And to
picture a young girl, who had perhaps never seen blows struck in
anger in her life--save perchance in some village brawl--suddenly
set in the midst of a battle, arms clashing, blood flowing, all the
hideous din of warfare around her, exposed to all its fearful risks
and perils--was it strange we should ask ourselves how she would
bear it? Was it wonderful that her confidence and calmness and
steadfast courage under the trial should convince us, as never
perhaps we had been convinced before, of the nearness of those
supernatural beings who guarded her so closely, who warned her of
danger, who inspired her with courage, and yet never robbed her for
one moment of the grace and beauty and crown of her pure womanhood?
And so, whilst we were well-nigh mad with joy and triumph, whilst
joy bells pealed from the city, and the soldiers and citizens were
ready to do her homage as a veritable saint from heaven, she was
just her own quiet, thoughtful, retiring self. She put aside the
plaudits of the Generals; she hushed the excited shouting of the
soldiers.
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