THE LEGEND OF HENA.
With the enchanted Jeannette for her audience, Sybille proceeded to
recite the legend of Hena:
"She was young, she was fair,
And holy was she.
To Hesus her blood gave
For Gaul to be free.
Hena her name!
Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!
"'Blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter,'
Said her father Joel,
The brenn of the tribe of Karnak.
'Blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter,
Since you are home this night
To celebrate the day of your birth!'
"'Blessed be the gods, my sweet girl,'
Said Margarid, her mother.
'Blessed be your coming!
But why is your face so sad?'
"'My face is sad, my good mother,
My face is sad, my good father,
Because Hena your daughter
Comes to bid you Adieu,
Till we meet again.'
"'And where are you going, my sweet daughter?
Will your journey, then, be long?
Whither thus are you going?'
"'I go to those worlds
So mysterious, above,
That no one yet knows,
But that all will yet know.
Where living ne'er traveled,
Where all will yet travel,
To live there again
With those we have loved.'"
"And those worlds," asked Jeannette, "are they the paradise where the
angels and the saints of the good God are? Are they, god-mother?"
Sybille shook her head doubtfully, without answering, and continued the
recital of her legend:
"Hearing Hena speak these words,
Sadly gazed upon her her father,
And her mother, aye, all the family,
Even the little children,
For Hena loved them very dearly.
"'But why, dear daughter,
Why now quit this world,
And travel away beyond
Without the Angel of Death having called you?'
"'Good father, good mother,
Hesus is angry.
The stranger now threatens our Gaul, so beloved.
The innocent blood of a virgin
Offered by her to the gods
May their anger well soften.
Adieu then, till we meet again,
Good father, good mother.
"'Adieu till we meet again,
All, my dear ones and friends.
These collars preserve, and these rings,
As mementoes of me.
Let me kiss for the last time your blonde heads,
Dear little ones. Good-bye till we meet.
Remember your Hena, she waits for you yonder,
In the worlds yet unknown.'
"Bright is the moon, high is the pyre
Which rises near the sacred stones of Karnak;
Vast is the gathering of the tribes
Which presses 'round the funeral pile.
"Behold her, it is she, it is Hena!
She mounts the pyre, her golden harp in hand,
And singeth thus:
"'Take my blood, O Hesus,
And deliver my land from the stranger.
Take my blood, O Hesus.
Pity for Gaul! Victory to our arms!'
"So it flowed, the blood of Hena.
O, holy Virgin, in vain 'twill not have been,
The shedding of your innocent and generous blood.
To arms! To arms!
Let us chase away the stranger!
Victory to our arms!"
The eyes of Jeannette filled anew with tears; and she said to Sybille,
when the latter had finished her recital:
"Oh, god-mother, if the good God, his saints and his archangels should
ask me: 'Jeannette, which would you prefer to be, Hena or the martial
maid of Lorraine who is to drive the wicked English from France and
restore his crown to our gentle Dauphin?'--"
"Which would you prefer?"
"I would prefer to be Hena, who, in order to deliver her country,
offered her blood to the good God without shedding the blood of any
other people! To be obliged to kill so many people before vanquishing
the enemy and before crowning our poor young Sire! Oh, god-mother,"
added Jeannette, shivering, "Merlin said that he saw blood flowing in
torrents and steaming like a fog!"
Jeannette broke off and rose precipitately upon hearing, a few steps off
in the copse, a great noise mixed with plaintive bleatings. Just then
one of her lambs leaped madly out of the bush pursued silently by a
large black dog which was snapping viciously at its legs. To drop her
distaff, pick up two stones that she armed herself with and throw
herself upon the dog was the work of an instant for the child,
thoroughly aroused by the danger to one of her pets, while Sybille cried
in frightened tones:
"Take care! Take care! The dog that does not bark is mad!"
But the little shepherdess, with eyes afire and face animated, and
paying no heed to her god-mother's warning, instead of throwing her
stones at the dog from a safe distance, attacked him with them in her
hands, striking him with one and the other alternately until he dropped
his prey and fled, howling with pain and with great tufts of wool
hanging from his jaws, while Jeannette pursued him, picking up more
stones and throwing them with unerring aim until the dog had
disappeared in the thicket.
When Jeannette returned to Sybille the latter was struck by the intrepid
mien of the child. The ribbons on her head having become untied, her
hair was left free to tumble down upon her shoulders in long black
tresses. Still out of breath from running, she leaned for a moment
against the moss-grown rocks near the fountain with her arms hanging
down upon her scarlet skirt, when, noticing the lamb that lay bleeding
on the ground, still palpitating with fear, the little shepherdess fell
to crying. Her anger gave place to intense pity. She dipped up some
water at the spring in the hollow of her hands, knelt down beside the
lamb, washed its wounds and said in a low voice:
"Our gentle Dauphin is innocent as you, poor lambkin; and those wicked
English dogs seek to tear him up."
In the distance the bells of the church of Domremy began their measured
chimes. At the sound, of which she was so passionately fond, the little
shepherdess cried delightedly:
"Oh, god-mother, the bells, the bells!"
And in a sort of ecstasy, with her lamb pressed to her breast, Jeannette
listened to the sonorous vibrations that the morning breeze wafted to
the forest of oaks.