The Maid gazed at him for a moment, a world of tender emotions in
her eyes; and then she quickly crossed the room and threw herself
at his feet.
"My father! My father! My father!"
The cry seemed to come from her heart, and I saw the old man's face
quiver and twitch; but he did not touch or embrace her.
"It is the dress he cannot bear," whispered Laxart distressfully to
me, "it is as gall and wormwood to him to see his daughter go about
in the garb of a man."
The Maid's face was raised in tender entreaty; she had hold of her
father's hands by now. She was covering them with kisses.
"O my father, have you no word for me? Have you not yet forgiven
your little Jeanne? I have but obeyed our Blessed Lord and His holy
Saints. And see how they have helped and blessed and guided me! O
my father, can you doubt that I was sent of them for this work? How
then could I refuse to do it?"
Then the stern face seemed to melt with a repressed tenderness, and
the father bent and touched the girl's brow with his lips.
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