In the red glare of the hundred bonfires the
whiteness of her armour seemed to take a new lustre. The rent upon
the shoulder could be plainly seen, showing where the arrow had
torn its way. Women sobbed aloud as they looked; men cursed the
hand which had shot the bolt; all joined in frantic cheers of joy
to see her riding alone, erect and smiling, though with a dreamy
stillness of countenance which physical lassitude in part accounted
for.
"I thank you, my friends, I thank you," she kept saying, as though
no other words would come, save when now and again she would add,
"But to God must you give your thanks and blessings. It is He who
has delivered you."
It was not far to the house of the Treasurer, and there in the
threshold stood the little Charlotte, a great wreath of bay and
laurel in her tiny hands. She was lifted up in her father's strong
arms, and ere the Maid was able to dismount from her horse the
little one had placed the triumphal wreath upon her fair head.
O, what a shout arose! It was like the mighty burst of some great
thunderstorm.
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