The Executioner's Knife; Or, Joan of ArcSue, Eugène
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The Executioner's Knife; Or, Joan of Arc
Sue, Eugène
Biographical fiction; Christian fiction; Christian women saints -- Fiction; Joan, of Arc, Saint, 1412-1431 -- Fiction
The more frightened gathered a few eatables, and abandoning all else,
fled to the forest. Others, hoping that the English might not advance as
far as Domremy, took the chances of remaining in the village. Finally,
others there were who also decided to flee for safety to the Castle of
Ile. The Darc family soon left their house, Jeannette calling her sheep,
which obediently followed, James leading the cows that hauled the wagon
on which his wife was seated in the midst of her bundles of goods, a few
bags of wheat and the household utensils that she had managed to get
together. The two lads carried on their shoulders the implements of
husbandry that were portable.
The flight of the inhabitants of Domremy, in the darkness of the night,
that was reddened only on the horizon by the reflection of the
conflagrations, was heartrending. The imprecations uttered by the men,
the moanings of the women, the cries of the children who clung weeping
to their mothers' skirts, not a few of which latter held babies to their
breasts; the mass of peasants, cattle and wagons promiscuously jumbled,
striking against each other and getting in each others' way; all
presented a distressing picture of that desperate flight for life. These
poor people left behind them their only wealth--their granaries filled
with the grain of the last harvest--expecting soon to see them devoured
by the flames along with their humble homes. Their distress escaped in
sobs, in plaintive cries, and often in curses and expressions of hatred
and rage against the English. The spectacle left a profound and
indelible impression upon Jeannette, now for the first time made
acquainted with the horrors of war. Soon was she to contemplate them at
still closer range and in their most appalling forms.
The fugitives arrived near the hamlet of St. Pierre, situated on the
Meuse. There was nothing left but a heap of blackened debris, with here
and there a wooden beam still burning--nothing else was left of the
village. Walking a little ahead of her herd, Jeannette stood still,
stupefied at the spectacle.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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