Jeannette had listened to Sybille in rapt attention, struck above all by the singular circumstance of a peasant marrying the daughter of a king. From that moment Jeannette pardoned herself for having so often, since the previous evening, permitted her thoughts to turn to that young Sire, so sweet, so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate through his mother's misconduct and the cruelty of the English.
When Sybille's recital was ended, a short silence ensued which was broken by Jeannette:
"Oh, god-mother, what a beautiful legend! It would be still more beautiful if, the Sire of Leon having to fight so cruel an enemy as the English, Alain, the peasant, had saved the King before wedding his daughter! But what did become of Merlin, the great enchanter Merlin?"
"It is said that he must sleep a thousand years. But before he fell asleep he prophesied that the harm a woman would do to Gaul would be redressed by a young girl, a young girl of this region--"
"This region in which we live, god-mother?"
"Yes, of the borders of Lorraine; and that she would be born near a large oak forest."
Jeannette clasped her hands in astonishment and she looked at Sybille in silence, revolving in her mind the prophecy of Merlin that France was to be saved by a young girl of Lorraine, perchance of Domremy! Was not the emancipatrix to come from an old oak forest? Was not the village of Domremy situated close to a forest of centennarian oaks?[7]
"What! God-mother," Jeannette inquired, "can that be true--did Merlin make that prophecy?"
"Yes," answered Sybille, thinking that surely the time had come when the prophecy of the Gallic bard was to be fulfilled, "yes, more than a thousand years ago Merlin so prophesied."
Sybille leaned her forehead on her hand, collected herself, and in a low voice, speaking slowly, she imparted to her god-daughter the mysterious prophecy in the following words, to which the child listened with religious absorption:
"When down goes the sun and the moon shines, I sing. Young, I sang--become old still I sing. People look for me, but they find me not. People will cease looking for, and then will they find me. It matters little what may happen-- What must be shall be!
"I see Gaul lost by a woman. I see Gaul saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks. I see at the borders of Lorraine a thick forest of oaks Where, near a clear fountain, grows the divine druid herb, Which the druid cuts with a sickle of gold. I see an angel with wings of azure and dazzling with light. He holds in his hands a royal crown. I see a steed of battle as white as snow-- I see an armor of battle as brilliant as silver.-- For whom is that crown, that steed, that armor? Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks.-- For whom that crown, that steed, that armor? Oh, how much blood! It spouts up, it flows in torrents! It steams; its vapor rises--rises like an autumn mist to heaven, Where the thunder peals and where the lightning flashes. Athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning, That crimson mist, I see a martial virgin. She battles, she battles--she battles still in a forest of lances! She seems to be riding on the backs of the archers.[8] The white steed, as white as snow, was for the martial virgin! For her was the armor of battle as brilliant as silver. She is surrounded by an escort. But for whom the royal crown? Gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin From the borders of Lorraine and a forest of oaks. For the martial maid the steed and the armor! But for whom the royal crown? The angel with wings of azure holds it in his hands. The blood has ceased to run in torrents, The thunder to peal, and the lightning to flash. The warriors are at rest. I see a serene sky. The banners float; The clarions sound; the bells ring. Cries of joy! Chants of victory! The martial virgin receives the crown From the hands of the angel of light. A man on his knees, wearing a long mantle of ermine, Is crowned by the warrior virgin. Who is the virgin's elect?