fired everybody’s patriotism away up high, and set all hearts to
thumping and all pulses to leaping; then, before anybody rightly
knew how the change was made, he was leading us a sublime
march through the ancient glories of France, and in fancy we saw
the titanic forms of the twelve paladins rise out of the mists of the
past and face their fate; we heard the tread of the innumerable
hosts sweeping down to shut them in; we saw this human tide flow
and ebb, ebb and flow, and waste away before that little band of
heroes; we saw each detail pass before us of that most stupendous,
most disastrous, yet most adored and glorious day in French
legendary history; here and there and yonder, across that vast field
of the dead and dying, we saw this and that and the other paladin
dealing his prodigious blows with weary arm and failing strength,
and one by one we saw them fall, till only one remained–he that
was without peer, he whose name gives name to the Song of
Songs, the song which no Frenchman can hear and keep his
feelings down and his pride of country cool; then, grandest and
pitifulest scene of all, we saw his own pathetic deat; and out
stillness, as we sat with parted lips and breathless, hanging upon
this man’s words, gave us a sense of the awful stillness that reigned
in that field of slaughter when that last surviving soul had passed.
And now, in this solemn hush, the stranger gave Joan a pat or two
on the head and said:
“Little maid–whom God keep!–you have brought me from death
to life this night; now listen: here is your reward,” and at that
supreme time for such a heart-melting, soul-rousing surprise,
without another word he lifted up the most noble and pathetic
voice that was ever heard, and began to pour out the great Song of
Roland!
Think of that, with a French audience all stirred up and ready. Oh,
where was your spoken eloquence now! what was it to this! How
fine he looked, how stately, how inspired, as he stood there with
that mighty chant welling from his lips and his heart, his whole
body transfigured, and his rags along with it.
Everybody rose and stood while he sang, and their faces glowed
and their eyes burned; and the tears came and flowed don their
cheeks and their forms began to sway unconsciously to the swing
of the song, and their bosoms to heave and pant; and moanings
broke out, and deep ejaculations; and when the last verse was
reached, and Roland lay dying, all alone, with his face to the field
and to his slain, lying there in heaps and winrows, and took off and
held up his gauntlet to God with his failing hand, and breathed his
beautiful prayer with his paling pips, all burst out in sobs and
wailings. But when the final great note died out and the song was
done, they all flung themselves in a body at the singer, stark mad
with love of him and love of France and pride in her great deeds
and old renown, and smothered him with their embracings; but
Joan was there first, hugged close to his breast, and covering his
face with idolatrous kisses.
The storm raged on outside, but that was no matter; this was the
stranger’s home now, for as long as he might please.
Chapter 4 Joan Tames the Mad Man
ALL CHILDREN have nicknames, and we had ours. We got one
apiece early, and they stuck to us; but Joan was richer in this
matter, for, as time went on, she earned a second, and then a third,
and so on, and we gave them to her. First and last she had as many
as half a dozen. Several of these she never lost. Peasant-girls are
bashful naturally; but she surpassed the rule so far, and colored so
easily, and was so easily embarrassed in the presence of strangers,
that we nicknamed her the Bashful. We were all patriots, but she
was called the Patriot, because our warmest feeling for our country
was cold beside hers. Also she was called the Beautiful; and this