Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

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ing in the sun, and her consecrated sword hanging by her side, while her holy banner floats above her head. Her long hair streams in the breeze and her blue eyes sparkle with energy, as she gives her commands with a self-respecting, yet withal a modest air. Soon all is ready for the attack. Like Henry of Navarre, in years to come, she urges her men on with the words, ' Follow the white plume in ray helmet till it leads you to vic- tory. On she rushes through the thick of the fray, with missiles flying about her in all directions. See the besiegers are beaten back. But, no, — it is onlv for a moment. She orders a ladder to be raised ; it is brought, but the men refuse to mount. What matter ? She is as agile as any. There she goes, her white plume nodding defiantly to the crowds below. Her soldiers, inspired by the sight, hasten to follow her. Ladders are put all along the wall and mounted, in spite of the desperate efforts of the enemy to prevent their gaining such a vantage ground. But a confused mass suddenly gathers to one spot. The French will flee — the wounds of their leaders cause them to believe that she has been bewitched by the Evil One in order to lead them to destruction. She hears their murmurs and understands the cause and then with one supreme effort stands upright. With the struggle strength seems to come, and after a short prayer for support she is again at the front. Nothing could have been more convincing, if she had been restored to them from the arms of death, surely God must be for them, and if so, what could avail against them ? A violent volley from the walls, then all is quiet ; their ammunition is exhausted. But help is at hand for the beleaguered city ; an- other short struggle, and the English are beaten back. A loud shout goes up to heaven from throats parched from both hunger and powder. Hurrah for the Maid of Orleans ! ,: III. A great crowd is assembling in the market place at Rouen. What can be the excitement ? Ecclesiastic jostles soldier in his wild eagerness to force his way to the front, and when he reaches it, what a sight meets his eyes ! A young girl bound to a stake, her hands clasped, and her eyes raised to heaven in earnest supplication. As the flames begin to play around her, how much does the agonized look of this face resemble the one we saw but a short while ago, pleading for her country and its salvation. Her prayer is being

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A Martyred Maid. i. THE whole world is wrapped in slumber as the grey dawn breaks over a little town m the east of France. The cottages begin to show here and there through the dim light, and the spire of the parish church, which stands alone, glistens with the first beams of the morning sun. As the feeble rays struggle through the stained windows, they are caught as by molten gold and form a halo around the shining hair of a maiden, who kneels devoutly in front of the high altar. The church is otherwise entirely deserted, not even the pious priest has vet come to offer his morning prayer. The lone- liness and stillness of the old church are oppressive but the young girl heeds them not, as, with her crucifix clasped tightly before her, she repeats her Ave Maria with the greatest devotion Soon she stirs, and brushing back a loosened lock of hair, sighs — ah, such a sigh !— and a tear trickles slowly down each cheek. What burden of the soul can cause such Tears from the depth of divine de- spair to flow from the eyes of one so young ' ? Could we but see her inmost soul we would know that it was rent with anxiety for her country ; who will save it, she knows not, but it is enough, The Lord will provide. Even while she wonders a bright light fills the chancel, the vision of a shining angel appears ; he holds in one hand a sword and waves it toward the west, while with the other he points to herself. Can it be true? Does he mean that she shall lead the hosts to vic- tory ? Shall she, a mere girl, command men ? But before her thought is finished the angel vanishes and with a heavenly smile leaves in its place a wreath of laurel, which in its turn, slowly disappears as if consumed by fire ; and the maid is once more alone. She trembles, and bowing her head, begins once more to tell her beads, but this time with a calm expression of victory over the tempter of her soul. II. See the lines of soldiers ! The girl-captain is this morning reviewing her troops. Here she comes ! Her steel armor glisten-

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answered with her own blood, but she shows not her anguish except by her glorified coun- tenance, as all the purity, earnestness and religion of her short life seem to meet in those flames and to shed a kindly radiance over the motley crowd. Even while tliev gaze some relent, ex- claiming, Truly she was sent of God, why have we destroyed her? Why, indeed ? Except in order that she might be the martyr to her religion, her country, and her kind, this warlike gentle Maid of Orleans. Margaret Hartman Kabi.k.