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."

"But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to seek you."

"Do you know me, then? How can I be one of yours?"

"Because you are a soldier of France and you are in trouble."

Pierre's head drooped. "A broken soldier," he muttered, "not fit
to speak to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear."

She threw back her head and laughed. "You speak very bad French.
There is no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are