But her
heart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgent
who carried the banner. She touched the staff, and, to express her
gratitude, said in an entreating tone, "Give it to me; I will carry it."
The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of this
form of gratitude.
"Yes," they all cried, "Chantegreil shall carry the banner."
However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and would
not be able to go far.
"Oh! I'm quite strong," she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves and
showing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as they
handed her the flag she resumed, "Wait just a moment."
Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turning
the red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to be
arrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on the
edge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the flag,
pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the folds
of that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her. Enthusiastic child
that she was, her countenance, with its curly hair, large eyes moist
with tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise with energetic
pride as she turned it towards the sky. At that moment she was the
virgin Liberty.
The insurgents burst into applause. The vivid imagination of those
Southerners was fired with enthusiasm at the sudden apparition of this
girl so nervously clasping their banner to her bosom.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65