as wondering to see the others there, and how he came to be there
himself–but that is the way with people, as I have said. There is no
way of accounting for people. You have to take them as they are.
“There,” said Joan at last, pleased with her success; “another could
have done it no better–not as well, I think. Tell me–what is it you
did? Tell me all.”
The giant said:
“It was this way, my angel. My mother died, then my three little
children, one after the other, all in two years. It was the famine;
others fared so–it was God’s will. I saw them die; I had that grace;
and I buried them. Then when my poor wife’s fate was come, I
begged for leave to go to her–she who was so dear to me–she who
was all I had; I begged on my knees. But they would not let me.
Could I let her die, friendless and alone? Could I let her die
believing I would not come? Would she let me die and she not
come–with her feet free to do it if she would, and no cost upon it
but only her life? Ah, she would come–she would come through
the fire! So I went. I saw her. She died in my arms. I buried her.
Then the army was gone. I had trouble to overtake it, but my legs
are long and there are many hours in a day; I overtook it last
night.”
Joan said, musingly, as as if she were thinking aloud:
“It sounds true. If true, it were no great harm to suspend the law
this one time–any would say that. It may not be true, but if it is
true–” She turned suddenly to the man and said, “I would see your
eyes–look up!” The eyes of the two met, and Joan said to the
officer, “This man is pardoned. Give you good day; you may go.”
Then she said to the man, “Did you know it was death to come
back to the army?”
“Yes,” he said, “I knew it.”
“Then why did you do it?”
The man said, quite simply:
“Because it ws death. She was all I had. There was nothing left to
love.”
“Ah, yes, there was–France! The children of France have always
their mother–they cannot be left with nothing to love. You shall
live–and you shall serve France–”
“I will serve you!”
–“you shall fight for France–”
“I will fight for you!”
“You shall be France’s soldier–”
“I will be your soldier!”
–“you shall give all your heart to France–”
“I will give all my heart to you–and all my soul, if I have one–and
all my strength, which is great–for I was dead and am alive again;
I had nothing to live for, but now I have! You are France for me.
You are my France, and I will have no other.”
Joan smiled, and was touched and pleased at the man’s grave
enthusiasm–solemn enthusiasm, one may call it, for the manner of
it was deeper than mere gravity–and she said:
“Well, it shall be as you will. What are you called?”
The man answered with unsmiling simplicity:
“They call me the Dwarf, but I think it is more in jest than
otherwise.”
It made Joan laugh, and she said:
“It has something of that look truly! What is the office of that vast
ax?”
The soldier replied with the same gravity–which must have been
born to him, it sat upon him so naturally:
“It is to persuade persons to respect France.”
Joan laughed again, and said:
“Have you given many lessons?”
“Ah, indeed, yes–many.”
“The pupils behaved to suit you, afterward?”
“Yes; it made them quiet–quite pleasant and quiet.”
“I should think it would happen so. Would you like to be my
man-at-arms?–orderly, sentinel, or something like that?”
“If I may!”
“Then you shall. You shall have proper armor, and shall go on
teaching your art. Take one of those led horses there, and follow
the staff when we move.”
That is how we came by the Dwarf; and a good fellow he was.
Joan picked him out on sight, but it wasn’t a mistake; no one could