“Certainly, certainly, God’s pity,” replied the stranger. “He should rule by his own and by divine right. The treaty of Troyes cannot prevent it. But where is the hero who will lead him to coronation at Rheims? Alas, only miraculous interposition can save him from ruin.” “Saint Catherine,” sighed a gentle voice. “Joan!” exclaimed Jacques, as he recognized his daughter, “what are you doing here? Go home.” “Not yet, father Jacques,” said the stranger. “Let her stay. Do you not know that the prayers from a pure child’s heart are heard by the dear saints? And,” he added, “I have never seen eyes so full of innocence and piety as hers.” “Ah!” replied Jacques, “of what use are the prayers of a child when the whole country lies helpless?” “Are you also an unbeliever?” replied the stranger. “Know you not that the great God can manifest Himself in a little child?” These were the last words of the conversation which Joan heard. She suddenly disappeared, but she did not go home. She wended her way to the church, which was always open. Never had her heart been so troubled and full of strange longings, never had she been so powerfully moved to hold communion with her saint. It was not so much the desire to make a votive offering of her wreath as it was the unspeakable sorrow of the fatherland and the wretched plight of the poor Dauphin that urged her to this sacred spot. And was this strange? If her sympathetic nature made her shed tears over the slight suffering of a bird, how much more would it force her to weep over the story of universal misfortune which she had just heard! Why should not the courage with which she had defended her sheep from the wolf display itself now even more decidedly? And why should she not believe in her very soul that her favorite saint would perform a miracle of rescue? “Oh, were I only a man!” she sighed from the depth of her heart. “Oh that I could clothe my limbs in armor and wield the sword for the right! I would ask for nothing better in life. No sacrifice would be too great to accomplish it. Then, surely, the beloved saints would not refuse to help me.” In such a spirit she entered the sacred house. It was empty. The shadows of evening, mingling with the clouds of incense smoke which still lingered in the church, were intensified by the feeble light of a small lamp. She thrilled with sacred awe as she advanced through the mysterious gloom. In her exalted mood it seemed to her that Saint Catherine smiled, as with trembling hand she placed the wreath upon her altar. In transports of sorrow and gratitude, of divine trust, and of overwhelming desire for action, she knelt at the altar, and her soul ascended to the celestial abodes. She knew no prayers except the Lord’s Prayer, the Credo, and the Ave Maria, but the more she repeated them the more completely was she spiritually absorbed.