The shepherd girl that had delivered France--she, from her dungeon,
she, from her baiting at the stake, she, from her duel with fire, as
she entered her last dream--saw Domremy, saw the fountain of Domremy,
saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood had wandered. That
Easter festival which man had denied to her languishing heart--that
resurrection of springtime, which the darkness of dungeons had
intercepted from _her_, hungering after the glorious liberty of
forests--were by God given back into her hands as jewels that had been
stolen from her by robbers. With those, perhaps (for the minutes of
dreams can stretch into ages), was given back to her by God the bliss
of childhood. By special privilege for _her_ might be created, in
this farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent as the first; but
not, like _that_, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the
rear. This mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was weathered; the
skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing off. The blood that she
was to reckon for had been exacted; the tears that she was to shed in
secret had been paid to the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes had
been faced steadily, had been suffered, had been survived. And in her
last fight upon the scaffold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously
she had tasted the stings of death.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157