Pierre turned toward her with a smile.
“How you sang that, Jeanne. Just as though you would like to go out and fight for France yourself.”
“I would,” she replied quickly. “Wouldn’t you, Pierrelot?”
Something in her tone made the boy look at her keenly.
“How your eyes shine,” he said. “And somehow you seem different. What is it, Jeanne? The song?”
“Partly,” she told him.
“Well, it does make a fellow’s heart leap.” The youth spoke thoughtfully. “It always makes me feel like dropping everything to go out to fight the English and Burgundians.”
“We will go together, Pierrelot,” spoke his sister softly. “We––”
“What’s that about going to fighting?” demanded their father, who had drawn near without being perceived. “Let me hear no more of that. Pierre, that field must be finished by sundown. Jeanne, your mother has need of you in the house. There is no time for dawdling, or singing. Go to her.”
“Yes, father.” Dutifully the maiden went at once to the cottage, while Pierre resumed his hoeing.