Chapter IV

In Camp and Court

News of the siege of the City of Orleans by the English at last reached the village of Domremy. No one was more deeply affected by it than Joan, for she believed from what her confessor had told the villagers that with the fall of Orleans the King’s cause would be lost, that there was no hope for the raising of the siege, and that the wretchedness of the fatherland would then be complete.

Scarcely had Joan heard the news before she left the village to meditate upon this new situation in some one of her favorite solitudes. She was at this time about seventeen years of age, blooming and beautiful in person, but unchanged in nature and habits. She longed to abandon herself to her thoughts and impressions in solitude as she used to do when tending her father’s flocks. Deep down in her heart she felt the sorrows of others now as she did then, and was moved by the same irresistible desire to help them. She longed to prostrate herself before her saints, to look into the clouds with supernatural vision and see their figures and hear their voices as she used to do. Her communion with the spiritual world at this time had become so intimate that she could question her saints and hear their instant replies. The Fairy Tree, under which she fed the birds, the miraculous spring where the fawns frisked about her, and the chapel at the cross-road near the oak forest, in which she had most of her visions, were her favorite resorts. In this chapel she knelt before the image of Saint Catherine, unconscious of the outside world. The burden of her fervent prayer was the necessities of the country, the rescue of the City of Orleans, and the coronation of the King.

“O that I were a man! O that I were a commander!” she sighed. “I would rush to the rescue. Perhaps it is not impossible. Does not the wolf fly from me when my saints are near? Can I not hide my maiden’s figure in the garb of the soldier? Are not these limbs strong enough to wear armor? What if the dear saints should commission me to rescue the fatherland!”

Absorbed in such thoughts and longings, she lost herself in communion with the celestial world, and in a vision she saw her favorite saints in the glowing clouds.

“Why do you tarry, Joan?” said the voices. “Cities and villages are being destroyed every day. Daily the blood of the people is being shed. Arise! Execute the decree of Heaven.”

“But,” said Joan, “how may I know it is Heaven which sends me?”

“The signs of your mission will not fail.”

“And what is my mission?”

“To raise the siege of the city of Orleans, and conduct the King to his coronation at Rheims.”

“How shall I begin?”

“Go to the King and offer yourself to him as commander of the army.”

“To whom shall I apply so that I may reach the King?”

“Go to the knight, Robert of Baudricourt.[16] He will help you.”

Joan returned home, and remained several days deeply absorbed in contemplating the mission to which she had been assigned. She would often steal away to her little chamber and weep bitterly; for although she felt exalted by the heavenly decree, still, it seemed impossible for her secretly to leave all the dear ones at home,—father, mother, brothers, and sister. And yet she must go secretly, for her father never would approve of her purpose or consent to her going, and no other way suggested itself. They had grown so accustomed to seeing her absorbed in silent and solitary meditations that they kept aloof from her at such times. It had been village gossip for years that she communicated with spirits and practised magic. In what other way indeed could her mastery of the wild beasts be explained? Her brother Pierre, however, who was devotedly attached to her, was an exception. He never pained her by suspicions. She had no secrets from him, and she came to him now in perfect confidence and wept upon his breast.

“It is not true, Pierre,” she said, looking up at him with her beautiful tearful eyes, “that you mock at me as the others do?”

“How can you think such a thing of me, little sister?”

“Oh, I do not think it, my brother.”

“And yet your question seems to imply that you do.”

“Not at all, Pierre. I know very well that you love me, but you must tell me so over and over again. I know very well you do not mock me, but even that does not satisfy me. I must have the assurance from your own lips.”

“I know very well, Joan, that you are a favorite with your saints, that they manifest themselves to you in the clouds, and that you talk with them as you talk with us.”

“Yes; you believe me when I tell you these things. But when I tell the others—”

“Oh, my sister, they do not know you as I do. I know that you never speak an untruth.”

“And yet my actions now must be deceitful. Alas! Pierre, that is what distresses me.”

“But remember, little sister, that you are obeying the celestial ones, that it is the fatherland which calls you.”

“And still it grieves me, my brother. I go about here just as usual. Father, mother, and all the others think that I shall always go on this way, and I let them think so, and purposely strengthen this belief while I am preparing to leave them secretly. Oh, Pierre, they will never forgive me.”

“Why should you distress yourself with such thoughts, my sister? You know that you must undertake this mission. And it is right you should, for the will of Heaven is superior to the human will. When father and mother and the others hear what Heaven has accomplished through you, do you not think they will forgive you?”

“Your words have done me good, my brother,” cried Joan, her clear, brilliant eyes shining with happiness. “Would that I could always have you by my side and hear your voice! If you were near I would fear no one whom I may encounter.”

“I will go with you, my sister.”

“No, Pierre, you cannot.”

“And why not?”

“Is it not enough for me to bring sorrow to our parents? Would you add to that sorrow by secretly going away also?”

“You are right. I ought not to go. You are obeying the decree of Heaven, but I cannot offer that plea. But I know of some one who might go with you.”

“Who?”

“Uncle Laxart. He also loves you, and he will not have to ask permission of any one.”

“But will he go?”

“I will speak to him about it.”

The next day (in the year 1429)—it was the day of the Three Holy Kings—Joan crossed the snow-covered valley to the Fairy Tree, sprinkled crumbs for the birds as usual, and listened to their grateful songs. Soon afterwards she was lost in deep reverie in the chapel at the cross-roads, and while in this state her enraptured eyes beheld her saints, Catherine and Margaret, in the clouds.

“The hour has come, Joan,” she heard them say. “Arise! the Queen of Heaven will be with you.”

“But I must go all alone,” she replied. “They will call me an adventuress.”

“Not so! Your protector is already at the door.”

As Joan arose she saw a man approaching the chapel. With joyous surprise she recognized her uncle, Duram Laxart.

“I know all, Joan,” he exclaimed. “I am ready to escort you as soon as you need my protection. I have already been to Vaucouleurs and have seen the knight Baudricourt. Start as soon as you can get ready. We will lodge with Wagner, whom you know.”

Before the astonished maiden could reply her uncle was off in the direction of Vaucouleurs.

The time for departure had come at last. Deeply agitated, she stood at the door of the chapel, and looked once more with tearful eyes out over the valley. Once more her gaze lingered upon the miraculous spring, the Fairy Tree, and her home at Domremy, and her soul was filled with tender and sacred associations.

“Farewell, O Wonder Tree, where I have spent so many happy hours,” she said between her sobs. “And you, little birds, farewell! Alas! Joan can never feed you again. In vain will you wait for her. Farewell, dear spring, whose music I have heard so often in my happy dreams. Tell the deer I cannot play with them again. Farewell, loved valleys and fields! How happy I was when I played here with the companions of my childhood! Alas! I shall never see you again! Farewell, my father! My beloved mother, farewell! And you, my Pierre, my good, dear brother. Oh, how hard it is to leave you! Alas! never again shall I look into your true eyes, never again hear words of love and sympathy from your lips. Farewell all, all farewell! Grieve not that I leave you. Be not angry. It cannot be otherwise. No! it must be so, for Heaven has decreed it, and the fatherland has called me. Away, Joan, away! The struggle is at hand.”

No one could have seen the simple peasant maiden at that moment, her eyes shining as the tears glistened on their lashes, no one could have realized her strength of will in giving up all that had filled her soul with sorrow as she thought of leaving it, no one could have watched her passing down the valley like a soldier defiant of danger, without the conviction that it was an event fraught with the highest significance for France.

Joan found her uncle at Wagner’s house in Vaucouleurs. He had already called upon Baudricourt, but was sent away with instructions to reprove his silly niece and take her back to her parents. Though not in the least discouraged, Joan spent the night in prayer, and in the morning went to see Baudricourt. She found him in the company of Jean de Nouillemport de Metz. Both laughed when they learned the nature of her errand, but she spoke with such sincere conviction of her celestial visions that Baudricourt at last dismissed her with a promise to give the matter serious consideration. Subsequently, when Joan prayed in the church, and the people came in crowds to see “the saint,” a priest approached her with a crucifix to see if she was possessed of the devil. Joan fell upon her knees and kissed the holy symbol, and the priest declared, “She may be mad but she is not possessed.” On her way out of the church she met the knight Nouillemport de Metz, to whom she thus appealed: “Alas! No one will believe me, and yet France can be saved only by me.” The words reminded him of the prophecy of Merlin. After observing her more closely, and recognizing her spiritual purity and her resolute determination of purpose, he expressed his willingness to take her to the Dauphin, and he had little difficulty in persuading Baudricourt to join him. A few days afterwards Joan was delighted to find herself on the way to Chinon with the knights and their men at arms. In her costume she looked like a slim, handsome page rather than a trooper. Chinon was more than one hundred and fifty leagues away, and for half that distance the country was occupied by the English. Hence they were obliged to make wide circuits, and frequently halt in the forests and ford rivers. After a fourteen days’ march they reached the city of Gien[17] on the Loire. The news spread like wildfire that the Maiden who, according to Merlin’s prophecy, was to rescue France, had come, and all hastened to extend her an enthusiastic welcome.

After leaving Gien there was little danger, and at last they safely reached Chinon and put up at an inn. Here, as at Gien, the news of Joan’s arrival spread rapidly, and attracted a great crowd. To satisfy the universal curiosity, she appeared on the balcony and was welcomed with enthusiastic shouts. Her knightly companions promptly waited upon the Dauphin; but they found him greatly discouraged and in a despondent mood because of the news that the Englishman, John Falstaff, had repulsed the French, who tried to prevent him from taking supplies of herring to his countrymen before Orleans. The Dauphin’s disappointment over the “herrings day” defeat, however, would have been short-lived had he not at the same time been overtaken by a calamity which seemed to him even worse, namely, his utter lack of money and the consequent emptiness of his kitchen and cellar. In such a mood Joan’s companions found him. At first he listened to them with indifference and a contemptuous smile, but when they told him the people had recognized the Maiden as a saint, and welcomed her as the rescuer of France, it occurred to him she might be instrumental in relieving his necessitous condition. At last he ordered that she should be admitted. To test the prophetic gift ascribed to her, he received her standing among the nobles of his court, while another person sat on the throne.

Joan recognized him at once, however, and advancing to him, knelt, and greeted him with these words: “God grant you a long and happy life, Dauphin.”[18]

“You are mistaken,” he replied. “Yonder is the King,” pointing to the person on the throne.

“Noble prince,” she answered, “you cannot deceive me. You are the Dauphin.” A murmur of astonishment ran through the hall.

“Sire,” she continued, “if we can be alone I will tell you something that will remove all doubt as to my mission.”[19]

The Dauphin conducted her to the adjacent oratory, and there, according to the tradition, she revealed things to him which he was certain none could know but God and himself. He was so sure of this that at the close of the interview he exclaimed: “I am convinced of your divine commission, but my councillors must also be convinced.”

“Very well, sire,” she replied. “Summon the three most learned and experienced to meet me in the morning, and I will give them a sign.” Her wish was gratified. The three selected were the Archbishop of Rheims, Charles of Bourbon, and De la Tremouille, the King’s minister. They first required her to give her history, and then they asked for the sign. Joan went back to the oratory. Then, according to tradition, the heavenly ones appeared, and with them an angel in long white raiment. The latter carried a brilliant crown and slowly advanced into the audience-room.

“Sire,” said the angel, “trust this maiden whom Heaven sends to you. Give her at once as many soldiers as you can raise. As a sign that you shall be crowned at Rheims, Heaven sends you this token.” Thereupon the angel handed the crown to the Archbishop, went out as he had entered, and disappeared through the ceiling of the oratory. So says the tradition.

The three councillors were not yet fully satisfied, however. They suggested that Joan should be examined by the learned theologians of the University of Poitiers.[20] When they also asked her for a sign, she replied: “Give me soldiers and you shall have signs enough.” They finally reported that she was trustworthy, and that the King ought to accept her service. The Dauphin’s council promptly decided to raise as many troops as possible, place the Maiden in command of them, and send her with a convoy of supplies to Orleans. In these few days popular sentiment had changed rapidly, cheerful self-sacrifice and enthusiastic eagerness for action took the place of discouragement and dissension. Knights and their men at arms offered their services, and wealthy burghers sacrificed their treasures for the cause of the country. The Dauphin at last was also in a cheerful frame of mind, for his treasury was filling up and he could once more take some pleasure in living. He was also in a position now to be of service to the Maiden. He presented her with a general’s outfit,—a master of horse, two pages, two heralds, and a chaplain.

About this time the Duc d’Alençon[21] returned from English captivity. He noticed with great delight that every one was eager to follow the Maiden into battle. He immediately mortgaged his property, purchased war equipment, and accepted the duty of preparing the convoy of supplies. Joan met with an affectionate welcome from his wife, who had come to Blois, where the preparations were going on.

The twenty-sixth of April, 1429, was fixed as the day of departure. Joan had previously sent her herald Guienne with a letter to the Duke of Bedford[22], which she had dictated to her chaplain. It ran thus:

“[Jesus, Maria]

“King of England, account to the Queen of Heaven for the blood you have shed. Surrender to the Maiden the keys of all the good towns you have captured. She offers you peace in the name of God if you make reparation and honestly return what you have taken. If you fail to do this she will everywhere attack your troops and drive them out of the country. And you, archers and soldiers before Orleans, go quietly back to your own country, or protect yourselves against the Maiden. France has not been given by Holy Mary’s Son to you, but to the true heir, King Charles, who will enter Paris in good company. You shall see who has the better right, God or you, De la Pole, Count of Suffolk, Talbot and Thomas, who have taken the field for the Duke of Bedford, the so-called regent of the Kingdom of France for the King of England. If you do not leave the city of Orleans peacefully, Duke of Bedford, you will force the French to achieve the most glorious exploit ever known in Christendom.

“Written on Tuesday in Passion Week.”

This letter, however, never was answered. The herald did not come back.

On the day appointed the expedition set out from Blois. At its head was a procession of priests singing hymns, Joan’s chaplain leading them with his banner. Next followed the leaders, Duc d’Alençon, Marshal de Retz, Admiral de Coulent, De la Maison, Laval, Potou de Saintrailles, Count Dunois and La Hire, in whose retinue was Jean Renault. Then came two hundred horsemen, and a long train of wagons loaded with supplies brought up the rear. Joan in full armor, wearing a shining helmet which covered her closely cropped locks, and carrying a sword whose hilt and scabbard were ornamented with lilies, rode among the leaders. Upon one side of her banner, which was thickly sprinkled with lilies, was a picture of the Saviour with the orb in His hand and an angel on either side of Him; on the other, the inscription, “Jesus, Maria.”[23] Her demeanor was serious and dignified, serene confidence shone in her beaming eyes. Her only regrets were the profanity of the soldiers and La Hire’s loud prayer every morning and evening: “Dear God! do for La Hire as he would do for Thee if he were the dear God and Thou wert La Hire.”

On the third day they were before Orleans, but the city was on the other side of the Loire, and there was no bridge. They occupied a redoubt on their side of the river, which the English had abandoned because it was of no use to them. At this juncture the Bastard of Orleans,[24] commander of the city, came in a barge to meet them. By his advice they went two leagues farther up the river and made a halt near Castle Chécy, where they found a French garrison. Count Dunois agreed to send a fleet for the transportation of the supplies, but at three in the afternoon it had not come. The sky was overcast, thunder growled in the distance, and the waves of the Loire were lashed by fierce winds. The courage of the soldiers began to waver.

“When this storm subsides,” said the Duc d’Alençon, “the English vessels will be here instead of ours, and then all will be lost.”

“Ah, you forget,” said the Maiden, “that I promised you in the name of God we should enter Orleans successfully.”

“H’m! it does not look as if you could keep your promise,” replied the Duke.

“Have a little patience,” said Joan, as she closely scanned the sky. “Before a quarter of an hour passes the wind will change.” She retired a little distance to pray, but hardly had she knelt before a favoring wind sprung up and the vessels which had been detained by the storm arrived.

“Now what do you think of that, Jean?” said La Hire, as they began loading the supplies.

“I think, noble sir,” replied the youth, “that the Maiden in her pastoral life has had ample opportunity to observe the wind and weather, and is therefore able to predict changes like these.”

“Oho! Then she is an impostor!”

“Why so, noble sir?”

“Do you not understand? Does she not make people believe that the winds change in answer to her prayers?”

“Oh no, certainly not. She does not pray on account of the wind. She prays because prayer is a necessity to her, because of the impelling forces of her nature, and because she feels happy in communing with Heaven. Her special prayer is for strength and help from on high for her great work, which is beginning this very hour.”

“H’m! But she deceives the multitude by it, just the same.”

“She does only what she must do. Does the sun lave itself every evening in the sea just because the people believe it does?”

“I am not criticising you, my young friend, but one minute you deny the supernatural in the manifestations of the Maiden, and in the next you extol her to the very skies.”

“What are wonders anyway, noble sir? What the blind multitude regards as a wonder easily resolves itself into harmony with nature to the reflective person, and what the multitude passes by without observing at all is a wonder to the intelligent thinker.”

“Explain yourself more clearly.”

“As to the first point, the Maiden herself is a sufficient illustration. Do not these people recognize a wonder in this change of wind, while you see nothing at all extraordinary in it? As to the other point there are a thousand illustrations. The sky with its stars, the flowers of the field, the worm in the dust,—all these are wonders of creation which the multitude scarcely notices, but which are marvellous to the observant thinker.”

“And this Maiden?”

“She is a wonder in both ways, and therein lies her extraordinary power. She is believed to be a prophetess who has direct communication with Heaven. The people regard her as an actually divine wonder, because of her purity of heart, her celestial confidence, her unsullied patriotism, and her spiritual illumination. Indeed, noble sir, the Maiden is a wonderful gift of Heaven to stricken France.”

“Then you also believe in her success apart from her divine commission?”

“I do not dispute her divine commission. She is executing it because the divine voice in her own heart has charged her with that duty. Do I believe in her success? Look at these people! How their eyes are fixed upon this Maiden! At her command of ‘forward’ they would plunge into the Loire and follow her, believing that its waters would bear them up. Will you not yourself, noble sir, although you do not believe in her divine commission, gladly draw your sword when the lily banner waves before you? If the spirit which Joan has roused in our little band is animating all France, how can we do otherwise than expect success?”

“You are right, my young friend,” said La Hire, extending his hand. “I thank your gallant father in his grave for the training he gave you. Yes, yes, it must be so,—when religious or political enthusiasms fire a people, great results always follow. In this case it is a joint enthusiasm. The victory will be ours, and we shall thank the Maiden for it. I will not again grieve her with my prayers. When it is prayer time I will go so far off that she cannot hear me. But one thing more, Jean. Have you heard anything about Marie?”

“Alas! noble sir, I have not. As you well know, I have not ceased making inquiries, but as in your case, the turmoil of war has prevented me from obtaining personal information.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I cannot tell you how that poor child’s situation troubles me. I have waited from week to week for an opportunity to speak a few words to this lord of Luxemburg and his bishop”—and his grip of his sword indicated what kind of words he had in mind. “But let us hope,” he resumed, “that the Maiden whom we serve may open the way to Marie’s release. First, we must send the English to the devil. After that nothing shall prevent me from finding Marie, and”—casting a significant glance at Jean—“I know who will stand by me.”

“To the end of the world, noble sir,” cried the youth, his flashing eyes showing that the words came from his heart.

“Good, good, I am sure of it; but it is time that we were off.” He pointed to the last of the vessels, which was held for the troops. Soon they came to the line of the English intrenchments, which stretched around the city.

“Well,” growled La Hire, “these English gentlemen do not like to show themselves, and yet it would be an easy matter to break these nutshells. I wonder if they have run away.”

“They are there, and can see us,” said Jean. “They are lying behind the walls, but they have no ordnance to use against us.”

It turned out as Jean said. The English made no assault, and the little flotilla reached the city unharmed. There was unbounded enthusiasm when the Maiden appeared with her banner at the gates. The people would have carried her in their arms had not the commander of the city forestalled them by having a horse in readiness for her. She mounted and rode in triumph to the cathedral, where a _Te Deum_ was sung, the first which had been heard for a long time within its walls. Then she was escorted to the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, where she was to lodge. Now for the first time she put off her armor, drank a cup of wine diluted with water, and then withdrew with the wife and daughters of her host to her chamber. There was lively commotion in the streets until far into the night. All anxiety disappeared on that 29th of April, 1429. An old chronicle relates that the people and the soldiers believed an angel had come down from heaven to them. To the same extent that their despair had vanished and given place to joyous enthusiasm, courage waned in the English camp. Most of those brave soldiers, particularly the spearsmen and archers, believed the Maiden was either a messenger from heaven or from hell, either a saint or a mighty magician. Their leaders inveighed bitterly against the Dauphin because he employed unknightly weapons, weapons of hell.

On the next day Joan urged an immediate attack, but at a council of the most experienced leaders it was decided to wait at least for the arrival of the next contingent of troops from Blois. They did not altogether believe in Joan’s divine commission, but they thought it best to take advantage of the popular enthusiasm which she had aroused. Count Dunois returned to Blois to hasten reinforcements forward, and on the fourth day his banner was seen on the left bank of the Loire. His route led directly past the English encampment. Joan could no longer remain inactive. “We must go out and meet them and fetch them in,” she cried, at the same time mounting her steed, seizing her little battle-axe and banner, and riding to the gate. The knights shook their heads. No one was eager to rush directly into the jaws of the lion, for it did not seem possible that any one would come back if the English came out and attacked them.

“Now,” shouted La Hire, “no one shall say that La Hire has been outdone in courage by a woman. Forward,” he commanded, galloping after the Maiden, and followed by his little band. Count Dunois had halted some distance away, evidently awaiting help from the city. As soon as he saw the banners of the Maiden and La Hire he moved forward along the first line of intrenchments. The two forces soon met and advanced towards the city along the very front of the English camp, but such was the Englishmen’s fear of the Maiden that not one of them ventured out. No one even hurled a missile. They looked on quietly, as the little band passed their lines and safely reached the city. As further reinforcements were on their way, it was decided on the following day to attack Fort Saint Loup.

Early in the morning, while Joan, wearied by her exertions on the day before, was still sleeping, some of the captains sallied out with their troops and made a furious assault upon the fort. The English, seeing only their customary assailants, fell upon them, and after a hard struggle beat them back. At that instant the Maiden, bearing her lily banner, rode to the Burgundian gate. “Halt!” she shouted to the fugitives. “Look you, the Maiden whom God sent to you is here. Follow me to victory.” At once she plunged into the thick of battle. Her presence acted like magic on both sides. The French impetuously followed her, Daulon, Master of horse, La Hire, and two other knights, leading the first charge. The English wavered.

“Why do you hesitate?” cried Guerard, their leader. “Shame and confusion to any one who fears this country girl! Drive her back to her village and her father’s cows.”

His appeal was unheeded. The soldiers stood for a moment staring at the banner in the hand of “the witch,” and then, as if at the word of command, rushed in a panic for the protecting walls of the fort. “On, my brave ones, forward to the battle and victory,” cried Joan, as she furiously galloped after the fugitives.

“Now, soldiers of France!” said La Hire, “she is doing more than her share. On, my children! Shall we let this brave one do all the work alone?” He spurred his steed, but his heavy battle horse could not overtake the Maiden’s light courser. The next instant a single knight of La Hire’s troop flew after her, and in a few seconds his sword was waving at her side. It was Jean Renault. Enthusiasm such as he had never felt before had seized him. He was oblivious to all sense of danger. Scarcely was the last Englishman through the fortress gate before the Maiden and Jean rushed through also. The astonished English soldiers saw the lily banner in their very midst. Before they had recovered from the deadly fear it inspired, it was flying on the wall. The French poured through the gate, and victory was soon complete. Those who resisted were cut down, and the rest were taken prisoners. Some of the fugitives had fled to the tower of the church within the walls, but these unfortunates were either killed upon the steps, or hurled themselves from the windows. A more fortunate remnant came out of the sacristy, where they had arrayed themselves in the robes of the priests. These were greeted with jibes and laughter as they begged of the Maiden to be made prisoners. Amid the peals of bells and the triumphal shouts of the people, the Maiden entered the city at the head of her soldiers.

Three days after this—a festival day intervening—the leaders decided to make a feint upon the right bank, covering an attack upon the left. As Orleans lies upon the right bank of the Loire, the commander of the city kept a large number of boats for crossing. In the midst of the stream, but somewhat nearer the left bank, is an island which the English had not occupied. The French landed upon this island, Joan and La Hire, with his troop, in the lead. The boats were fastened together and thus made a bridge to the left bank, over which they advanced for an attack upon the first fort, Le Blanc. It would have been easy for the English to stop the passage, but they did not attempt it. After setting Fort Le Blanc on fire they fell back upon Fort Saint Augustine.

Joan followed them, and planted her banner half an arrowshot’s distance from the wall. Suddenly there was a shout, “The English are coming from Fort St. Rivi.” The little band retreated to the Loire, all save fifteen, La Hire and Jean among the latter. These fell back a little distance, so as not to expose themselves needlessly to the enemy’s assault, seeing which the English plucked up courage and attacked them, shouting loudly.

“Follow me,” cried Joan, waving her banner and advancing upon the English. The fifteen did not hesitate, rash as the undertaking seemed. They pressed forward, cutting their way through. When those who had retreated to the river saw this they came to their assistance, and in a few minutes the English were driven back into the fort. Joan rushed on until she reached the palisades, dashed through a breach which Daulon had made, and planted her banner on the wall. The French rapidly came up, captured the fort, and burned it. It may well be imagined this fresh victory was hailed with delight in the city. The bells again pealed as the soldiers entered, but their reception was a quiet one as compared with the enthusiastic homage which the Maiden received on her way to her lodgings.

Though Joan was wounded in the foot during the battle and passed a restless night, she was again on horseback early in the morning. She rode to the Burgundian Gate with a little band, and ordered it to be opened. The keeper would not obey, saying that the leaders had decided not to give battle that day, and had ordered the gate to be kept closed. When Joan insisted a tumult arose. The people demanded it should be opened, and at last opened it by force. With joyful acclamations the crowd followed their inspired leader to the river. The boats which had been used the day before were lying there, and served this time to carry her across. Joan held her horse by the bridle and let it swim after her, and thus the left bank was reached. A shout of joy from the French who had garrisoned the captured fort welcomed the lily banner. They came out to meet her, and Joan placed herself at their head. “Forward, my brave ones,” she cried. “The victory to-day also will be ours.” An enthusiastic shout was the reply as they impetuously rushed on to assault Fort Tournelles.

This fort, the strongest bulwark of the English, was close to the river, a drawbridge furnishing the only approach to it. On the land side it was surrounded by a high wall, which had to be passed before reaching the fort itself. Its garrison was the very flower of the English warriors, led by the experienced Glasdale. An assault by a mere handful of troops without ordnance or storming appliances seemed to the English the height of madness.

In the meantime the number of the assailants continually increased, for when the leaders in Orleans witnessed the courageous dash of the Maiden they realized that they must support her. One after another La Hire, Dunois the Bastard of Orleans, De Retz, Gaucourt, Gamache, Graville, Tintey, Villars, Chailly, Couraze, D’Illiers, Thermes, Gontaut, Eulant, Saintrailles, and others appeared upon the scene. By ten o’clock the assault was general. The French hurled long spears. The English brandished leaden maces and iron battle-axes and hurled beams, stones, boiling oil, and molten lead upon the heads of the assailants. After three hours of furious fighting the French fell back.

“Courage,” cried Joan, whose banner was always in the front. “Courage in God’s name. The victory is ours.” She rushed to a ladder and ascended. “Surrender!” she shouted to the English, “or you will be massacred.” The reply was an arrow, which pierced her shoulder so that it protruded five inches out of her back. She gave a cry of pain and came down to the trenches. The English rushed upon her furiously, but a hand was stretched out to her at once. A heavy battle-axe struck her protector down. It was the brave Gamache who had come to her rescue. In a trice other heroes were on the spot, and the English fell back. They bore the maiden tenderly away and took off her armor. She looked up with tearful eyes, but they were fixed upon heaven, as was her wont.

“How is it going, Count Dunois?” she asked.

“We have ordered a retreat,” he replied, whereupon she partly sprang up, seized the arrow with both hands, and pulled it out. “Let there be no retreating,” she urged. “Quick, my armor.” In a few minutes she mounted her steed and galloped through the flying ranks. “Halt!” she pleaded. “Have courage, in God’s name. In half an hour the English will be in our hands.”

The effect of her heroic resolution was wonderful. The soldiers turned back with cheers. Daulon grasped the lily banner and carried it to the wall. Joan hastened forward and again led the assault. The terror of the English at the reappearance of the Maiden cannot be described. They had believed her dead. They were certain now that she was in league with Satan. They dropped their weapons and fled, and fear lent wings to their flight. Loud cries of horror from the water side completed the disasters of the day. An attack had been made upon the drawbridge. Glasdale had hastened there to protect the weak point. A shot fired by Daulon shattered the pier, and the bridge with all its defenders fell with a crash into the Loire. Glasdale, weighed down by his heavy armor, was drowned. It was this disaster which had caused the outcries. The day ended in a tragedy for the English. “Save yourselves as you can,” was the signal for flight. The fort was taken.

In Orleans the bells rang welcome to the troops. They rang the whole night long in celebration of the victory. The churches were thronged, and from thousands of grateful hearts rose the _Te Deum laudamus_ to heaven. The next morning dense smoke ascended from the English camp. Suffolk and Talbot had abandoned the siege, set fire to their camp, and retreated with the remnant of their army.

Thus in nine days Joan accomplished the first part of her mission.