She wore a bright-red dress and her feet were bare. Her black hair hung
down her back. Her eyes were the color of a topaz. Her form was tall
and straight. She carried a distaff under her arm and looked 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 knew 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."