She
uttered a little cry of joy, and would have flung herself into his
arms; but he held her a little off, his hands upon her shoulders,
and he looked into her face searchingly.
"That may have been well done, my daughter; I will not say, I will
not judge. But your task is now accomplished--your own lips have
said it; and yet you still are to march with the King's army, I am
told. You love better the clash of arms, the glory of victory, the
companionship of soldiers and courtiers to the simple duties which
await you at home, and the protection of your mother's love. That
is not well. That is what no modest maiden should choose. I had
hoped and believed that I should take my daughter home with me. But
she has chosen otherwise. Do I not well to be angry?"
The Maid's face was buried in her hands. She would have buried it
in her father's breast, but he would not have it so.
I could have wept tears myself at the sight of her sorrow. I saw
how utterly impossible it would be to make this sturdy peasant
understand the difficulty of the Maid's position, and the claims
upon her great abilities, her mysterious influence upon the
soldiers.
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