She nodded and smiled. “That is my name,” said she. “Sometimes they call me La Pucelle, or the Maid of France. But you were right, I am a shepherdess, too. I have kept my father's sheep in the fields down there, and spun from the distaff while I watched them. I know how to sew and spin as well as any girl in the Barrois or Lorraine. Will you not stand up and talk with me?”
Pierre rose, still abashed and confused. He did not quite understand how to take this strange experience—too simple for a heavenly apparition, too real for a common dream. “Well, then,” said he, “if you are a shepherdess, why are you here? There are no sheep here.”
“But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to seek you.”
“Do you know me, then? How can I be one of yours?”
“Because you are a soldier of France and you are in trouble.”
Pierre's head drooped. “A broken soldier,” he muttered, “not fit to speak to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “You speak very bad French. There is no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are afraid of it, you hate it. If you hate it, you will have nothing to do with it. And if you have nothing to do with it, it cannot touch you; it is nothing.”
“But for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You had no fear when you fought. You knew you would not be killed.”
“I was no more sure of that than the other soldiers. Besides, when they bound me to the stake at Rouen and kindled the fire around me I knew very well that I should be killed. But there was no fear in it. Only peace.”
“Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not wounded and broken.”