The Executioner's Knife Part 3

"How did he do it, G.o.d-mother?"

Sybille leaned her forehead on her hand, collected herself, and in a low voice, speaking slowly, she imparted to her G.o.d-daughter the mysterious prophecy in the following words, to which the child listened with religious absorption:

"When down goes the sun and the moon s.h.i.+nes, I sing.

Young, I sang--become old still I sing.

People look for me, but they find me not.

People will cease looking for, and then will they find me.

It matters little what may happen-- What must be shall be!

"I see Gaul lost by a woman. I see Gaul saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.

I see at the borders of Lorraine a thick forest of oaks Where, near a clear fountain, grows the divine druid herb, Which the druid cuts with a sickle of gold.

I see an angel with wings of azure and dazzling with light.

He holds in his hands a royal crown.

I see a steed of battle as white as snow-- I see an armor of battle as brilliant as silver.-- For whom is that crown, that steed, that armor?

Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.-- For whom that crown, that steed, that armor?

Oh, how much blood!

It spouts up, it flows in torrents!

It steams; its vapor rises--rises like an autumn mist to heaven, Where the thunder peals and where the lightning flashes.

Athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning, That crimson mist, I see a martial virgin.

She battles, she battles--she battles still in a forest of lances!

She seems to be riding on the backs of the archers.[8]

The white steed, as white as snow, was for the martial virgin!

For her was the armor of battle as brilliant as silver.

She is surrounded by an escort.

But for whom the royal crown?

Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.

For the martial maid the steed and the armor!

But for whom the royal crown?

The angel with wings of azure holds it in his hands.

The blood has ceased to run in torrents, The thunder to peal, and the lightning to flash.

The warriors are at rest.

I see a serene sky. The banners float; The clarions sound; the bells ring.

Cries of joy! Chants of victory!

The martial virgin receives the crown From the hands of the angel of light.

A man on his knees, wearing a long mantle of ermine, Is crowned by the warrior virgin.

Who is the virgin's elect?

"It matters little what may happen.

What must be shall be!

Gaul, lost by a woman, Is saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.

The prophecy is in the Book of Destiny."

Hanging upon the lips of Sybille, Jeannette never once interrupted her as she listened to the mysterious prophecy with waxing emotion. Her active, impressionable imagination pictured to her mind's eye the virgin of Lorraine clad in her white armor, mounted on her white courser, battling in the midst of a forest of lances, and, in the words of the prophetic chant, "riding on the backs of the archers." And after that, the war being ended and the foreigner vanquished, the angel of light--no doubt St. Michael, thought the little shepherdess--pa.s.sed the crown to the warrior maid; who, amidst the blare of trumpets, the ringing of bells and the chants of victory, rendered his crown back to the king.

And that king, who else could he be but the lovely Dauphin whose mother had brought on the misfortunes of France? It never yet occurred to the little shepherdess that she, herself, might be the martial virgin prophesied of in the legend. But the heart of the nave child beat with joy at the thought that the virgin who was to emanc.i.p.ate Gaul was to be a Lorrainian.

"Oh, thanks, G.o.d-mother, for having recited this beautiful legend to me!" said Jeannette, throwing herself, with tears in her eyes, on the neck of Sybille. "Morning and noon shall I pray to G.o.d and St. Michael soon to fulfil the prophecy of Merlin. The English will then finally be driven from France and our young Sire crowned, thanks to the courage of the young Lorrainian maid from the forest of old oaks! May G.o.d grant our prayers!"

"'It matters little what may happen. What must be shall be.' The prophecy will be fulfilled."

"And yet," replied the little shepherdess, after reflecting a moment, "think of a young maid riding to battle and commanding armed men like a captain! Is such a thing possible? But G.o.d will give her courage!"

"My father knew one time, in my country of Brittany, the wife of the Count of Montfort, who was vanquished and taken prisoner by the King of France. Her name was Jeannette, like yours. Long did she fight valiantly, both on land and on sea, with casque and cuira.s.s. She wished to save the heritage of her son, a three-year-old boy. The sword weighed no more to the arm of the Countess Jeannette than does the distaff to the hands of a girl that spins."

"What a woman, G.o.d-mother! What a woman!"

"And there were a good many other martial women, hundreds and hundreds of years ago! They came in vessels from the countries of the North; and they were daring enough to row up the Seine as far even as Paris. They were called the Buckler Maidens. They did not fear the bravest soldier.

And who wished to wed them had first to overcome them by force of arms."[9]

"You do not say so! What furious women they must have been!"

"And in still older days, the Breton women of Gaul followed their husbands, sons, fathers and brothers to battle. They a.s.sisted at the councils of war; and often fought unto death."

"G.o.d-mother, is not the story of Hena that you once told me, a legend of those days?"[10]

"Yes, my child."

"Oh, G.o.d-mother," replied the enraptured little shepherdess, caressingly, "tell me that legend once more. Hena proved herself as courageous as will be the young Lorrainian maid whose advent Merlin predicts."

"Very well," said Sybille, smiling, "I shall tell you this legend also and shall then return home. My hemp is retting. I shall return for it before evening."

CHAPTER VI.

THE LEGEND OF HENA.

With the enchanted Jeannette for her audience, Sybille proceeded to recite the legend of Hena:

"She was young, she was fair, And holy was she.

To Hesus her blood gave For Gaul to be free.

Hena her name!

Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!

"'Blessed be the G.o.ds, my sweet daughter,'

Said her father Joel, The brenn of the tribe of Karnak.

'Blessed be the G.o.ds, my sweet daughter, Since you are home this night To celebrate the day of your birth!'

"'Blessed be the G.o.ds, my sweet girl,'

Said Margarid, her mother.

'Blessed be your coming!

But why is your face so sad?'

"'My face is sad, my good mother, My face is sad, my good father, Because Hena your daughter Comes to bid you Adieu, Till we meet again.'

"'And where are you going, my sweet daughter?

Will your journey, then, be long?