Mother likes not to see blood.”
“And neither do you,” exclaimed Pierre, noting her pale face. “Don’t bother about it, Jeanne. It doesn’t hurt very much.” He shrugged his shoulders with assumed indifference.
“Mother will not like it because you have been fighting,” went on the girl gravely.
“We didn’t mean to, Jeanne,” broke in Jean quickly. “We came to the river to fish, but some of the Burgundian boys came to the other side, and began to call us names, saying that we didn’t dare to come over and fight. We ran back to the village, and told the other boys who came back with us to show the Maxeys that
we did dare, but not one of them was to be seen. So we crossed the bridge to the Lorraine side anyway, and––”
“They set upon us,” interrupted Pierre excitedly. “They had hidden in the bushes and behind trees, and as soon as we were fairly among them they threw themselves upon us. ’Twas an ambuscade just like when Roland was set upon at
Roncesvalles.”
“And did the Domremy boys give a good account of themselves?” queried Jeanne anxiously. “And how did you get the gash?”
Jean looked embarrassed.
“I did it,” he said at length. “It was like Olivier did to Roland. You see we were all so mixed up when the Maxey boys fell upon us that we couldn’t tell which
were our boys, and which were not. So, in striking out with a stick that I carried, I thwacked Pierrelot on the head instead of one of them as I intended. But I made up for it afterward; didn’t I, Pierre?”
Pierre laughed as he nodded affirmation.
“So did I,” he said. “I knew that Jean would feel bad about hitting me, so we both made the Burgundians pay for it. Do we have to carry the tables and the paddles home, Jeanne? Or aren’t you through washing yet?”
“Yes; we have finished, Pierre. Mother said for you boys to carry the tables home, but since you are hurt I will help Jean with them.”
“Pouf! why, ’tis nothing but a scratch,” cried Pierrelot. “And you have been washing, too. I’ll carry my share, Jeanne. Now let’s be getting home. I’m hungry as a wolf.”
“So am I,” declared Jean.
The supper was waiting when they reached the cottage, and the boys’ story of the ambuscade was related again to their father and mother, who listened
sympathetically. In the midst of the recital Jeanne slipped out, and went across the garden to the little church to vespers.
There was no one in the church but the Curé, and the good priest smiled as his
little parishioner entered. He was always sure of one auditor, whatever the state of the weather, for Jeanne attended all services. In one transept was an image of Saint Catherine, the patron saint of young girls, and before this the child knelt in prayer. It was deemed presumptuous for Christians to address God directly in prayer at this period, so that prayers were made to the saints, who were asked to make intercession for the suppliant. So Jeanne made her supplication to the saint, and then took her seat, for the people were coming in for the service.
Messire Guillaume Frontey, the priest, led them through a short benediction service, and comforted and refreshed,––Jeanne had been much wearied by the day’s work and religion was to her as the breath of life,––the child passed out into the garden.
There was a sweet coolness in the evening air, and the darkness was soft and agreeable after the glare of the summer sun. So pleasant was the night that
Jeanne stopped under an apple tree, loath to enter the warm cottage. Presently, through the darkness, there came the light that she had seen before. A light so bright, so glowing in its radiance that she sank to her knees awed by the luminosity. She was not so frightened as when it had come before, yet still she dared not lift her eyes to gaze upon its wonder. Tremblingly she waited for the voice that she knew would follow. As it spake the bells of the church began to
ring for compline. Mingled with their chimes sounded tones so sweet that her eyes filled at their tenderness:
“I come from God to help thee live a good and holy life,” it said. “Be good, Jeanne, and God will aid thee.”
That was all. The light faded gradually, and when it was gone Jeanne rose to her feet.
“It was the voice of an angel,” she whispered in awed tones. “The voice of an angel, and it spoke to me.”
And from that time forth Jeanne D’Arc had no doubt but that an angel had spoken to her. To children, especially religious little ones, Heaven is always very near, and that one of its denizens should come to them does not seem so improbable as it does to mature minds. For some time she stood lost in wonderment at the miraculous happening, then slowly and thoughtfully she went
into the cottage, going at once to her own little room.
This room was on the side of the cottage toward the church where the eaves sloped low. From her tiny window she could see the sacred light on the altar, and with hands clasped, Jeanne knelt before the open sash, gazing devoutly upon it.
It seemed to her that the threshold of Heaven was reached by that little church.
CHAPTER VII
FURTHER VISIONS
“Angels are wont to come down to Christians without
being seen, but I see them. ”
JEANNE D’ARC’S Own Words.
J. E. J. QUICHERAT, “Condamnation et Réhabilitation
de Jeanne d’Arc. ” Vol. I. , p. 130.
From this time forth the Voice became frequent. Again and again she heard it; chiefly out of doors, in the silence and freedom of the fields or garden. In time the Heavenly radiance resolved itself into the semblance of a man, but with wings and a crown on his head: a great angel, surrounded by many smaller ones.
The little maid knew him by his weapons and the courtly words that fell from his lips to be Saint Michael, the archangel who was provost of Heaven and warden
of Paradise; at once the leader of the Heavenly Hosts and the angel of judgment.
Often had Jeanne seen his image on the pillar of church or chapel, in the guise of a handsome knight, with a crown on his helmet, wearing a coat of mail and bearing a lance. Sometimes he was represented as holding scales. In an old bo7o 2 k
it is written that “the true office of Saint Michael is to make great revelations to men below, by giving them holy counsels.”
In very remote times he had appeared to the Bishop of Avranches and commanded him to build a church on Mount Tombe, in such a place as he should
find a bull hidden by thieves; and the site of the building was to include the whole area trodden by the bull. The Abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel-au-Péril-de-laMer was erected in obedience to this command.
About the time that Jeanne was having these visions the English were attacking
Mont-Saint-Michel, and the defenders of the fortress discomfited them. The French attributed the victory to the all-powerful intercession of the archangel.
Therefore, Saint Michael was in a fair way to become the patron saint of the French instead of Saint Denys, who had permitted his abbey to be taken by the
English. But Jeanne knew nothing of what had happened in Normandy.
The apparition was so noble, so majestic in its appearance that at first the little maid was sore afraid, but his counsels were so wise and tender that they overcame her fear.
