“Four times I was wounded,” she answered gravely. “At Orleans a bolt went through my right shoulder. At Paris a lance tore my thigh. I never saw the blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart stand still. I was not a warrior born. I knew not how to ride or fight. But I did it. What we must needs do that we can do. Soldier, do not look on the ground. Look up.”
Then a strange thing took place before his eyes. A wondrous radiance, a mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess. When it melted she was clad in shining armor, sitting on a white horse, and lifting a bare sword in her left hand.
“God commands you,” she cried. “It is for France. Be of good cheer. Do not retreat. The fort will soon be yours!”
How should Pierre know that this was the cry with which the Maid had rallied her broken men at Orleans when the fort of Les Tourelles fell? What he did know was that something seemed to spring up within him to answer that call. He felt that he would rather die than desert such a leader.
The figure on the horse turned away as if to go.
“Do not leave me,” he cried, stretching out his hands to her. “Stay with me. I will obey you joyfully.”
She turned again and looked at him very earnestly. Her eyes shone deep into his heart. “Here I cannot stay,” answered a low, sweet, womanly voice. “It is late, and my other children need me.”
“But forgiveness? Can you give that to me—a coward?”
“You are no coward. Your only fault was to doubt a brave man.”
“And my wife? May I go back and tell her?”