little towards us, I saw upon it
such a look as I have never seen on human countenance before, nor
have ever seen (save upon hers) since. A light seemed to shine
either from it or upon it--how can I tell which?--a light so pure
and heavenly that no words can fully describe it, but which seemed
like the radiance of heaven itself. Her eyes were raised towards
the sky, her lips parted, and through the breathless hush of
silence which had fallen upon the wood, we heard the soft, sweet
tones of her voice.

"Speak, my Lord--Thy servant heareth!"

It was then that our horses showed the signs of terror of which I
have before spoken. For myself, I saw nothing save the shining face
of the Maid--I knew who it was--there was no need for Bertrand's
breathless whisper--"It is she--herself!"--I knew it in my heart
before.

She knelt there amid the fallen leaves, her face raised, her lips
parted, her eyes shining as surely never human eyes have shone
before. A deep strange hush had fallen over all nature, broken only
by the gentle music of the bell. The ruddy gold light of
approaching sunset bathed all the wood in glory, and the rays fell
upon the kneeling figure, forming a halo of glory round it. But she
did not heed, she did not see. She was as one in a trance,
insensible to outward vision. Once and again her lips moved, but we
heard no word proceed from them, only the rapt look upon her face
increased in intensity, and once I thought (for I could not turn my
gaze away) that I saw the gleam of tears in her eyes.

The bell ceased as we stood thus motionless, and as the last note
vibrated through the still air, a change came over the Maid. Her
head drooped, she hid her face in her hands, and thus she knelt as
one absorbed in an intensity of prayer. Even as this happened, the
peculiar glory of the sunlight seemed to change. It shone still,
but without such wonderful glow, and our horses at the same time
ceased their trembling and their rigid stillness of pose. They
shook their heads and jingled their bits, as though striving to
throw off some terrifying impression.

"Let us withdraw from her sight," whispered Bertrand touching my
arm, and very willingly I acceded to this suggestion, and we
silently pressed into the shadow of some great oaks, which stood
hard by, the trunks of which hid us well from view. It seemed
almost like a species of sacrilege to stand there watching the Maid
at her prayers, and yet I vow, that until the b