Yet conscious of his unrepented fault,
With countenance flush'd, and faltering in reply:
"She wept at my departure; she would fain
Have turned me from my purpose, and my heart
Perhaps had fail'd me, if it had not glow'd
With ardor like thine own; the sacred fire
With which thy bosom burns had kindled me;
High in prophetic hope, I bade her place
Her trust in Heaven; I bade her look to hear
Good tidings soon of glorious victory;
I told her I should soon return, — return
With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age
What Madelon had been."
As thus he spake,
Warm with the imaginary bliss, he clasp'd
The dear one closer to his yearning heart.
But the devoted Virgin in his arms
Started and shudder'd, for the flaming pile
Flashed on remembrance now, and on her soul
The whole terrific vision rose again.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought
Wither'd her cheek; cold damps suffused her brow,
And falling on the neck of Theodore,
Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye
Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, gazed fearfully
With wondering anguish; till ennobling thoughts
Of her high mission roused her, and her soul
Collected, and she spake.
"My Theodore,
Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother's home!
Alone and aged she will weep for thee,
Wasting her little that is left of life
In anguish. Now go back again to Arc,
And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood,
And love my memory there."
Swift he exclaim'd,
"Nay, Maid! the pang of parting is o'erpast,
And my dear mother looks for the glad hour
When we shall both return. Amid the war
How many an arm will seek thy single life,
How many a sword and spear! I will go with thee
And spread the guardian shield."
"Nay," she replied,
"I shall not need thy succor in the war.
Me, Heaven, if so seem good to its high will,
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home,
And make thy mother happy."
The youth's cheek
A rapid blush disorder'd. "Oh! the court
Is pleasant then, and thou wouldst fain forget
A humble villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart!"
She look'd at him
With a reproaching eye of tenderness:
"Injurious man! devoted for this realm,
I go a willing victim. The dark veil
Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen
The fearful features of Futurity.
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country,
Abandoning for it the joys of life.
Yea, life itself." Then on his neck she fell,
And with a faltering voice, "Return to Arc !
I do not tell thee there are other maids
As fair; for thou wilt love my memory,
Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart.
Worthy a happier, not a better love,[1]
My Theodore!" — Then, pressing his pale lips,
A last and holy kiss the virgin fix'd,
And fled across the plain.
She reach'd the court
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind
Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart,
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude
The Maiden had retired; but her the King
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd
As though there had not been a God in Heaven!
"Enter the hall," he said, "the maskers there
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad?
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange speeches?"
Ere the Maid replied,
The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed,
Poising his massy javelin. "Thou hast roused
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France;
They crowd around the standard," cried the chief.
"Our brethren, pent in Orleans, every moment
Gaze from the watch-tower with the sickening eye
Of expectation."
Then the King exclaim'd,
"O chosen by Heaven! defer one day thy march,
That humbled at the altar we may join
The general prayer. Be these our holy rites
To-morrow's task; — to-night for merriment!"
The Maid replied, "The wretched ones in Orleans,
In fear and hunger and expiring hope,
Await my succor, and my prayers would plead
In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour
When active duty calls. For this night's mirth
Hold me excused; in truth I am not fit
For merriment; a heavy charge is on me,
And I must put away all mortal thoughts."[2]
Her heart was full, and pausing, she repress'd
The unbidden anguish. "Lo! they crowd around
The standard! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe."
THE FIFTH BOOK.
Scarce had the early dawn from Chinon's towers
Made visible the mist that curl'd along
The river's winding way, when from her couch
The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs;
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head;
She girt the sacred falchion by her side,
And, like a youth who from his mother's arms,
For his first field impatient, breaks away,
Poising the lance went forth.
Twelve hundred men,
Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms
Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face
