Pierre's head drooped. "A broken soldier," he muttered, "not fit to
speak to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear."

She threw back her head and laughed. "You speak very bad French. There
is no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are afraid of it,
you hate it. If you hate it, you will have nothing to do with it. And
if you have nothing to do with it, it cannot touch you; it is nothing."

"But for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You had no fear when you
fought. You knew you would not be killed."

"I was no more sure of that than the other soldiers. Besides, when they
bound me to the stake at Rouen and kindled the fire around me I knew
very well that I should be killed. But there was no fear in it. Only
peace."

"Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not wounded and broken."

"Four times I was wounded," she answered, gravely. "At Orleans a bolt
went through my right shoulder. At Paris a lance tore my thigh. I never
saw the blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart stand still. I
was not a warrior born. I knew not how to ride or fight. But I did it.
What we must needs do that we can do. Soldier, do not look on the
ground. Look up."

Then a strange thing took place before his eyes. A wondrous radiance, a
mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess. When it melted she
was clad in shining armor, sitting on a white horse, and lifting a bare
sword in her left hand.