There was no stone or seal, but a broad central ridge, and two sloping sides engraved with three crosses, and the names Jesus and Maria. Such rings were common; sometimes instead of the holy names there were figures of Saints, the
Virgin Mary, or a priest with the chalice. A ring, an amulet, a relic that was supposed to be blessed, or to have virtue against disease appealed to the marvel loving part of their natures, so that the people eagerly sought such articles. They desired above all else to possess the precious thing, or that they might touch it with some treasured possession that some of its virtues might pass into themselves. So now Jacques’ eyes met those of his wife’s in a glance of understanding. Isabeau voiced the thought that filled them.
“Would you sell this ring, good father?” she asked.
“Nay; it is not for sale. I but showed it in lieu of a precious relic. ’Tis but a bauble compared to many holy relics that I have seen. Nathless, the ring hath its properties.”
Jacques handed the ring back to him with regret showing plainly on his honest
face.
“That I am sorry to hear,” he said. “The little one here hath no charm against the Falling Sickness, and I am minded to buy it for her. She has been o’er quiet of late.”
The friar glanced at Jeanne, who had sat listening attentively to his stories with shining eyes. Then he smiled.
“If it is for this little maid who waited not to be bidden to bring me drink when I was weary and thirsty, I will sell,” he said. “Nay, not sell; but if ye are so minded to give alms for a convent that is being builded by the Sisters of Saint Claire, then may you have it. I know in very truth that it will prove efficacious against the Falling Sickness.” Again the priest smiled at Jeanne. There was naught about the pale purity of her face that denoted ill health, and therefore the good priest might speak with authority.
Jacques drew the girl to him, and taking the ring from the Franciscan fitted it to the third finger of her left hand.
“Do you like it, my little one?” he asked.
Jeanne’s eyes glistened. Like most girls she was fond of pretty things, and she had never had a ring. To her it was very precious.
“Are you in truth going to get it for me, father?” she cried.
“Yes.” Jacques nodded, pleased that she liked the trifle. “Isabeau, give the father the alms he wishes so that we may have the ring for the little one. It is given to you by both your mother and myself, my child,” he continued as Isabeau brought
forth the alms for the friar. “Wear it as such, and may it protect you not only from the Falling Sickness but from other ills also.”
At this Jeanne threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him, then running to her mother kissed her also.
“It is so pretty,” she cried. “And see! it hath the two most holy names upon it.”
Her glance rested lovingly upon the engraved characters.
“Let us see it, Jeanne,” spoke Pierre. “Sometime,” he whispered as she came to
him to show it, “sometime I am going to give you a ring all by myself that shall be prettier than this.”
Jeanne laughed.
“Just as though any ring could be prettier than this, Pierrelot,” she said. “There couldn’t be one; could there, Jean?”
“Nenni.” Jean shook his head emphatically as he examined the ring critically. “I like it better than the one Mengette wears.”
“The Blessed Colette hath a ring which the Beloved Apostle gave to her in token of her marriage to the King of kings,” now spoke the Cordelier. “Many are there who come to Corbie to touch it, that they may be healed of their infirmities.”
Thus the talk went on; sometimes of the Saints and their miracles, then verging to the war, and the state of the kingdom. It was late when at length the family retired.
Jeanne was delighted with the gift. As a usual thing peasants did not bestow presents upon their families. Life was too severe in the valley, and necessities too hard to come by in the ferment of the war to admit of it. When next her Saints
appeared, and Saint Catherine graciously touched the ring, Jeanne’s joy knew no bounds. Thereafter she was wont to contemplate it adoringly. But, while the ring might be sovereign against epilepsy, it did not rouse her into her oldtime joyousness.
She was very grave, very thoughtful, very earnest at this time. She went on thinking for others, planning for others, sacrificing herself for others, just as always before. She ministered to the sick and to the poor, and gave her bed to the wayfarer as always, performing all her duties with sweet exactness, but she was quiet and abstracted. For her Saints came with greater frequency than ever now, and constantly they spoke to her of her mission.
“What can they mean?” she asked herself. “What is it that I am to do?” But weeks passed before she was told.
The smiling summer merged into Autumn, the season of heavy rains. Brooks rushed down from the hills, and the Meuse was swollen into a torrent, deep and
rapid, which overflowed its banks in shallow lagoons. The clouds grew lower, leaning sullenly against the Vosges hills. Fogs came down thick and clinging.
The river was rimed with frost. Snow and sleet drove along the Marches, and it
was winter. The Valley of Colors lay grave, austere, and sad; no longer brilliantly hued, but clothed in a garb of white which gleamed palely when the clouds were
scattered by the rays of a red, cold sun. There was no travel along the highway, and the gray, red-roofed villages were forced to depend upon themselves for news and social intercourse.
To all appearance life in the house of Jacques D’Arc went as peacefully, as serenely, as that of his neighbors, and in no wise differently. There was not one who suspected that Jeanne visited with saints and angels; that she walked with ever listening ear for the Voices to tell her what her divine mission was to be. No one suspected it, for even her youthful friendships continued, and she visited and was visited in turn by Mengette and Hauviette; often passing the night with one or the other of them as has been the fashion of girls since the beginning of time.
Both the girls rallied her on her changed spirits.
“Every one says that you are the best girl in the village, but that you are odd,”
Hauviette confided to her one day in winter when she and Mengette were spending the afternoon with Jeanne.
The latter glanced up from her spinning with a smile. “And what do you say, Hauviette?”
“I say that you are better than any of us,” answered her friend quickly. “Still,”
