“Ah, you have an admirable persistence, truly; a whole year has not turned you from your wish. I saw you when you came before.”
Joan said, as tranquilly as before:
“It is not a wish, it is a purpose. He will grant it. I can wait.”
“Ah, perhaps it will not be wise to make too sure of that, my child. These governors are stubborn people to deal with. In case he shall not grant your prayer—”
“He will grant it. He must. It is not a matter of choice.”
The gentleman’s playful mood began to disappear—one could see that, by his face. Joan’s earnestness was affecting him. It always happened that people who began in jest with her ended by being in earnest. They soon began to perceive depths in her that they had not suspected; and then her manifest sincerity and the rocklike steadfastness of her convictions were forces which cowed levity, and it could not maintain its self-respect in their presence. The Sieur de Metz was thoughtful for a moment or two, then he began, quite soberly:
“Is it necessary that you go to the King soon?—that is, I mean—”
“Before Mid-Lent, even though I wear away my legs to the knees!”
She said it with that sort of repressed fieriness that means so much when a person’s heart is in a thing. You could see the response in that nobleman’s face; you could see his eye light up; there was sympathy there. He said, most earnestly:
“God knows I think you should have the men-at-arms, and that somewhat would come of it. What is it that you would do? What is your hope and purpose?”