and of mine. I
resisted the command, till God was stern with me and I submitted with
bitter tears. I shall die a maid, and can never know the blessedness
of women. Often at night I weep to think that I shall never hold a babe
next my heart."

The face of Jeanne was suddenly strained with a great sadness. It was
Catherine's turn to be the comforter. She sat herself beside her and
drew her head to her breast.

"For you I see a happier fate--a true man's wife--the mother of sons.
Bethink you of the blessedness. Every wife is like the Mother of
God--she has the hope of bearing a saviour of mankind. She is the
channel of the eternal purpose of Heaven. Could I change--could I
change! What fortunate wife would envy a poor maid that dwells in the
glare of battle?... Nay, I do not murmur. I do God's will and rejoice in
it. But I am very lonely."

For a little there was silence, an ecstatic silence. Something
hard within Catherine melted and she felt a gush of pity. No longer
self-pity, but compassion for another. Her heart grew suddenly warm.
It was as if a window had been opened in a close room to let in air and
landscape.

"I must rest, for there is much ado to-morrow. Will you sleep by me, for
I have long been starved of a woman's comradeship?"

In the great canopied bed the two girls lay till morning. Once in the
darkness Catherine started and found her arms empty. Jeanne was kneeling
by the window, her head thrown back and the moonlight on her upturned
face. When she woke in the dawn the Maid was already up, trussing the
points of her breeches and struggling with her long boots. She was
crooning the verse of a ballad:

"Serais je nonette' Crois que non--"

and looking with happy eyes at the cool morning light on the forest.

"Up, sleepy-head," she cried. "Listen to the merry trampling of the
horses. I must start, if I would spare the poor things in the noon.
Follow me with your prayers, for France rides with me. I love you, sweet
sister; Be sure I will hasten to you when my work is done."

So the Maid and her company rode off through the woods to Compiegne, and
a brooding and silent Catherine took the north road to Picardy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The promise was kept. Once again Catherine saw and had speech of Jeanne.
It was nearly two years later, when she sat in a May gloaming in the
house of Beaumanoir, already three months a bride. Much had happened
since she had ridden north