with his ax, as if to warn her not to come further, but she paid no heed, but went steadily on, until she was right in front of him—­right under his ax.  Then she stopped, and seemed to begin to talk with him.  It made me sick, yes, giddy, and everything swam around me, and I could not see anything for a time—­whether long or brief I do not know.  When this passed and I looked again, Joan was walking by the man’s side toward the village, holding him by his hand.  The ax was in her other hand.

One by one the boys and girls crept out, and we stood there gazing, open-mouthed, till those two entered the village and were hid from sight.  It was then that we named her the Brave.

We left the black flag there to continue its mournful office, for we had other matter to think of now.  We started for the village on a run, to give warning, and get Joan out of her peril; though for one, after seeing what I had seen, it seemed to me that while Joan had the ax the man’s chance was not the best of the two.  When we arrived the danger was past, the madman was in custody.  All the people were flocking to the little square in front of the church to talk and exclaim and wonder over the event, and it even made the town forget the black news of the treaty for two or three hours.

All the women kept hugging and kissing Joan, and praising her, and crying, and the men patted her on the head and said they wished she was a man, they would send her to the wars and never doubt but that she would strike some blows that would be heard of.  She had to tear herself away and go and hide, this glory was so trying to her diffidence.

Of course the people began to ask us for the particulars.  I was so ashamed that I made an excuse to the first comer, and got privately away and went back to the Fairy Tree, to get relief from the embarrassment of those questionings.  There I found Joan, but she was there to get relief from the embarrassment of glory.  One by one the others shirked the inquirers and joined us in our refuge.  Then we gathered around Joan, and asked her how she had dared to do that thing.  She was very modest about it, and said: 

“You make a great thing of it, but you mistake; it was not a great matter.  It was not as if I had been a stranger to the man.  I know him, and have known him long; and he knows me, and likes me.  I have fed him through the bars of his cage many times; and last December, when they chopped off two of his fingers to remind him to stop seizing and wounding people passing by, I dressed his hand every day till it was well again.”

“That is all well enough,” said Little Mengette, “but he is a madman, dear, and so his likings and his gratitude and friendliness go for nothing when his rage is up.  You did a perilous thing.”

“Of course you did,” said the Sunflower.  “Didn’t he threaten to kill you with the ax?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he threaten you more than once?”