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La Hire tried to cheer up, but he was not able to do it. He sighed like a zephyr, and presently said—
"Well, I'll do it for you, but before I would do it for another, I swear I—"
"But don't swear. Break it off."
"Break it off? It is impossible! I beg you to—to— Why—oh, my General, it is my native speech!"
He begged so hard for grace for his impediment, that Joan left him one fragment of it; she said he might swear by his bâton, the symbol of his generalship.
He promised that he would swear only by his bâton when in her presence, and would try to modify himself elsewhere, but doubted he could manage it, now that it was so old and stubborn a habit, and such a solace and support to his declining years.
That tough old lion went away from there a good deal tamed and civilized—not to say softened and sweetened, for perhaps those expressions would hardly fit him. Noël and I believed that when he was away from Joan's influence his old aversions would come up so strong in him that he could not master them, and so wouldn't go to mass. But we got up early in the morning to see.
Satan was converted, you see. Well, the rest followed. Joan rode up and down that camp, and wherever that fair young form appeared in its shining armor, with that sweet face to grace the vision and perfect it, the rude host seemed to think they saw the god of war in person, descended out of the clouds; and first they wondered, then they worshipped. After that, she could do with them what she would.
In three days it was a clean camp and orderly, and those barbarians were herding to divine service twice a day like
