For a moment Jeanne could utter no reply. She knew that the command must be obeyed. She had sought the retirement of the forest that she might inform her saints that she accepted the charge, and she most often met them in the silence and quiet of the fields, the forest, or garden. She had sought them to tell them of her decision, but at the thought of leaving her father, her mother, her friends, and the valley she loved so well, her courage faltered. Faintly she made her last protest: "I am so young," she said. "So young to leave my father and my mother. I can sew; can use with skill either the needle or the distaff, but I can not lead men-at-arms. Yet if it be so commanded, if God wills it, then I--" Her voice broke, and she bent her head low in submission before him. At her words the wonderful light burst into marvellous brilliancy. It drenched the kneeling maiden in its dazzling radiance, pervading her being with a soft, warm glow. The faith that power would be given her to accomplish what was required of her was born at this instant; thereafter it never left her. When the archangel spoke, he addressed her as a sister: "Rise, daughter of God," he said. "This now is what you must do: Go at once to Messire Robert de Baudricourt, captain of Vaucouleurs, and he will take you to the King. Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine will come to aid you." And Jeanne D'Arc arose, no longer the timid, shrinking peasant girl, but Jeanne, Maid of France, consecrated heart and soul to her country. The time had come when she must go forth to fulfill her incredible destiny. Henceforth she knew what great deeds she was to bring to pass. She knew that God had chosen her that through Him she might win back France from the enemy, and set the crown on the head of the Dauphin. It was late when at length she left the precincts of the chapel, and passed down the hill path, and on to the fields of Domremy. Pierre was at work in one of the upland meadows, and as he wielded the hoe he sang: "Dread are the omens and fierce the storm, O'er France the signs and wonders swarm; From noonday on to the vesper hour, Night and darkness alone have power; Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed, Who sees it ranks him among the dead. Behold our bravest lie dead on the fields; Well may we weep for France the fair, Of her noble barons despoiled and bare." It was the Song of Roland. The song that no French heart can hear unmoved. Jeanne thrilled as she heard it. Did Pierre too feel for their suffering country? Swiftly she went to him, and, throwing her arm across his shoulder, sang with him: "Yet strike with your burnished brands--accursed Who sells not his life right dearly first; In life or death be your thought the same, That gentle France be not brought to shame." Pierre turned toward her with a smile. "How you sang that, Jeanne. Just as though you would like to go out and fight for France yourself."