Pierre sprang forward after the receding figure, tried to clasp
the knee, the foot of the Maid. As he fell to the ground something
sharp pierced his hand. It must be her spur, thought he.

Then he was aware that his eyes were shut. He opened them and looked
at his hand carefully. There was only a scratch on it, and a tiny
drop of blood. He had torn it on the thorns of the wild gooseberry-bushes.

His head lay close to the clear pool of the spring. He buried his
face in it and drank deep. Then he sprang up, shaking the drops
from his mustache, found his cap and pistol, and hurried up the
glen toward the old Roman road.

"No more of that damned foolishness about Switzerland," he said,
aloud. "I belong to France. I am going with the other boys to save
her. I was born for that." He took off his cap and stood still for
a moment. He spoke as if he were taking an oath. "By Jeanne d'Arc!"





IV

THE VICTORIOUS PENANCE