At her words the wonderful light burst into marvellous brilliancy. It drenched the kneeling maiden in its dazzling radiance, pervading her being with a soft, warm glow. The faith that power would be given her to accomplish what was required

of her was born at this instant; thereafter it never left her. When the archangel spoke, he addressed her as a sister:

“Rise, daughter of God,” he said. “This now is what you must do: Go at once to

Messire Robert de Baudricourt, captain of Vaucouleurs, and he will take you to

the King. Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine will come to aid you.”

And Jeanne D’Arc arose, no longer the timid, shrinking peasant girl, but Jeanne, Maid of France, consecrated heart and soul to her country. The time had come when she must go forth to fulfill her incredible destiny.

Henceforth she knew what great deeds she was to bring to pass. She knew that

God had chosen her that through Him she might win back France from the enemy, and set the crown on the head of the Dauphin.

It was late when at length she left the precincts of the chapel, and passed down the hill path, and on to the fields of Domremy. Pierre was at work in one of the upland meadows, and as he wielded the hoe he sang:

“Dread are the omens and fierce the storm,

O’er France the signs and wonders swarm;

From noonday on to the vesper hour,

Night and darkness alone have power;

Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed,

Who sees it ranks him among the dead.

Behold our bravest lie dead on the fields;

Well may we weep for France the fair,

Of her noble barons despoiled and bare.”

It was the Song of Roland. The song that no French heart can hear unmoved.

Jeanne thrilled as she heard it. Did Pierre too feel for their suffering country?

Swiftly she went to him, and, throwing her arm across his shoulder, sang with him:

“Yet strike with your burnished brands––accursed

Who sells not his life right dearly first;

In life or death be your thought the same,

That gentle France be not brought to shame.”

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.

The conversation passed from the lad’s mind, but it was otherwise with Jacques

D’Arc. He had heard his daughter’s words, “We will go together, Pierrelot,” and they troubled him.

The following morning he appeared at the breakfast table scowling and taciturn, making but small pretence at eating. Presently he pushed back from the table.

His wife glanced at him with solicitude.

“What ails you, Jacques?” she queried. “Naught have you eaten, which is not wise. You should not begin the day’s work upon an empty stomach.”

“Shall I get you some fresh water, father?” asked Jeanne.

Jacques turned upon her quickly, and with such frowning brow that,

involuntarily, she shrank from him.

“Hark you,” he said. “I dreamed of you last night.”

“Of me, father?” she faltered.

“Yes. I dreamed that I saw you riding in the midst of men-at-arms.”

At this both Jean and Pierre laughed.