Jacqueline’s words had not given him new thoughts, but unawares they did summon him to his appointed labor.  He looked to find the truth.  He must stand to do his work.  He must haste to make his choice.  Enthusiastic, chivalrous, and strong, he was seeking the divine right, night and day,—­and to ascertain that, as it seemed, he had come from Picardy to Meaux.

Elsie Meril went to bed, as she had invited Jacqueline to do; to sleep, to dream, she went,—­and to smile, in her dreaming, on the world that smiled on her.

Jacqueline sat by the window; leaned from the window, and prayed; her own prayer she prayed, as Antonine had said she must, if she would discover what she needed, and obtain an answer.

She thought of the dead,—­her own.  She pondered on the future.  She recalled some lines of the hymn Antonine had repeated, and she wished—­oh, how she wished!—­that, while the woman lived, and could reason and speak, she had told her about the letter she had received from the priest of Domremy.  Many a time it had been on her lips to tell, but she failed in courage to bring her poor affairs into that chamber and disturb that dying hour.  Now she wished that she had done it.  Now she felt that speech had been the merest act of justice to herself.

But there was Leclerc, the wool-comber, and his mother; she might rely on them for the instruction she needed.

Old Antonine’s faith had made a deep impression on the strong-hearted and deep-thinking girl; as also had the prayers of John Leclerc,—­especially that last prayer offered for Antonine.  It seemed to authenticate, by its strong, unfaltering utterance, the poor old woman’s evidence.  “Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever,” were strong words that seemed about to take possession of the heart of Jacqueline.

Therefore, while Elsie slept, she prayed,—­looking farther than the city-streets, and darkness,—­looking farther than the shining stars.  What she sought, poor girl, stood in her silent chamber, stood in her waiting heart.  But she knew Him not, and her ear was heavy; she did not hear the voice, that she should answer Him, “Rabboni!”

II.

A fortnight from this night, after the harvesters had left the fields of M. Flaval, Jacqueline was lingering in the twilight.

The instant the day’s work was done, the laborers set out for Meaux, Their haste suggested some unusual cause.

John Leclerc, wool-comber, had received that day his sentence.  Report of the sentence had spread among the reapers in the field and all along the vineyards of the hill-sides.  Not a little stir was occasioned by this sentence:  three days of whipping through the public streets, to conclude with branding on the forehead.  For this Leclerc, it seemed, had profanely and audaciously declared that a man might in his own behalf deal with the invisible God, by the mediation of Christ, the sole Mediator between God and man.  Viewed in the light of his offence, his punishment certainly was of the mildest.  Tidings of his sentence were received with various emotion:  by some as though they were maddened with new wine; others wept openly; many more were pained at heart; some brutally rejoiced; some were incredulous.