At the distance where she was she could not well distinguish the figures, and she looked at them as if in the aggrandisement of a dream; the young girl was slight, was a blonde, and, in short, had a face not unlike her own, while the saint was frank and noble looking, with the beauty of an archangel.

It was as if she herself had just been saved, and she could have kissed his hands with gratitude.

And to this adventure, of which she dreamed confusedly, of a meeting on the border of a lake and of being rescued from a great danger by a young man more beautiful than the day, was added the recollection of her excursion to the Chateau of Hautecoeur, and a calling up to view of the feudal donjon, in its original state, peopled with the noble lords of olden times.
The arms glistened like the stars on summer nights; she knew them well, she read them easily, with their sonorous words, for she was so in the habit of embroidering heraldic symbols.

There was Jean V, who stopped from door to door in the town ravaged by the plague, and went in to kiss the lips of the dying, and cured them by saying, "_Si Dieu volt, ie vueil_." And Felician III, who, forewarned that a severe illness prevented Philippe le Bel from going to Palestine, went there in his place, barefooted and holding a candle in his hand, and for that he had the right of quartering the arms of Jerusalem with his own.

Other and yet other histories came to her mind, especially those of the ladies of Hautecoeur, the "happy dead," as they were called in the Legend.