and brought the warm rich color to her cheeks; it was then that you
saw that she was too beautiful to be of the earth, or at any rate that
there was s subtle something somewhere about her beauty that
differed it from the human types of your experience and exalted it
above them.
In the train of wains laden with supplies a man lay on top of the
goods. He was stretched out on his back, and his hands were tied
together with ropes, and also his ankles. Joan signed to the officer
in charge of that division of the train to come to her, and he rode
up and saluted.
“What is he that is bound there?” she asked.
“A prisoner, General.”
“What is his offense?”
“He is a deserter.”
“What is to be done with him?”
“He will be hanged, but it was not convenient on the march, and
there was no hurry.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He is a good soldier, but he asked leave to go and see his wife
who was dying, he said, but it could not be granted; so he went
without leave. Meanwhile the march began, and he only overtook
us yesterday evening.”
“Overtook you? Did he come of his own will?”
“Yes, it was of his own will.”
“He a deserter! Name of God! Bring him to me.”
The officer rode forward and loosed the man’s feet and brought
him back with his hands still tied. What a figure he was–a good
seven feet high, and built for business! He had a strong face; he
had an unkempt shock of black hair which showed up a striking
way when the officer removed his morion for him; for weapon he
had a big ax in his broad leathern belt. Standing by Joan’s horse, he
made Joan look littler than ever, for his head was about on a level
with her own. His face was profoundly melancholy; all interest in
life seemed to be dead in the man. Joan said:
“Hold up your hands.”
The man’s head was down. He lifted it when he heard that soft
friendly voice, and there was a wistful something in his face which
made one think that there had been music in it for him and that he
would like to hear it again. When he raised his hands Joan laid her
sword to his bonds, but the officer said with apprehension:
“Ah, madam–my General!”
“What is it?” she said.
“He is under sentence!”
“Yes, I know. I am responsible for him”; and she cut the bonds.
They had lacerated his wrists, and they were bleeding. “Ah,
pitiful!” she said; “blood–I do not like it”; and she shrank from the
sight. But only for a moment. “Give me something, somebody, to
bandage his wrists with.”
The officer said:
“Ah, my General! it is not fitting. Let me bring another to do it.”
“Another? De par le Dieu! You would seek far to find one that can
do it better than I, for I learned it long ago among both men and
beasts. And I can tie better than those that did this; if I had tied
him the ropes had not cut his flesh.”
The man looked on silent, while he was being bandaged, stealing a
furtive glance at Joan’s face occasionally, such as an animal might
that is receiving a kindness form an unexpected quarter and is
gropingly trying to reconcile the act with its source. All the staff
had forgotten the huzzaing army drifting by in its rolling clouds of
dust, to crane their necks and watch the bandaging as if it was the
most interesting and absorbing novelty that ever was. I have often
seen people do like that–get entirely lost in the simplest trifle,
when it is something that is out of their line. Now there in Poitiers,
once, I saw two bishops and a dozen of those grave and famous
scholars grouped together watching a man paint a sign on a shop;
they didn’t breathe, they were as good as dead; and when it began
to sprinkle they didn’t know it at first; then they noticed it, and
each man hove a deep sigh, and glanced up with a surprised look