The first part of the speech sent a glow of delight to Joan’s face, but the end of it quenched it and she looked sad, and the tears gathered in her eyes.  After a moment she spoke out with what seemed a sort of terrified impulse, and said: 

“Oh, use me; I beseech you, use me—­there is but little time!”

“But little time?”

“Only a year—­I shall last only a year.”

“Why, child, there are fifty good years in that compact little body yet.”

“Oh, you err, indeed you do.  In one little year the end will come.  Ah, the time is so short, so short; the moments are flying, and so much to be done.  Oh, use me, and quickly—­it is life or death for France.”

Even those insects were sobered by her impassioned words.  The King looked very grave—­grave, and strongly impressed.  His eyes lit suddenly with an eloquent fire, and he rose and drew his sword and raised it aloft; then he brought it slowly down upon Joan’s shoulder and said: 

“Ah, thou art so simple, so true, so great, so noble—­and by this accolade I join thee to the nobility of France, thy fitting place!  And for thy sake I do hereby ennoble all thy family and all thy kin; and all their descendants born in wedlock, not only in the male but also in the female line.  And more!—­more!  To distinguish thy house and honor it above all others, we add a privilege never accorded to any before in the history of these dominions:  the females of thy line shall have and hold the right to ennoble their husbands when these shall be of inferior degree.” [Astonishment and envy flared up in every countenance when the words were uttered which conferred this extraordinary grace.  The King paused and looked around upon these signs with quite evident satisfaction.] “Rise, Joan of Arc, now and henceforth surnamed Du Lis, in grateful acknowledgment of the good blow which you have struck for the lilies of France; and they, and the royal crown, and your own victorious sword, fit and fair company for each other, shall be grouped in you escutcheon and be and remain the symbol of your high nobility forever.”

As my Lady Du Lis rose, the gilded children of privilege pressed forward to welcome her to their sacred ranks and call her by her new name; but she was troubled, and said these honors were not meet for one of her lowly birth and station, and by their kind grace she would remain simple Joan of Arc, nothing more—­and so be called.

Nothing more!  As if there could be anything more, anything higher, anything greater.  My Lady Du Lis—­why, it was tinsel, petty, perishable.  But, Joan of arc!  The mere sound of it sets one’s pulses leaping.

Chapter 24 Tinsel Trappings of Nobility