After what intervals the vision returned we are not told，nor in what circumstances.It seems to have come chiefly out-of-doors，in the silence and ******* of the fields or garden.Presently the heavenly radiance shaped itself into some semblance of forms and figures，one of which，clearer than the others，was like a man，but with wings and a crown on his head and the air "/d'un vrai prud'homme/"；a noble apparition before whom at first the little maid trembled，but whose majestic，honest regard soon gave her confidence.He bade her once more to be good，and that God would help her；then he told her the sad story of her own suffering country，/la pitiéqui estoit au royaume de France/.Was it the pity of heaven that the archangel reported to the little trembling girl，or only that which woke with the word in her own childish soul？He has chosen the small things of this world to confound the great.Jeanne's young heart was full of pity already，and of yearning over the helpless mother-country which had no champion to stand for her."She had great doubts at first whether it was St.
Michael，but afterwards when he had instructed her and shown her many things，she believed firmly that it was he."It was this warrior-angel who opened the matter to her，and disclosed her mission."Jeanne，"he said，"you must go to the help of the King of France；and it is you who shall give him back his kingdom."Like a still greater Maid，trembling，casting in her mind what this might mean，she replied，confused，as if that ****** detail were all：
"Messire，I am only a poor girl；I cannot ride or lead armed men."The vision took no notice of this plea.He became minute in his directions，indicating exactly what she was to do."Go to Messire de Baudricourt，captain of Vaucouleurs，and he will take you to the King.St.Catherine and St.Margaret will come and help you."Jeanne was overwhelmed by this exactness，by the sensation of receiving direct orders.She cried，weeping and helpless，terrified to the bottom of her soul--What was she that she should do this？a little girl，able to guide nothing but her needle or her distaff，to lend her ****** aid in nursing a sick child.But behind all her fright and hesitation，her heart was filled with the emotion thus suggested to her--the immeasurable /pitiéque estoit au royaume de France/.Her heart became heavy with this burden.By degrees it came about that she could think of nothing else；and her little life was confused by expectations and recollections of the celestial visitant，who might arrive upon her at any moment，in the midst perhaps of some innocent play，or when she sat sewing in the garden before her father's humble door.
After a while the /vrai prud'homme/came seldom；other figures more like herself，soft forms of women，white and shining，with golden circlets and ornaments，appeared to her in the great halo of the light；they bowed their heads，naming themselves，as to a sister spirit，Catherine，and the other Margaret.Their voices were sweet and soft with a sound that made you weep.They were both martyrs，encouraging and strengthening the little martyr that was to be."Alady is there in the heavens who loves thee"：Virgil could not say more to rouse the flagging strength of Dante.When these gentle figures disappeared，the little maid wept in an anguish of tenderness，longing if only they would take her with them.It is curious that though she describes in this vague rapture the appearance of her visitors，it is always as "/mes voix/"that she names them--the sight must always have been more imperfect than the message.Their outlines and their lovely faces might shine uncertain in the excess of light；but the words were always plain.The pity for France that was in their hearts spread itself into the silent rural atmosphere，touching every sensitive chord in the nature of little Jeanne.It was as if her mother lay dying there before her eyes.
Curious to think how little anyone could have suspected such meetings as these，in the cottage hard by，where the weary ploughmen from the fields would come clamping in for their meal，and Dame Isabeau would call to the child，even sharply perhaps now and then，to leave that all-absorbing needlework and come in and help，as Martha called Mary fourteen hundred years before；and where the priest，mumbling his mass of a cold morning in the little church，would smile indulgent on the faithful little worshipper when it was done，sure of seeing Jeanne there whoever might be absent.She was a shy girl，blushing and drooping her head when a stranger spoke to her，red and shame-faced when they laughed at her in the village as a /dévote/before her time；but with nothing else to blush about in all her ****** record.