers entered the house, but her parents did not appear. Still she

was not discouraged, but hoped on. But when night fell at last, her hopes

perished, and the tears came; however, she dashed them away, and said:

"It was to be so, no doubt; no doubt it was so ordered; I must bear it,

and will."

De Metz tried to comfort her by saying:

"The governor sends no word; it may be that they will come to-morrow,

and--"

He got no further, for she interrupted him, saying:

"To what good end? We start at eleven to-night."

And it was so. At ten the governor came, with his guard and arms, with

horses and equipment for me and for the brothers, and gave Joan a letter

to the King. Then he took off his sword, and belted it about her waist

with his own hands, and said:

"You said true, child. The battle was lost, on the day you said. So I

have kept my word. Now go--come of it what may."

Joan gave him thanks, and he went his way.

The lost battle was the famous disaster that is called in history the

Battle of the Herrings.

All the lights in the house were at once put out, and a little while

after, when the streets had become dark and still, we crept stealthily

through them and out at the western gate and rode away under whip and

spur.

Chapter 3 The Paladin Groans and Boasts

WE WERE twenty-five strong, and well equipped. We rode in double file,

Joan and her brothers in the center of the column, with Jean de Metz at

the head of it and the Sieur Bertrand at its extreme rear. In two or

three hours we should be in the enemy's country, and then none would

venture to desert. By and by we began to hear groans and sobs and

execrations from different points along the line, and upon inquiry found

that six of our men were peasants who had never ridden a horse before,

and were finding it very difficult to stay in their saddles, and moreover

were now beginning to suffer considerable bodily torture. They had been

seized by the governor at the last moment and pressed into the service to

make up the tale, and he had placed a veteran alongside of each with

orders to help him stick to the saddle, and kill him if he tried to

desert.

These poor devils had kept quiet as long as they could, but their

physical miseries were become so sharp by this time that they were

obliged to give them vent. But we were within the enemy's country now, so

there was no help for them, they must continue the march, though Joan

said that if they chose to take the risk they might depart. They

preferred to stay with us. We modified our pace now, and moved

cautiously, and the new men were warned to keep their sorrows to

themselves and not get the command into danger with their curses and

lamentations.

Toward dawn we rode deep into a forest, and soon all but the sentries

were sound asleep in spite of the cold ground and the frosty air.

I woke at noon out of such a solid and stupefying sleep that at first my

wits were all astray, and I did not know where I was nor what had been

happening. Then my senses cleared, and I remembered. As I lay there

thinking over the strange events of the past month or two the thought

came into my mind, greatly surprising me, that one of Joan's prophecies

had failed; for where were Noel and the Paladin, who were to join us at

the eleventh hour? By this time, you see, I had gotten used to expecting

everything Joan said to come true. So, being disturbed and troubled by

these thoughts, I opened my eyes. Well, there stood the Paladin leaning

against a tree and looking down on me! How often that happens; you think

of a person, or speak of a person, and there he stands before you, and

you not dreaming he is near. It looks as if his being near is really the

thing that makes you think of him, and not just an accident, as people

imagine. Well, be that as it may, there was the Paladin, anyway, looking

down in my face and waiting for me to wake. I was ever so glad to see

him, and jumped up and shook him by the hand, and led him a little way

from the camp--he limping like a cripple--and told him to sit down, and

said:

"Now, where have you dropped down from? And how did you happen to light

in this place? And what do the soldier-clothes mean? Tell me all about

it."

He answered:

"I marched with you last night."

"No!" (To myself I said, "The prophecy has not all failed--half of it has

come true.") "Yes, I did. I hurried up from Domremy to join, and was

within a half a minute of being too late. In fact, I was too late, but I

begged so hard that the governor was touched by my brave devotion to my

country's cause--those are the words he used--and so he yielded, and

allowed me to come."

I thought to myself, this is a lie, he is one of those six the governor

recruited by force at the last moment; I know it, for Joan's prophecy

said he would join at the eleventh hour, but not by his own desire. Then

I said aloud:

"I am glad you came; it is a noble cause, and one should not sit at home

in times like these."

"Sit at home! I could no more do it than the thunderstone could stay hid

in the clouds when the storm calls it."

"That is the right talk. It sounds like you."

That pleased him.

"I'm glad you know me. Some don't. But they will, presently. They will

know me well enough before I get done with this war."

"That is what I think. I believe that wherever danger confronts you you

will make yourself conspicuous."

He was charmed with this speech, and it swelled him up like a bladder. He

said:

"If I know myself--and I think I do--my performances in this campaign

will give you occasion more than once to remember those words."

"I were a fool to doubt it. That I know."

"I shall not be at my best, being but a common soldier; still, the

country will hear of me. If I were where I belong; if I were in the place

of La Hire, or Saintrailles, or the Bastard of Orleans--well, I say

nothing. I am not of the talking kind, like Noel Rainguesson and his

sort, I thank God. But it will be something, I take it--a novelty in this

world, I should say--to raise the fame of a private soldier above theirs,

and extinguish the glory of their names with its shadow."

"Why, look here, my friend," I said, "do you know that you have hit out a

most remarkable idea there? Do you realize the gigantic proportions of

it? For look you; to be a general of vast renown, what is that?

Nothing--history is clogged and confused with them; one cannot keep their

names in his memory, there are so many. But a common soldier of supreme

renown--why, he would stand alone! He would the be one moon in a

firmament of mustard-seed stars; his name would outlast the human race!

My friend, who gave you that idea?"

He was ready to burst with happiness, but he suppressed betrayal of it as

well as he could. He simply waved the compliment aside with his hand and

said, with complacency:

"It is nothing. I have them often--ideas like that--and even greater

ones. I do not consider this one much."

"You astonish me; you do, indeed. So it is really your own?"

"Quite. And there is plenty more where it came from"--tapping his head

with his finger, and taking occasion at the same time to cant his morion

over his right ear, which gave him a very self-satisfied air--"I do not

need to borrow my ideas, like Noel Rainguesson."

"Speaking of Noel, when did you see him last?"

"Half an hour ago. He is sleeping yonder like a corpse. Rode with us last

night."

I felt a great upleap in my heart, and said to myself, now I am at rest

and glad; I will never doubt her prophecies again. Then I said aloud:

"It gives me joy. It makes me proud of our village. There is not keeping

our lion-hearts at home in these great times, I see that."

"Lion-heart! Who--that baby? Why, he begged like a dog to be let off.

Cried, and said he wanted to go to his mother. Him a lion-heart!--that

tumble-bug!"

"Dear me, why I supposed he volunteered, of course. Didn't he?"

"Oh, yes, he volunteered the way people do to the headsman. Why, when he

found I was coming up from Domremy to volunteer, he asked me to let him

come along in my protection, and see the crowds and the excitement. Well,

we arrived and saw the torches filing out at the Castle, and ran there,

and the governor had him seized, along with four more, and he begged to

be let off, and I begged for his place, and at last the governor allowed

me to join, but wouldn't let Noel off, because he was disgusted with him,

he was such a cry-baby. Yes, and much good he'll do the King's service;

he'll eat for six and run for sixteen. I hate a pygmy with half a heart

and nine stomachs!"

"Why, this is very surprising news to me, and I am sorry and disappointed

to hear it. I thought he was a very manly fellow."

The Paladin gave me an outraged look, and said: