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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 The dark veil Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen The fearful features of Futurity.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, 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." 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."

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