Now that was fine, that was loyal. Joan was on her knees again straightway, and said:
“Then, O gentle king, if out of your compassion you will speak the word, I pray you give commandment that my village, poor and hard-pressed by reason of the war, may have its taxes remitted.”
“It is so commanded. Say on.”
“That is all.”
“All? Nothing but that?”
“It is all. I have no other desire.”
“But that is nothing—less than nothing. Ask—do not be afraid.”
“Indeed, I cannot, gentle king. Do not press me. I will not have aught else, but only this alone.”
The king seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if trying to comprehend and realize the full stature of this strange unselfishness. Then he raised his head and said:
“She has won a kingdom and crowned its king; and all she asks and all she will take is this poor grace—and even this is for others, not for herself. And it is well; her act being proportioned to the dignity of one who carries in her head and heart riches which outvalue any that any king could add, though he gave his all. She shall have her way. Now, therefore, it is decreed that from this day forth Domremy, natal village of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, called the Maid of Orleans, is freed from all taxation forever.”