Firm in the saddle of her panting little horse, she races in the vanguard of her troops as they dart at the enemy trenches, galloping on course, serene, ecstatic, and with a happy heart. Her seemingly virile fingers occupy a ringed and iron gauntlet as she holds high the palpitating flag in the sky with its golden splendor of the fleur-de-lis. Confident with dreams, and youth, and sincere belief, the Maid of Orleans, in a mystical daze proceeds undaunted with her missionary aims. She smiles, and not a single tremor of fear invades her soul, but her bold and visionary gaze already reflects the bonfire's sinister flames.
Joan of arc.
Baer, William
Firm in the saddle of her panting little horse, she races in the vanguard of her troops as they dart at the enemy trenches, galloping on course, serene, ecstatic, and with a happy heart. Her seemingly virile fingers occupy a ringed and iron gauntlet as she holds high the palpitating flag in the sky with its golden splendor of the fleur-de-lis. Confident with dreams, and youth, and sincere belief, the Maid of Orleans, in a mystical daze proceeds undaunted with her missionary aims. She smiles, and not a single tremor of fear invades her soul, but her bold and visionary gaze already reflects the bonfire's sinister flames.