sit by the spring and I will tell you all my secret.”
When she was ready to begin, I checked her and said:
“First tell me this. You could not see me in the wood; how did you
know I cut a mark in the tree?”
“Wait a little; I will soon come to that; then you will see.”
“But tell me one thing now; what was that awful shadow that I
saw?”
“I will tell you, but do not be disturbed; you are not in danger. It
was the shadow of an archangel–Michael, the chief and lord of the
armies of heaven.”
I could but cross myself and tremble for having polluted that
ground with my feet.
“You were not afraid, Joan? Did you see his face–did you see his
form?”
“Yes; I was not afraid, because this was not the first time. I was
afraid the first time.”
“When was that, Joan?”
“It is nearly three years ago now.”
“So long? Have you seen him many times?”
“Yes, many times.”
“It is this, then, that has changed you; it was this that made you
thoughtful and not as you were before. I see it now. Why did you
not tell us about it?”
“It was not permitted. It is permitted now, and soon I shall tell all.
But only you, now. It must remain a secret for a few days still.”
“Has none seen that white shadow before but me?”
“No one. It has fallen upon me before when you and others were
present, but none could see it. To-day it has been otherwise, and I
was told why; but it will not be visible again to any.”
“It was a sign to me, then–and a sign with a meaning of some
kind?”
“Yes, but I may not speak of that.”
“Strange–that that dazzling light could rest upon an object before
one’s eyes and not be visible.”
“With it comes speech, also. Several saints come, attended by
myriads of angels, and they speak to me; I hear their voices, but
others do not. They are very dear to me–my Voices; that is what I
call them to myself.”
“Joan, what do they tell you?”
“All manner of things–about France, I mean.”
“What things have they been used to tell you?”
She sighed, and said:
“Disasters–only disasters, and misfortunes, and humiliation. There
was naught else to foretell.”
“They spoke of them to you beforehand? “Yes. So that I knew what
was going to happen before it happened. It made me grave–as you
saw. It could not be otherwise. But always there was a word of
hope, too. More than that: France was to be rescued, and made
great and free again. But how and by whom–that was not told. Not
until to-day.” As she said those last words a sudden deep glow
shone in her eyes, which I was to see there many times in
after-days when the bugles sounded the charge and learn to call it
the battle-light. Her breast heaved, and the color rose in her face.
“But to-day I know. God has chosen the meanest of His creatures
for this work; and by His command, and in His protection, and by
His strength, not mine, I am to lead His armies, and win back
France, and set the crown upon the head of His servant that is
Dauphin and shall be King.”
I was amazed, and said:
“You, Joan? You, a child, lead armies?”
“Yes. For one little moment or two the thought crushed me; for it
is as you say–I am only a child; a child and ignorant–ignorant of
everything that pertains to war, and not fitted for the rough life of
camps and the companionship of soldiers. But those weak
moments passed; they will not come again. I am enlisted, I will not
turn back, God helping me, till the English grip is loosed from the
throat of France. My Voices have never told me lies, they have not
lied to-day. They say I am to go to Robert de Baudricourt,
governor of Vaucouleurs, and he will give me men-at-arms for
escort and send me to the King. A year from now a blow will be