“Ah, you were strong, a warrior born.  You were not wounded and broken.”

“Four times I was wounded,” she answered, gravely.  “At Orleans a bolt went through my right shoulder.  At Paris a lance tore my thigh.  I never saw the blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart stand still.  I was not a warrior born.  I knew not how to ride or fight.  But I did it.  What we must needs do that we can do.  Soldier, do not look on the ground.  Look up.”

Then a strange thing took place before his eyes.  A wondrous radiance, a mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess.  When it melted she was clad in shining armor, sitting on a white horse, and lifting a bare sword in her left hand.

“God commands you,” she cried.  “It is for France.  Be of good cheer.  Do not retreat.  The fort will soon be yours!”

How should Pierre know that this was the cry with which the Maid had rallied her broken men at Orleans when the fort of Les Toutelles fell?  What he did know was that something seemed to spring up within him to answer that call.  He felt that he would rather die than desert such a leader.

The figure on the horse turned away as if to go.

“Do not leave me,” he cried, stretching out his hands to her.  “Stay with me.  I will obey you joyfully.”

She turned again and looked at him very earnestly.  Her eyes shone deep into his heart.  “Here I cannot stay,” answered a low, sweet, womanly voice.  “It is late, and my other children need me.”

“But forgiveness?  Can you give that to me—­a coward?”

“You are no coward.  Your only fault was to doubt a brave man.”

“And my wife?  May I go back and tell her?”

“No, surely.  Would you make her hear slander of the man she loves?  Be what she believes you and she will be satisfied.”

“And the absolution, the word of peace?  Will you speak that to me?”

Her eyes shone more clearly; the voice sounded sweeter and steadier than ever.  “After the penance comes the absolution.  You will find peace only at the lance’s point.  Son of France, go, go, go!  I will help you.  Go hardily to Verdun.”

Pierre sprang forward after the receding figure, tried to clasp the knee, the foot of the Maid.  As he fell to the ground something sharp pierced his hand.  It must be her spur, thought he.

Then he was aware that his eyes were shut.  He opened them and looked at his hand carefully.  There was only a scratch on it, and a tiny drop of blood.  He had torn it on the thorns of the wild-gooseberry bushes.

His head lay close to the clear pool of the spring.  He buried his face in it, and drank deep.  Then he sprang up, shaking the drops from his mustache, found his cap and pistol, and hurried up the glen toward the old Roman road.

“No more of that damned foolishness about Switzerland,” he said, aloud.  “I belong to France.  I am going with the other boys to save her.  I was born for that.”  He took off his cap and stood still for a moment.  He spoke as if he were taking an oath.  “By Jeanne d’Arc!”