But now Catherine started and recoiled. For on the blue tunic she had caught sight of an embroidered white dove bearing in its beak the scroll De par le Roy du ciel . It was a blazon the tale of which had gone through France.
“ You are she!” she stammered. “The witch of Lorraine!”
The other looked wonderingly at her. “I am Jeanne of Arc,” she said simply. “She whom they call the Pucelle. Do you shrink from me, sister?”
Catherine's face was aflame. She remembered her lost lover, and the tears scarcely dry. “Out upon you!” she cried. “You are that false woman that corrupt men's hearts.” And again her fingers sought the silver whistle.
Jeanne looked sadly upon her. Her merry eyes had grown grave.
“ I pray you forbear. I do not heed the a***e of men, but a woman's taunts hurt me
