THE PROPHECY OF MERLIN.
Jeannette had listened to Sybille in rapt attention, struck above all by
the singular circumstance of a peasant marrying the daughter of a king.
From that moment Jeannette pardoned herself for having so often, since
the previous evening, permitted her thoughts to turn to that young Sire,
so sweet, so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate through his
mother's misconduct and the cruelty of the English.
When Sybille's recital was ended, a short silence ensued which was
broken by Jeannette:
"Oh, god-mother, what a beautiful legend! It would be still more
beautiful if, the Sire of Leon having to fight so cruel an enemy as the
English, Alain, the peasant, had saved the King before wedding his
daughter! But what did become of Merlin, the great enchanter Merlin?"
"It is said that he must sleep a thousand years. But before he fell
asleep he prophesied that the harm a woman would do to Gaul would be
redressed by a young girl, a young girl of this region--"
"This region in which we live, god-mother?"
"Yes, of the borders of Lorraine; and that she would be born near a
large oak forest."
Jeannette clasped her hands in astonishment and she looked at Sybille in
silence, revolving in her mind the prophecy of Merlin that France was to
be saved by a young girl of Lorraine, perchance of Domremy! Was not the
emancipatrix to come from an old oak forest? Was not the village of
Domremy situated close to a forest of centennarian oaks?[7]
"What! God-mother," Jeannette inquired, "can that be true--did Merlin
make that prophecy?"
"Yes," answered Sybille, thinking that surely the time had come when the
prophecy of the Gallic bard was to be fulfilled, "yes, more than a
thousand years ago Merlin so prophesied."
"How did he do it, god-mother?"
Sybille leaned her forehead on her hand, collected herself, and in a low
voice, speaking slowly, she imparted to her god-daughter the mysterious
prophecy in the following words, to which the child listened with
religious absorption:
"When down goes the sun and the moon shines, I sing.
Young, I sang--become old still I sing.
People look for me, but they find me not.
People will cease looking for, and then will they find me.
It matters little what may happen--
What must be shall be!
"I see Gaul lost by a woman. I see Gaul saved by a virgin
From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.
I see at the borders of Lorraine a thick forest of oaks
Where, near a clear fountain, grows the divine druid herb,
Which the druid cuts with a sickle of gold.
I see an angel with wings of azure and dazzling with light.
He holds in his hands a royal crown.
I see a steed of battle as white as snow--
I see an armor of battle as brilliant as silver.--
For whom is that crown, that steed, that armor?
Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin
From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.--
For whom that crown, that steed, that armor?
Oh, how much blood!
It spouts up, it flows in torrents!
It steams; its vapor rises--rises like an autumn mist to heaven,
Where the thunder peals and where the lightning flashes.
Athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning,
That crimson mist, I see a martial virgin.
She battles, she battles--she battles still in a forest of lances!
She seems to be riding on the backs of the archers.[8]
The white steed, as white as snow, was for the martial virgin!
For her was the armor of battle as brilliant as silver.
She is surrounded by an escort.
But for whom the royal crown?
Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin
From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.
For the martial maid the steed and the armor!
But for whom the royal crown?
The angel with wings of azure holds it in his hands.
The blood has ceased to run in torrents,
The thunder to peal, and the lightning to flash.
The warriors are at rest.
I see a serene sky. The banners float;
The clarions sound; the bells ring.
Cries of joy! Chants of victory!
The martial virgin receives the crown
From the hands of the angel of light.
A man on his knees, wearing a long mantle of ermine,
Is crowned by the warrior virgin.
Who is the virgin's elect?
"It matters little what may happen.
What must be shall be!
Gaul, lost by a woman,
Is saved by a virgin
From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.
The prophecy is in the Book of Destiny."
Hanging upon the lips of Sybille, Jeannette never once interrupted her
as she listened to the mysterious prophecy with waxing emotion. Her
active, impressionable imagination pictured to her mind's eye the virgin
of Lorraine clad in her white armor, mounted on her white courser,
battling in the midst of a forest of lances, and, in the words of the
prophetic chant, "riding on the backs of the archers." And after that,
the war being ended and the foreigner vanquished, the angel of light--no
doubt St. Michael, thought the little shepherdess--passed the crown to
the warrior maid; who, amidst the blare of trumpets, the ringing of
bells and the chants of victory, rendered his crown back to the king.
And that king, who else could he be but the lovely Dauphin whose mother
had brought on the misfortunes of France? It never yet occurred to the
little shepherdess that she, herself, might be the martial virgin
prophesied of in the legend. But the heart of the naïve child beat with
joy at the thought that the virgin who was to emancipate Gaul was to be
a Lorrainian.
"Oh, thanks, god-mother, for having recited this beautiful legend to
me!" said Jeannette, throwing herself, with tears in her eyes, on the
neck of Sybille. "Morning and noon shall I pray to God and St. Michael
soon to fulfil the prophecy of Merlin. The English will then finally be
driven from France and our young Sire crowned, thanks to the courage of
the young Lorrainian maid from the forest of old oaks! May God grant our
prayers!"
"'It matters little what may happen. What must be shall be.' The
prophecy will be fulfilled."
"And yet," replied the little shepherdess, after reflecting a moment,
"think of a young maid riding to battle and commanding armed men like a
captain! Is such a thing possible? But God will give her courage!"
"My father knew one time, in my country of Brittany, the wife of the
Count of Montfort, who was vanquished and taken prisoner by the King of
France. Her name was Jeannette, like yours. Long did she fight
valiantly, both on land and on sea, with casque and cuirass. She wished
to save the heritage of her son, a three-year-old boy. The sword weighed
no more to the arm of the Countess Jeannette than does the distaff to
the hands of a girl that spins."
"What a woman, god-mother! What a woman!"
"And there were a good many other martial women, hundreds and hundreds
of years ago! They came in vessels from the countries of the North; and
they were daring enough to row up the Seine as far even as Paris. They
were called the Buckler Maidens. They did not fear the bravest soldier.
And who wished to wed them had first to overcome them by force of
arms."[9]
"You do not say so! What furious women they must have been!"
"And in still older days, the Breton women of Gaul followed their
husbands, sons, fathers and brothers to battle. They assisted at the
councils of war; and often fought unto death."
"God-mother, is not the story of Hena that you once told me, a legend of
those days?"[10]
"Yes, my child."
"Oh, god-mother," replied the enraptured little shepherdess,
caressingly, "tell me that legend once more. Hena proved herself as
courageous as will be the young Lorrainian maid whose advent Merlin
predicts."
"Very well," said Sybille, smiling, "I shall tell you this legend also
and shall then return home. My hemp is retting. I shall return for it
before evening."