forgotten it.
Let me see–where was I? One’s mind wanders around here and
there and yonder, when one is old. I think I said Joan comforted
him. Certainly, that is what she would do–there was no need to say
that. She coaxed him and petted him and caressed him, and laid
the memory of that old hard speech of his to rest. Laid it to rest
until she should be dead. Then he would remember it again–yes,
yes! Lord, how those things sting, and burn, and gnaw–the things
which we did against the innocent dead! And we say in our
anguish, “If they could only come back!” Which is all very well to
say, but, as far as I can see, it doesn’t profit anything. In my
opinion the best way is not to do the thing in the first place. And I
am not alone in this; I have heard our two knights say the same
thing; and a man there in Orleans–no, I believe it was at
Beaugency, or one of those places–it seems more as if it was at
Beaugency than the others–this man said the same thing exactly;
almost the same words; a dark man with a cast in his eye and one
leg shorter than the other. His name was–was–it is singular that I
can’t call that man’s name; I had it in my mind only a moment ago,
and I know it begins with–no, I don’t remember what it begins
with; but never mind, let it go; I will think of it presently, and then
I will tell you.
Well, pretty soon the old father wanted to know how Joan felt
when she was in the thick of a battle, with the bright blades
hacking and flashing all around her, and the blows rapping and
slatting on her shield, and blood gushing on her from the cloven
ghastly face and broken teeth of the neighbor at her elbow, and the
perilous sudden back surge of massed horses upon a person when
the front ranks give way before a heavy rush of the enemy, and
men tumble limp and groaning out of saddles all around, and
battle-flags falling from dead hands wipe across one’s face and
hide the tossing turmoil a moment, and in the reeling and swaying
and laboring jumble one’s horse’s hoofs sink into soft substances
and shrieks of pain respond, and presently–panic! rush! swarm!
flight! and death and hell following after! And the old fellow got
ever so much excited; and strode up and down, his tongue going
like a mill, asking question after question and never waiting for an
answer; and finally he stood Joan up in the middle of the room and
stepped off and scanned her critically, and said:
“No–I don’t understand it. You are so little. So little and slender.
When you had your armor on, to-day, it gave one a sort of notion
of it; but in these pretty silks and velvets, you are only a dainty
page, not a league-striding war-colossus, moving in clouds and
darkness and breathing smoke and thunder. I would God I might
see you at it and go tell your mother! That would help her sleep,
poor thing! Here–teach me the arts of the soldier, that I may
explain them to her.”
And she did it. She gave him a pike, and put him through the
manual of arms; and made him do the steps, too. His marching was
incredibly awkward and slovenly, and so was his drill with the
pike; but he didn’t know it, and was wonderfully pleased with
himself, and mightily excited and charmed with the ringing, crisp
words of command. I am obliged to say that if looking proud and
happy when one is marching were sufficient, he would have been
the perfect soldier.
And he wanted a lesson in sword-play, and got it. But of course
that was beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to see Joan
handle the foils, but the old man was a bad failure. He was afraid
of the things, and skipped and dodged and scrambled around like a
woman who has lost her mind on account of the arrival of a bat.