“In the midst of death, the jaws
  Of hell against us gape. 
  Who from peril dire as this
  Openeth us escape? 
  ’Tis thou, O Lord, alone! 
  Our bitter suffering and our sin
  Pity from thy mercy win,
  Holy Lord and God! 
  Strong and holy God! 
  Merciful and holy Saviour! 
  Eternal God! 
  Let us not despair
  For the fire that burneth there! 
  Kyrie, eleison!”

Jacqueline met Elsie on her way to the fields.  But the girls had not much to say to each other that morning in their walk.  Elsie was manifestly conscious of some great constraint; she might have reported to her friend what she had heard in the streets last night, but she felt herself prevented from such communication,—­seemed to be intent principally on one thing:  she would not commit herself in any direction.  She was looking with suspicion upon Jacqueline.  Whatever became of her soul, her body she would save alive.  She was waking to this world’s enjoyment with vision alert, senses keen.  Martyrdom in any degree was without attraction to her, and in Truth she saw no beauty that she should desire it.  It was a root out of dry ground indeed, that gave no promise of spreading into goodly shelter and entrancing beauty.

As to Jacqueline, she was absorbed in her heroic and exalted thoughts.  Her heart had almost failed her when she said farewell to John’s mother; tearfully she had hurried on her way.  One vast cloud hung between her and heaven; darkly rolled the river; every face seemed to bear witness to the tragedy that day should witness.

Not the least of her affliction was the consciousness of the distance increasing between herself and Elsie Meril.  She knew that Elsie was rejoicing that she had in no way endangered herself yet; and sure was she that in no way would Elsie invite the fury of avenging tyranny and reckless superstition.

Jacqueline asked her no questions,—­spoke few words to her,—­was absorbed in her own thoughts.  But she was kindly in her manner, and in such words as she spoke.  So Elsie perceived two things,—­that she should not lose her friend, neither was in danger of being seized by the heretical mania.  It was her way of drawing inferences.  Certain that she had not lost her friend, because Jacqueline did not look away, and refuse to recognize her; congratulating herself that she was not the object of suspicion, either justly or unjustly, among the dreadful priests.

But that friend whose steady eye had balanced Elsie was already sick at heart, for she knew that never more must she rely upon this girl who came with her from Domremy.

As they crossed the bridge, lingering thereon a moment, the river seemed to moan in its flowing toward Meaux.  The day’s light was sombre; the birds’ songs had no joyous sound,—­plaintive was their chirping; it saddened the heart to hear the wind,—­it was a wind that seemed to take the buoyancy and freshness out of every living thing, an ugly southeast wind.  They went on together,—­to the wheat-fields together;—­it was to be day of minutes to poor Jacqueline.