She suffered the holy water to flow over every inch of her body, and then,
rubbing her white self red and glowing with the dead brake fern of last
year and squeezing the water out of her hair, Joan quickly dressed again
and prepared to depart. She was about to leave a fragment torn from her
skirt hanging by the chapel, but changed her mind, and getting a splinter
of granite, rough-edged, she began to chip away a tress of her own bright
hair, sawing it off upon the stone table as best she could. Like a fallen
star it presently glimmered in the thorn bush above St. Madron's altar
where she wound the little lock, presently to bring gold to the nests and
joy to the heart of small feathered folk.
Joan walked home with the warm blood racing in her veins, roses on her
cheeks and the glory of hope in her eyes. Already she felt her prayers were
being heard; already she was thanking God for heeding her cry, and St
Madron for the life-giving waters of his holy stream. Thee, where finches
chattered and fluttered forward, breakfasting together in pleasant company,
a shadow and a swift, strong wing flashed across Joan's sight--and a hawk
struck. The little people shrieked, a few gray feathers puffed here and
there, and one spark of life was blown out that other sparks might shine
the brighter. For presently Joan's kind "Mother o' the flowers" watched the
beaks of fledgeling hawks grow red, and the parent bird of prey's cold eyes
brightened with satisfaction; as will every parent eye brighten at the
spectacle of baby things eating wholesome food with hearty appetite.
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