night; now listen: here is your reward," and at that supreme time for
such a heart-melting, soul-rousing surprise, without another word he
lifted up the most noble and pathetic voice that was ever heard, and
began to pour out the great Song of Roland!

Think of that, with a French audience all stirred up and ready. Oh, where
was your spoken eloquence now! what was it to this! How fine he looked,
how stately, how inspired, as he stood there with that mighty chant
welling from his lips and his heart, his whole body transfigured, and his
rags along with it.

Everybody rose and stood while he sang, and their faces glowed and their
eyes burned; and the tears came and flowed don their cheeks and their
forms began to sway unconsciously to the swing of the song, and their
bosoms to heave and pant; and moanings broke out, and deep ejaculations;
and when the last verse was reached, and Roland lay dying, all alone,
with his face to the field and to his slain, lying there in heaps and
winrows, and took off and held up his gauntlet to God with his failing
hand, and breathed his beautiful prayer with his paling pips, all burst
out in sobs and wailings. But when the final great note died out and the
song was done, they all flung themselves in a body at the singer, stark
mad with love of him and love of France and pride in her great deeds and
old renown, and smothered him with their embracings; but Joan was there
first, hugged close to his breast, and covering his face with idolatrous
kisses.

The storm raged on outside, but that was no matter; this was the
stranger's home now, for as long as he might please.