t difficult," said Joan. "I was not ever fond of wounds and
suffering, nor fitted by my nature to inflict them; and quarrelings
did always distress me, and noise and tumult were against my liking, my
disposition being toward peace and quietness, and love for all things
that have life; and being made like this, how could I bear to think of
wars and blood, and the pain that goes with them, and the sorrow
and mourning that follow after? But by his angels God laid His great
commands upon me, and could I disobey? I did as I was bid. Did He
command me to do many things? No; only two: to raise the siege of
Orleans, and crown the King at Rheims. The task is finished, and I am
free. Has ever a poor soldier fallen in my sight, whether friend or foe,
and I not felt the pain in my own body, and the grief of his home-mates
in my own heart? No, not one; and, oh, it is such bliss to know that my
release is won, and that I shall not any more see these cruel things or
suffer these tortures of the mind again! Then why should I not go to
my village and be as I was before? It is heaven! and ye wonder that I
desire it. Ah, ye are men--just men! My mother would understand."

They didn't quite know what to say; so they sat still awhile, looking
pretty vacant. Then old D'Arc said:

"Yes, your mother--that is true. I never saw such a woman. She worries,
and worries, and worries; and wakes nights, and lies so, thinking--that
is, worrying; worrying about you. And when the night storms go raging
along, she moans and says, 'Ah, God pity her, she is out in this with
her poor wet soldiers.' And when the lightning glares and the thunder
crashes she wrings her hands and trembles, saying, 'It is like the awful
cannon and the flash, and yonder somewhere she is riding down upon the
spouting guns and I not there to protect her."

"Ah, poor mother, it is pity, it is pity!"

"Yes, a most strange woman, as I have noticed a many times. When there
is news of a victory and all the village goes mad with pride and joy,
she rushes here and there in a maniacal frenzy till she finds out the
one only thing she cares to know--that you are safe; then down she goes
on her knees in the dirt and praises God as long as there is any breath
left in her body; and all on your account, for she never mentions
the battle once. And always she says, 'Now it is over--now France is
saved--now she will come home'--and always is disappointed and goes
about mourning."

"Don't, fathe