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.
