Her black hair
hung down her back. Her eyes were the color of a topaz. Her form was
tall and straight. She carried a distaff under her arm and looked
as if she had just come from following the sheep.
"Good day, shepherdess," said Pierre. Then a strange thought struck
him, and he fell on his knees. "Pardon, lady," he stammered.
"Forgive my rudeness. You are of the high society of heaven, a
saint. You are called Jeanne d'Arc?"
She nodded and smiled. "That is my name," said she. "Sometimes
they call me _La Pucelle_, or the Maid of France. But you were
right, I am a shepherdess, too. I have kept my father's sheep in
the fields down there, and spun from the distaff while I watched
them. I know how to sew and spin as well as any girl in the Barrois
or Lorraine. Will you not stand up and talk with me?"
Pierre rose, still abashed and confused. He did not quite understand
how to take this strange experience--too simple for a heavenly
apparition, too real for a common dream. "Well, then," said he, "if
you are a shepherdess, why are you here? There are no sheep here.
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