"At Orleans a
bolt went through my right shoulder. At Paris a lance tore my thigh.
I never saw the blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart
stand still. I was not a warrior born. I knew not how to ride or
fight. But I did it. What we must needs do that we can do. Soldier,
do not look on the ground. Look up."
Then a strange thing took place before his eyes. A wondrous
radiance, a mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess. When
it melted she was clad in shining armor, sitting on a white horse,
and lifting a bare sword in her left hand.
"God commands you," she cried. "It is for France. Be of good cheer.
Do not retreat. The fort will soon be yours!"
How should Pierre know that this was the cry with which the Maid
had rallied her broken men at Orleans when the fort of _Les
Tourelles_ fell? What he did know was that something seemed to
spring up within him to answer that call. He felt that he would
rather die than desert such a leader.
The figure on the horse turned away as if to go.
"Do not leave me," he cried, stretching out his hands to her.
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