I was with her when she went to see her father.  It was dark, and the old man sat with his brother-in-law, Durand Laxart—­he who had helped her to her first interview with De Baudricourt—­in one of the best rooms of the inn.  Since it had been known that these men were the kinsfolk of the Maid, everything of the best had been put at their disposal by the desire of the citizens, and horses had been provided for them for their return to Domremy.  For the city of Rheims was filled with joy at that which had been accomplished, and the Maid was the hero of the hour.

But I could see that there was a cloud upon the old man’s face—­the father’s; and he did not rise as his daughter entered—­she before whom nobles had learnt to bend, and who sat at the Council of the King.  His sombre eyes dwelt upon her with a strange expression in their depths.  His rugged face was hard; his knotted hands were closely locked together.

The Maid gazed at him for a moment, a world of tender emotions in her eyes; and then she quickly crossed the room and threw herself at his feet.

“My father!  My father!  My father!”

The cry seemed to come from her heart, and I saw the old man’s face quiver and twitch; but he did not touch or embrace her.

“It is the dress he cannot bear,” whispered Laxart distressfully to me, “it is as gall and wormwood to him to see his daughter go about in the garb of a man.”

The Maid’s face was raised in tender entreaty; she had hold of her father’s hands by now.  She was covering them with kisses.

“O my father, have you no word for me?  Have you not yet forgiven your little Jeanne?  I have but obeyed our Blessed Lord and His holy Saints.  And see how they have helped and blessed and guided me!  O my father, can you doubt that I was sent of them for this work?  How then could I refuse to do it?”

Then the stern face seemed to melt with a repressed tenderness, and the father bent and touched the girl’s brow with his lips.  She uttered a little cry of joy, and would have flung herself into his arms; but he held her a little off, his hands upon her shoulders, and he looked into her face searchingly.

“That may have been well done, my daughter; I will not say, I will not judge.  But your task is now accomplished—­your own lips have said it; and yet you still are to march with the King’s army, I am told.  You love better the clash of arms, the glory of victory, the companionship of soldiers and courtiers to the simple duties which await you at home, and the protection of your mother’s love.  That is not well.  That is what no modest maiden should choose.  I had hoped and believed that I should take my daughter home with me.  But she has chosen otherwise.  Do I not well to be angry?”

The Maid’s face was buried in her hands.  She would have buried it in her father’s breast, but he would not have it so.

I could have wept tears myself at the sight of her sorrow.  I saw how utterly impossible it would be to make this sturdy peasant understand the difficulty of the Maid’s position, and the claims upon her great abilities, her mysterious influence upon the soldiers.  The worthy prud’homme would look upon this as rather a dishonour and disgrace than a gift from Heaven.