It was not lack of imagination that helped
her courage. God and she alone, in the darkness. He with all the forces
of the Universe behind Him. He armed with His eternal pains and
penalties, and eight-year-old Joan: the creature that He had made in His
Own Image that He could torture and destroy. Hell yawned beneath her,
but it had to be said. Somebody ought to tell Him.
"You are a wicked God," Joan told Him. "Yes, You are. A cruel, wicked
God."
And then that she might not see the walls of the room open before her,
hear the wild laughter of the thousand devils that were coming to bear
her off, she threw herself down, her face hidden in the pillow, and
clenched her hands and waited.
And suddenly there burst a song. It was like nothing Joan had ever heard
before. So clear and loud and near that all the night seemed filled with
harmony. It sank into a tender yearning cry throbbing with passionate
desire, and then it rose again in thrilling ecstasy: a song of hope, of
victory.
Joan, trembling, stole from her bed and drew aside the blind.
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