The day was overcast, and all that grassy space wherein the Tree stood lay in a soft rich shadow.  Joan sat on a natural seat formed by gnarled great roots of the Tree.  Her hands lay loosely, one reposing in the other, in her lap.  Her head was bent a little toward the ground, and her air was that of one who is lost to thought, steeped in dreams, and not conscious of herself or of the world.  And now I saw a most strange thing, for I saw a white shadow come slowly gliding along the grass toward the Tree.  It was of grand proportions—­a robed form, with wings—­and the whiteness of this shadow was not like any other whiteness that we know of, except it be the whiteness of lightnings, but even the lightnings are not so intense as it was, for one cal look at them without hurt, whereas this brilliancy was so blinding that in pained my eyes and brought the water into them.  I uncovered my head, perceiving that I was in the presence of something not of this world.  My breath grew faint and difficult, because of the terror and the awe that possessed me.

Another strange thing.  The wood had been silent—­smitten with that deep stillness which comes when a storm-cloud darkens a forest, and the wild creatures lose heart and are afraid; but now all the birds burst forth into song, and the joy, the rapture, the ecstasy of it was beyond belief; and was so eloquent and so moving, withal, that it was plain it was an act of worship.  With the first note of those birds Joan cast herself upon her knees, and bent her head low and crossed her hands upon her breast.

She had not seen the shadow yet.  Had the song of the birds told her it was coming?  It had that look to me.  Then the like of this must have happened before.  Yes, there might be no doubt of that.

The shadow approached Joan slowly; the extremity of it reached her, flowed over her, clothed her in its awful splendor.  In that immortal light her face, only humanly beautiful before, became divine; flooded with that transforming glory her mean peasant habit was become like to the raiment of the sun-clothed children of God as we see them thronging the terraces of the Throne in our dreams and imaginings.

Presently she rose and stood, with her head still bowed a little, and with her arms down and the ends of her fingers lightly laced together in front of her; and standing so, all drenched with that wonderful light, and yet apparently not knowing it, she seemed to listen—­but I heard nothing.  After a little she raised her head, and looked up as one might look up toward the face of a giant, and then clasped her hands and lifted them high, imploringly, and began to plead.  I heard some of the words.  I heard her say: 

“But I am so young! oh, so young to leave my mother and my home and go out into the strange world to undertake a thing so great!  Ah, how can I talk with men, be comrade with men?—­soldiers!  It would give me over to insult, and rude usage, and contempt.  How can I go to the great wars, and lead armies?—­I a girl, and ignorant of such things, knowing nothing of arms, nor how to mount a horse, nor ride it. . . .  Yet—­if it is commanded—­”