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IN DOMREMY

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CHAPTER I.

I, the Sieur Louis de Conte, was born in Neuf-
château, the 6th of January, 1410; that is to
say, exactly two years before Joan of Arc was born
in Domremy. My family had fled to those distant
regions from the neighborhood of Paris in the first
years of the century. In politics they were Armag-
nacs—patriots; they were for our own French
King, crazy and impotent as he was. The Burgun-
dian party, who were for the English, had stripped
them, and done it well. They took everything but
my father's small nobility, and when he reached
Neufchâteau he reached it in poverty and with a
broken spirit. But the political atmosphere there
was the sort he liked, and that was something. He
came to a region of comparative quiet; he left
behind him a region peopled with furies, madmen,
devils, where slaughter was a daily pastime and no
man's life safe for a moment. In Paris, mobs roared
through the streets nightly, sacking, burning, killing,
unmolested, uninterrupted. The sun rose upon
wrecked and smoking buildings, and upon mutilated
corpses lying here, there, and yonder about the

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streets, just as they fell, and stripped naked by
thieves, the unholy gleaners after the mob. None
had the courage to gather these dead for burial;
they were left there to rot and create plagues.

And plagues they did create. Epidemics swept
away the people like flies, and the burials were con-
ducted secretly and by night; for public funerals
were not allowed, lest the revelation of the magni-
tude of the plague's work unman the people and
plunge them into despair. Then came, finally, the
bitterest winter which had visited France in five
hundred years. Famine, pestilence, slaughter, ice,
snow—Paris had all these at once. The dead lay
in heaps about the streets, and wolves entered the
city in daylight and devoured them.

Ah, France had fallen low—so low! For more
than three quarters of a century the English fangs
had been bedded in her flesh, and so cowed had her
armies become by ceaseless rout and defeat that it
was said and accepted that the mere sight of an
English army was sufficient to put a French one to
flight.

When I was five years old the prodigious disaster
of Agincourt fell upon France; and although the
English King went home to enjoy his glory, he left
the country prostrate and a prey to roving bands of
Free Companions in the service of the Burgundian
party, and one of these bands came raiding through
Neufchâteau one night, and by the light of our
burning roof-thatch I saw all that were dear to me

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in this world (save an elder brother, your ancestor,
left behind with the court) butchered while they
begged for mercy, and heard the butchers laugh at
their prayers and mimic their pleadings. I was
overlooked, and escaped without hurt. When the
savages were gone I crept out and cried the night
away watching the burning houses; and I was all
alone, except for the company of the dead and the
wounded, for the rest had taken flight and hidden
themselves.

I was sent to Domremy, to the priest, whose
housekeeper became a loving mother to me. The
priest, in the course of time, taught me to read and
write, and he and I were the only persons in the
village who possessed this learning.

At the time that the house of this good priest,
Guillaume Fronte, became my home, I was six years
old. We lived close by the village church, and the
small garden of Joan's parents was behind the
church. As to that family, there were Jacques
d'Arc the father, his wife Isabel Romée; three
sons—Jacques, ten years old, Pierre, eight, and
Jean, seven; Joan, four, and her baby sister Cather-
ine, about a year old. I had these children for
playmates from the beginning. I had some other
playmates besides—particularly four boys: Pierre
Morel, Étienne Roze, Noël Rainguesson, and Ed-
mond Aubrey, whose father was maire at that time;
also two girls, about Joan's age, who by and by
became her favorites; one was named Haumette,

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the other was called Little Mengette. These girls
were common peasant children, like Joan herself.
When they grew up, both married common laborers.
Their estate was lowly enough, you see; yet a time
came, many years after, when no passing stranger,
howsoever great he might be, failed to go and pay
his reverence to those two humble old women who
had been honored in their youth by the friendship
of Joan of Arc.

These were all good children, just of the ordinary
peasant type; not bright, of course—you would
not expect that—but good-hearted and companion-
able, obedient to their parents and the priest; and
as they grew up they became properly stocked with
narrownesses and prejudices got at second hand
from their elders, and adopted without reserve; and
without examination also—which goes without say-
ing. Their religion was inherited, their politics the
same. John Huss and his sort might find fault with
the Church, in Domremy it disturbed nobody's
faith; and when the split came, when I was four-
teen, and we had three Popes at once, nobody in
Domremy was worried about how to choose among
them—the Pope of Rome was the right one, a
Pope outside of Rome was no Pope at all. Every
human creature in the village was an Armagnac—a
patriot—and if we children hotly hated nothing else
in the world, we did certainly hate the English and
Burgundian name and polity in that way.

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CHAPTER II.

Our Domremy was like any other humble little
hamlet of that remote time and region. It
was a maze of crooked, narrow lanes and alleys
shaded and sheltered by the overhanging thatch
roofs of the barn-like houses. The houses were
dimly lighted by wooden-shuttered windows—that
is, holes in the walls which served for windows.
The floors were of dirt, and there was very little
furniture. Sheep and cattle grazing was the main
industry; all the young folks tended flocks.

The situation was beautiful. From one edge of
the village a flowery plain extended in a wide sweep
to the river—the Meuse; from the rear edge of the
village a grassy slope rose gradually, and at the top
was the great oak forest—a forest that was deep
and gloomy and dense, and full of interest for us
children, for many murders had been done in it by
outlaws in old times, and in still earlier times
prodigious dragons that spouted fire and poisonous
vapors from their nostrils had their homes in there.
In fact, one was still living in there in our own time.
It was as long as a tree, and had a body as big

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around as a tierce, and scales like overlapping great
tiles, and deep ruby eyes as large as a cavalier's hat,
and an anchor-fluke on its tail as big as I don't
know what, but very big, even unusually so for a
dragon, as everybody said who knew about dragons.
It was thought that this dragon was of a brilliant
blue color, with gold mottlings, but no one had ever
seen it, therefore this was not known to be so, it was
only an opinion. It was not my opinion; I think
there is no sense in forming an opinion when there
is no evidence to form it on. If you build a person
without any bones in him he may look fair enough
to the eye, but he will be limber and cannot stand
up; and I consider that evidence is the bones of an
opinion. But I will take up this matter more at
large at another time, and try to make the justness
of my position appear. As to that dragon, I always
held the belief that its color was gold and without
blue, for that has always been the color of dragons.
That this dragon lay but a little way within the wood
at one time is shown by the fact that Pierre Morel
was in there one day and smelt it, and recognized it
by the smell. It gives one a horrid idea of how
near to us the deadliest danger can be and we not
suspect it.

In the earliest times a hundred knights from many
remote places in the earth would have gone in there
one after another, to kill the dragon and get the
reward, but in our time that method had gone out,
and the priest had become the one that abolished

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dragons. Père Guillaume Fronte did it in this case.
He had a procession, with candles and incense and
banners, and marched around the edge of the wood
and exorcised the dragon, and it was never heard of
again, although it was the opinion of many that the
smell never wholly passed away. Not that any had
ever smelt the smell again, for none had; it was
only an opinion, like that other—and lacked bones,
you see. I know that the creature was there before
the exorcism, but whether it was there afterward or
not is a thing which I cannot be so positive about.

In a noble open space carpeted with grass on the
high ground toward Vaucouleurs stood a most
majestic beech-tree with wide-reaching arms and a
grand spread of shade, and by it a limpid spring of
cold water; and on summer days the children went
there—oh, every summer for more than five hun-
dred years—went there and sang and danced around
the tree for hours together, refreshing themselves at
the spring from time to time, and it was most lovely
and enjoyable. Also they made wreaths of flowers
and hung them upon the tree and about the spring
to please the fairies that lived there; for they liked
that, being idle innocent little creatures, as all fairies
are, and fond of anything delicate and pretty like
wild flowers put together in that way. And in re-
turn for this attention the fairies did any friendly
thing they could for the children, such as keeping
the spring always full and clear and cold, and
driving away serpents and insects that sting; and so

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there was never any unkindness between the fairies
and the children during more than five hundred
years—tradition said a thousand—but only the
warmest affection and the most perfect trust and
confidence; and whenever a child died the fairies
mourned just as that child's playmates did, and the
sign of it was there to see; for before the dawn on
the day of the funeral they hung a little immortelle
over the place where that child was used to sit under
the tree. I know this to be true by my own eyes;
it is not hearsay. And the reason it was known
that the fairies did it was this—that it was made all
of black flowers of a sort not known in France any-
where.

Now from time immemorial all children reared in
Domremy were called the Children of the Tree; and
they loved that name, for it carried with it a mystic
privilege not granted to any others of the children
of this world. Which was this: whenever one of
these came to die, then beyond the vague and form-
less images drifting through his darkening mind rose
soft and rich and fair a vision of the Tree—if all
was well with his soul. That was what some said.
Others said the vision came in two ways: once as a
warning, one or two years in advance of death,
when the soul was the captive of sin, and then the
Tree appeared in its desolate winter aspect—then
that soul was smitten with an awful fear. If repent-
ance came, and purity of life, the vision came again,
this time summer-clad and beautiful; but if it were

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otherwise with that soul the vision was withheld,
and it passed from life knowing its doom. Still
others said that the vision came but once, and then
only to the sinless dying forlorn in distant lands and
pitifully longing for some last dear reminder of their
home. And what reminder of it could go to their
hearts like the picture of the Tree that was the dar-
ling of their love and the comrade of their joys and
comforter of their small griefs all through the divine
days of their vanished youth?

Now the several traditions were as I have said,
some believing one and some another. One of them
I knew to be the truth, and that was the last one. I
do not say anything against the others; I think they
were true, but I only know that the last one was;
and it is my thought that if one keep to the things
he knows, and not trouble about the things which
he cannot be sure about, he will have the steadier
mind for it—and there is profit in that. I know
that when the Children of the Tree die in a far land,
then—if they be at peace with God—they turn
their longing eyes toward home, and there, far-
shining, as through a rift in a cloud that curtains
heaven, they see the soft picture of the Fairy Tree,
clothed in a dream of golden light; and they see the
bloomy mead sloping away to the river, and to their
perishing nostrils is blown faint and sweet the
fragrance of the flowers of home. And then the
vision fades and passes—but they know, they know!
and by their transfigured faces you know also, you

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who stand looking on; yes, you know the message
that has come, and that it has come from heaven.

Joan and I believed alike about this matter. But
Pierre Morel, and Jacques d'Arc, and many others
believed that the vision appeared twice—to a sinner.
In fact, they and many others said they knew it.
Probably because their fathers had known it and had
told them; for one gets most things at second-hand
in this world.

Now one thing that does make it quite likely that
there were really two apparitions of the Tree is this
fact: From the most ancient times if one saw a vil-
lager of ours with his face ash-white and rigid with a
ghastly fright, it was common for every one to
whisper to his neighbor, "Ah, he is in sin, and has
got his warning." And the neighbor would shudder
at the thought and whisper back, "Yes, poor soul,
he has seen the Tree."

Such evidences as these have their weight; they
are not to be put aside with a wave of the hand. A
thing that is backed by the cumulative experience of
centuries naturally gets nearer and nearer to being
proof all the time; and if this continue and con-
tinue, it will some day become authority—and
authority is a bedded rock, and will abide.

In my long life I have seen several cases where
the Tree appeared announcing a death which was
still far away; but in none of these was the person
in a state of sin. No; the apparition was in these
cases only a special grace; in place of deferring the

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tidings of that soul's redemption till the day of
death, the apparition brought them long before, and
with them peace—peace that might no more be
disturbed—the eternal peace of God. I myself,
old and broken, wait with serenity; for I have seen
the vision of the Tree. I have seen it, and am
content.

Always, from the remotest times, when the chil-
dren joined hands and danced around the Fairy Tree
they sang a song which was the Tree's song, the
song of L'Arbre Fée de Bourlemont. They sang it
to a quaint sweet air—a solacing sweet air which
has gone murmuring through my dreaming spirit all
my life when I was weary and troubled, resting me
and carrying me through night and distance home
again. No stranger can know or feel what that song
has been, through the drifting centuries, to exiled
Children of the Tree, homeless and heavy of heart
in countries foreign to their speech and ways. You
will think it a simple thing, that song, and poor,
perchance; but if you will remember what it was to
us, and what it brought before our eyes when it
floated through our memories, then you will respect
it. And you will understand how the water wells
up in our eyes and makes all things dim, and our
voices break and we cannot sing the last lines:
"And when, in exile wand'ring, weShall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee,Oh, rise upon our sight!"

And you will remember that Joan of Arc sang this

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song with us around the Tree when she was a little
child, and always loved it. And that hallows it,
yes, you will grant that:

L'ARBRE FÉE DE BOURLEMONT
song of the childrenNow what has kept your leaves so green,Arbre Fée de Bourlemont?The children's tears! They brought each grief,And you did comfort them and cheerTheir bruisèd hearts, and steal a tearThat, healèd, rose a leaf.And what has built you up so strong,Arbre Fée de Bourlemont?The children's love! They've loved you long:Ten hundred years, in sooth,They've nourished you with praise and song,And warmed your heart and kept it young—A thousand years of youth!Bide always green in our young hearts,Arbre Fée de Bourlemont!And we shall always youthful be,Not heeding Time his flight;And when, in exile wand'ring, weShall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee,Oh, rise upon our sight!

The fairies were still there when we were children,
but we never saw them; because, a hundred years
before that, the priest of Domremy had held a
religious function under the tree and denounced
them as being blood kin of the Fiend and barred
out from redemption; and then he warned them
never to show themselves again, nor hang any more

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immortelles, on pain of perpetual banishment from
that parish.

All the children pleaded for the fairies, and said
they were their good friends and dear to them and
never did them any harm, but the priest would not
listen, and said it was sin and shame to have such
friends. The children mourned and could not be
comforted; and they made an agreement among
themselves that they would always continue to hang
flower-wreaths on the tree as a perpetual sign to the
fairies that they were still loved and remembered,
though lost to sight.

But late one night a great misfortune befell.
Edmond Aubrey's mother passed by the Tree, and
the fairies were stealing a dance, not thinking any-
body was by; and they were so busy, and so intoxi-
cated with the wild happiness of it, and with the
bumpers of dew sharpened up with honey which
they had been drinking, that they noticed nothing;
so Dame Aubrey stood there astonished and admir-
ing, and saw the little fantastic atoms holding hands,
as many as three hundred of them, tearing around
in a great ring half as big as an ordinary bedroom,
and leaning away back and spreading their mouths
with laughter and song, which she could hear quite
distinctly, and kicking their legs up as much as three
inches from the ground in perfect abandon and
hilarity—oh, the very maddest and witchingest
dance the woman ever saw.

But in about a minute or two minutes the poor

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little ruined creatures discovered her. They burst
out in one heart-breaking squeak of grief and terror
and fled every which way, with their wee hazel-nut
fists in their eyes and crying; and so disappeared.

The heartless woman—no, the foolish woman;
she was not heartless, but only thoughtless—went
straight home and told the neighbors all about it,
whilst we, the small friends of the fairies, were asleep
and not witting the calamity that was come upon us,
and all unconscious that we ought to be up and
trying to stop these fatal tongues. In the morning
everybody knew, and the disaster was complete, for
where everybody knows a thing the priest knows it,
of course. We all flocked to Père Fronte, crying
and begging—and he had to cry, too, seeing our
sorrow, for he had a most kind and gentle nature;
and he did not want to banish the fairies, and said
so; but said he had no choice, for it had been
decreed that if they ever revealed themselves to man
again, they must go. This all happened at the worst
time possible, for Joan of Arc was ill of a fever and
out of her head, and what could we do who had not
her gifts of reasoning and persuasion? We flew in
a swarm to her bed and cried out, "Joan, wake!
Wake, there is no moment to lose! Come and
plead for the fairies—come and save them; only
you can do it."

But her mind was wandering, she did not know
what we said nor what we meant; so we went
away knowing all was lost. Yes, all was lost, forever

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lost; the faithful friends of the children for five
hundred years must go, and never come back any
more.

It was a bitter day for us, that day that Père
Fronte held the function under the tree and ban-
ished the fairies. We could not wear mourning that
any could have noticed, it would not have been
allowed; so we had to be content with some poor
small rag of black tied upon our garments where it
made no show; but in our hearts we wore mourning,
big and noble and occupying all the room, for our
hearts were ours; they could not get at them to
prevent that.

The great tree—l'Arbre Fée de Bourlemont was
its beautiful name—was never afterward quite as
much to us as it had been before, but it was always
dear; is dear to me yet when I go there now, once
a year in my old age, to sit under it and bring back
the lost playmates of my youth and group them
about me and look upon their faces through my
tears and break my heart, oh, my God! No, the
place was not quite the same afterward. In one or
two ways it could not be; for, the fairies' protection
being gone, the spring lost much of its freshness and
coldness, and more than two-thirds of its volume,
and the banished serpents and stinging insects re-
turned, and multiplied, and became a torment and
have remained so to this day.

When that wise little child, Joan, got well, we
realized how much her illness had cost us; for we

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found that we had been right in believing she could
save the fairies. She burst into a great storm of
anger, for so little a creature, and went straight to
Père Fronte, and stood up before him where he sat,
and made reverence and said:

"The fairies were to go if they showed themselves
to people again, is it not so?"

"Yes, that was it, dear."

"If a man comes prying into a person's room at
midnight when that person is half naked, will you
be so unjust as to say that that person is showing
himself to that man?"

"Well—no." The good priest looked a little
troubled and uneasy when he said it.

"Is a sin a sin, anyway, even if one did not in-
tend to commit it?"

Père Fronte threw up his hands and cried out:

"Oh, my poor little child, I see all my fault,"
and he drew her to his side and put his arm around
her and tried to make his peace with her, but her
temper was up so high that she could not get it
down right away, but buried her head against his
breast and broke out crying and said:

"Then the fairies committed no sin, for there
was no intention to commit one, they not knowing
that any one was by; and because they were little
creatures and could not speak for themselves and
say the law was against the intention, not against
the innocent act, and because they had no friend to
think that simple thing for them and say it, they

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have been sent away from their home forever, and
it was wrong, wrong to do it!"

The good father hugged her yet closer to his side
and said:

"Oh, out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
the heedless and unthinking are condemned; would
God I could bring the little creatures back, for your
sake. And mine, yes, and mine; for I have been
unjust. There, there, don't cry—nobody could be
sorrier than your poor old friend—don't cry, dear."

"But I can't stop right away, I've got to. And
it is no little matter, this thing that you have done.
Is being sorry penance enough for such an act?"

Père Fronte turned away his face, for it would
have hurt her to see him laugh, and said:

"Oh, thou remorseless but most just accuser, no,
it is not. I will put on sackcloth and ashes; there
—are you satisfied?"

Joan's sobs began to diminish, and she presently
looked up at the old man through her tears, and
said, in her simple way:

"Yes, that will do—if it will clear you."

Père Fronte would have been moved to laugh
again, perhaps, if he had not remembered in time
that he had made a contract, and not a very agree-
able one. It must be fulfilled. So he got up and
went to the fireplace, Joan watching him with deep
interest, and took a shovelful of cold ashes, and was
going to empty them on his old gray head when a
better idea came to him, and he said:

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"Would you mind helping me, dear?"

"How, father?"

He got down on his knees and bent his head low,
and said:

"Take the ashes and put them on my head for
me."

The matter ended there, of course. The victory
was with the priest. One can imagine how the idea
of such a profanation would strike Joan or any other
child in the village. She ran and dropped upon her
knees by his side and said:

"Oh, it is dreadful. I didn't know that that was
what one meant by sackcloth and ashes—do please
get up, father."

"But I can't until I am forgiven. Do you for-
give me?"

"I? Oh, you have done nothing to me, father;
it is yourself that must forgive yourself for wronging
those poor things. Please get up, father, won't
you?"

"But I am worse off now than I was before. I
thought I was earning your forgiveness, but if it is
my own, I can't be lenient; it would not become
me. Now what can I do? Find me some way out
of this with your wise little head."

The Père would not stir, for all Joan's pleadings.
She was about to cry again; then she had an idea,
and seized the shovel and deluged her own head
with the ashes, stammering out through her chokings
and suffocations:

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"There—now it is done. Oh, please get up,
father."

The old man, both touched and amused, gathered
her to his breast and said:

"Oh, you incomparable child! It's a humble
martyrdom, and not of a sort presentable in a pic-
ture, but the right and true spirit is in it; that I
testify."

Then he brushed the ashes out of her hair, and
helped her scour her face and neck and properly
tidy herself up. He was in fine spirits now, and
ready for further argument, so he took his seat and
drew Joan to his side again, and said:

"Joan, you were used to make wreaths there at
the Fairy Tree with the other children; is it not so?"

That was the way he always started out when he
was going to corner me up and catch me in some-
thing—just that gentle, indifferent way that fools a
person so, and leads him into the trap, he never
noticing which way he is traveling until he is in and
the door shut on him. He enjoyed that. I knew
he was going to drop corn along in front of Joan
now. Joan answered:

"Yes, father."

"Did you hang them on the tree?"

"No, father."

"Didn't hang them there?"

"No."

"Why didn't you?"

"I—well, I didn't wish to."

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"Didn't wish to?"

"No, father."

"What did you do with them?"

"I hung them in the church."

"Why didn't you want to hang them in the tree?"

"Because it was said that the fairies were of kin
to the Fiend, and that it was sinful to show them
honor."

"Did you believe it was wrong to honor them
so?"

"Yes. I thought it must be wrong."

"Then if it was wrong to honor them in that
way, and if they were of kin to the Fiend, they
could be dangerous company for you and the other
children, couldn't they?"

"I suppose so—yes, I think so."

He studied a minute, and I judged he was going
to spring his trap, and he did. He said:

"Then the matter stands like this. They were
banned creatures, of fearful origin; they could be
dangerous company for the children. Now give me
a rational reason, dear, if you can think of any,
why you call it a wrong to drive them into banish-
ment, and why you would have saved them from it.
In a word, what loss have you suffered by it?"

How stupid of him to go and throw his case away
like that! I could have boxed his ears for vexation
if he had been a boy. He was going along all right
until he ruined everything by winding up in that
foolish and fatal way. What had she lost by it!

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Was he never going to find out what kind of a child
Joan of Arc was? Was he never going to learn that
things which merely concerned her own gain or loss
she cared nothing about? Could he never get the
simple fact into his head that the sure way and the
only way to rouse her up and set her on fire was to
show her where some other person was going to
suffer wrong or hurt or loss? Why, he had gone
and set a trap for himself—that was all he had ac-
complished.

The minute those words were out of his mouth
her temper was up, the indignant tears rose in her
eyes, and she burst out on him with an energy and
passion which astonished him, but didn't astonish
me, for I knew he had fired a mine when he touched
off his ill-chosen climax.

"Oh, father, how can you talk like that? Who
owns France?"

"God and the King."

"Not Satan?"

"Satan, my child? This is the footstool of the
Most High—Satan owns no handful of its soil."

"Then who gave those poor creatures their
home? God. Who protected them in it all those
centuries? God. Who allowed them to dance and
play there all those centuries and found no fault
with it? God. Who disapproved of God's ap-
proval and put a threat upon them? A man. Who
caught them again in harmless sports that God
allowed and a man forbade, and carried out that

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threat, and drove the poor things away from the
home the good God gave them in His mercy and
His pity, and sent down His rain and dew and
sunshine upon it five hundred years in token of His
peace? It was their home—theirs, by the grace of
God and His good heart, and no man had a right to
rob them of it. And they were the gentlest, truest
friends chat children ever had, and did them sweet
and loving service all these five long centuries, and
never any hurt or harm; and the children loved
them, and now they mourn for them, and there is
no healing for their grief. And what had the chil-
dren done that they should suffer this cruel stroke?
The poor fairies could have been dangerous com-
pany for the children? Yes, but never had been;
and could is no argument. Kinsmen of the Fiend?
What of it? Kinsmen of the Fiend have rights, and
these had; and children have rights, and these had;
and if I had been here I would have spoken—I
would have begged for the children and the fiends,
and stayed your hand and saved them all. But
now—oh, now, all is lost; everything is lost, and
there is no help more!"

Then she finished with a blast at that idea that
fairy kinsmen of the Fiend ought to be shunned and
denied human sympathy and friendship because
salvation was barred against them. She said that
for that very reason people ought to pity them, and
do every humane and loving thing they could to
make them forget the hard fate that had been put

---

upon them by accident of birth and no fault of their
own. "Poor little creatures!" she said. "What
can a person's heart be made of that can pity a
Christian's child and yet can't pity a devil's child,
that a thousand times more needs it!"

She had torn loose from Père Fronte, and was
crying, with her knuckles in her eyes, and stamping
her small feet in a fury; and now she burst out of
the place and was gone before we could gather our
senses together out of this storm of words and this
whirlwind of passion.

The Père had got upon his feet, toward the last,
and now he stood there passing his hand back and
forth across his forehead like a person who is dazed
and troubled; then he turned and wandered toward
the door of his little work-room, and as he passed
through it I heard him murmur sorrowfully:

"Ah, me, poor children, poor fiends, they have
rights, and she said true—I never thought of that.
God forgive me, I am to blame."

When I heard that, I knew I was right in the
thought that he had set a trap for himself. It was
so, and he had walked into it, you see. I seemed
to feel encouraged, and wondered if mayhap I might
get him into one; but upon reflection my heart went
down, for this was not my gift.

---

CHAPTER III.

Speaking of this matter reminds me of many
incidents, many things that I could tell, but I
think I will not try to do it now. It will be more to
my present humor to call back a little glimpse of the
simple and colorless good times we used to have in
our village homes in those peaceful days—especially
in the winter. In the summer we children were out
on the breezy uplands with the flocks from dawn till
night, and then there was noisy frolicking and all
that; but winter was the cosy time, winter was the
snug time. Often we gathered in old Jacques
d'Arc's big dirt-floored apartment, with a great fire
going, and played games, and sang songs, and told
fortunes, and listened to the old villagers tell tales
and histories and lies and one thing and another till
twelve o'clock at night.

One winter's night we were gathered there—it
was the winter that for years afterward they called
the hard winter—and that particular night was a
sharp one. It blew a gale outside, and the scream-
ing of the wind was a stirring sound, and I think I
may say it was beautiful, for I think it is great and

---

fine and beautiful to hear the wind rage and storm
and blow its clarions like that, when you are inside
and comfortable. And we were. We had a roar-
ing fire, and the pleasant spit-spit of the snow and
sleet falling in it down the chimney, and the yarn-
ing and laughing and singing went on at a noble
rate till about ten o'clock, and then we had a supper
of hot porridge and beans, and meal cakes with
butter, and appetites to match.

Little Joan sat on a box apart, and had her bowl
and bread on another one, and her pets around her
helping. She had more than was usual of them or
economical, because all the outcast cats came and
took up with her, and homeless or unlovable animals
of other kinds heard about it and came, and these
spread the matter to the other creatures, and they
came also; and as the birds and the other timid
wild things of the woods were not afraid of her, but
always had an idea she was a friend when they came
across her, and generally struck up an acquaintance
with her to get invited to the house, she always had
samples of those breeds in stock. She was hospitable
to them all, for an animal was an animal to her, and
dear by mere reason of being an animal, no matter
about its sort or social station; and as she would
allow of no cages, no collars, no fetters, but left the
creatures free to come and go as they liked, that
contented them, and they came; but they didn't go,
to any extent, and so they were a marvelous
nuisance, and made Jacques d'Arc swear a good

---

deal; but his wife said God gave the child the in-
stinct, and knew what He was doing when He did
it, therefore it must have its course; it would be no
sound prudence to meddle with His affairs when no
invitation had been extended. So the pets were left
in peace, and here they were, as I have said, rab-
bits, birds, squirrels, cats, and other reptiles, all
around the child, and full of interest in her supper,
and helping what they could. There was a very
small squirrel on her shoulder, sitting up, as those
creatures do, and turning a rocky fragment of pre-
historic chestnut-cake over and over in its knotty
hands, and hunting for the less indurated places,
and giving its elevated bushy tail a flirt and its
pointed ears a toss when it found one—signifying
thankfulness and surprise—and then it filed that
place off with those two slender front teeth which a
squirrel carries for that purpose and not for orna-
ment, for ornamental they never could be, as any
will admit that have noticed them.

Everything was going fine and breezy and hilari-
ous, but then there came an interruption, for some-
body hammered on the door. It was one of those
ragged road-stragglers—the eternal wars kept the
country full of them. He came in, all over snow,
and stamped his feet, and shook, and brushed him-
self, and shut the door, and took off his limp ruin
of a hat, and slapped it once or twice against his leg
to knock off its fleece of snow, and then glanced
around on the company with a pleased look upon

---

his thin face, and a most yearning and famished one
in his eye when it fell upon the victuals, and then
he gave us a humble and conciliatory salutation, and
said it was a blessed thing to have a fire like that on
such a night, and a roof overhead like this, and that
rich food to eat, and loving friends to talk with—
ah, yes, this was true, and God help the homeless,
and such as must trudge the roads in this weather.

Nobody said anything. The embarrassed poor
creature stood there and appealed to one face after
the other with his eyes, and found no welcome in
any, the smile on his own face flickering and fading
and perishing, meanwhile; then he dropped his
gaze, the muscles of his face began to twitch, and
he put up his hand to cover this womanish sign
of weakness.

"Sit down!"

This thunder-blast was from old Jacques d'Arc,
and Joan was the object of it. The stranger was
startled, and took his hand away, and there was
Joan standing before him offering him her bowl of
porridge. The man said:

"God Almighty bless you, my darling!" and
then the tears came, and ran down his cheeks, but
he was afraid to take the bowl.

"Do you hear me? Sit down, I say!"

There could not be a child more easy to persuade
than Joan, but this was not the way. Her father
had not the art; neither could he learn it. Joan
said:

---

"Father, he is hungry; I can see it."

"Let him go work for food, then. We are being
eaten out of house and home by his like, and I have
said I would endure it no more, and will keep my
word. He has the face of a rascal anyhow, and a
villain. Sit down, I tell you!"

"I know not if he is a rascal or no, but he is
hungry, father, and shall have my porridge—I do
not need it."

"If you don't obey me I'll— Rascals are not
entitled to help from honest people, and no bite nor
sup shall they have in this house. Joan!"

She set her bowl down on the box and came over
and stood before her scowling father, and said:

"Father, if you will not let me, then it must be
as you say; but I would that you would think—
then you would see that it is not right to punish one
part of him for what the other part has done; for it
is that poor stranger's head that does the evil
things, but it is not his head that is hungry, it is
his stomach, and it has done no harm to anybody,
but is without blame, and innocent, not having any
way to do a wrong, even if it was minded to it.
Please let—"

"What an idea! It is the most idiotic speech I
ever heard."

But Aubrey, the maire, broke in, he being fond
of an argument, and having a pretty gift in that re-
gard, as all acknowledged. Rising in his place and
leaning his knuckles upon the table and looking

---

about him with easy dignity, after the manner of
such as be orators, he began, smooth and persuasive:

"I will differ with you there, gossip, and will
undertake to show the company"—here he looked
around upon us and nodded his head in a confident
way—"that there is a grain of sense in what the
child has said; for look you, it is of a certainty
most true and demonstrable that it is a man's head
that is master and supreme ruler over his whole
body. Is that granted? Will any deny it?" He
glanced around again; everybody indicated assent.
"Very well, then; that being the case, no part of
the body is responsible for the result when it carries
out an order delivered to it by the head; ergo, the
head is alone responsible for crimes done by a man's
hands or feet or stomach—do you get the idea?
am I right thus far?" Everybody said yes, and said
it with enthusiasm, and some said, one to another,
that the maire was in great form to-night and at his
very best—which pleased the maire exceedingly and
made his eyes sparkle with pleasure, for he over-
heard these things; so he went on in the same fertile
and brilliant way. "Now, then, we will consider
what the term responsibility means, and how it
affects the case in point. Responsibility makes a
man responsible for only those things for which he
is properly responsible"—and he waved his spoon
around in a wide sweep to indicate the comprehen-
sive nature of that class of responsibilities which
render people responsible, and several exclaimed,

---

admiringly, "He is right!—he has put that whole
tangled thing into a nutshell—it is wonderful!"
After a little pause to give the interest opportunity
to gather and grow, he went on: "Very good. Let
us suppose the case of a pair of tongs that falls
upon a man's foot, causing a cruel hurt. Will you
claim that the tongs are punishable for that? The
question is answered; I see by your faces that you
would call such a claim absurd. Now, why is it
absurd? It is absurd because, there being no
reasoning faculty—that is to say, no faculty of
personal command—in a pair of tongs, personal
responsibility for the acts of the tongs is wholly ab-
sent from the tongs; and, therefore, responsibility
being absent, punishment cannot ensue. Am I
right?" A hearty burst of applause was his answer.
"Now, then, we arrive at a man's stomach. Con-
sider how exactly, how marvelously, indeed, its
situation corresponds to that of a pair of tongs.
Listen—and take careful note, I beg you. Can a
man's stomach plan a murder? No. Can it plan a
theft? No. Can it plan an incendiary fire? No.
Now answer me—can a pair of tongs?" (There
were admiring shouts of "No!" and "The cases
are just exact!" and "Don't he do it splendid!")
"Now, then, friends and neighbors, a stomach
which cannot plan a crime cannot be a principal in
the commission of it—that is plain, as you see.
The matter is narrowed down by that much; we will
narrow it further. Can a stomach, of its own mo-

---

tion, assist at a crime? The answer is no, because
command is absent, the reasoning faculty is absent,
volition is absent—as in the case of the tongs. We
perceive now, do we not, that the stomach is totally
irresponsible for crimes committed, either in whole
or in part, by it?" He got a rousing cheer for re-
sponse. "Then what do we arrive at as our verdict?
Clearly this: that there is no such thing in this
world as a guilty stomach; that in the body of the
veriest rascal resides a pure and innocent stomach;
that, whatever its owner may do, it at least should
be sacred in our eyes; and that while God gives us
minds to think just and charitable and honorable
thoughts, it should be, and is, our privilege, as well
as our duty, not only to feed the hungry stomach
that resides in a rascal, having pity for its sorrow
and its need, but to do it gladly, gratefully, in
recognition of its sturdy and loyal maintenance of
its purity and innocence in the midst of temptation
and in company so repugnant to its better feelings.
I am done."

Well, you never saw such an effect! They rose
—the whole house rose—and clapped, and cheered,
and praised him to the skies; and one after another,
still clapping and shouting, they crowded forward,
some with moisture in their eyes, and wrung his
hands, and said such glorious things to him that he
was clear overcome with pride and happiness, and
couldn't say a word, for his voice would have
broken, sure. It was splendid to see; and every-

---

body said he had never come up to that speech in
his life before, and never could do it again. Elo-
quence is a power, there is no question of that.
Even old Jacques d'Arc was carried away, for once
in his life, and shouted out:

"It's all right, Joan—give him the porridge!"

She was embarrassed, and did not seem to know
what to say, and so didn't say anything. It was
because she had given the man the porridge long
ago, and he had already eaten it all up. When she
was asked why she had not waited until a decision
was arrived at, she said the man's stomach was very
hungry, and it would not have been wise to wait,
since she could not tell what the decision would be.
Now that was a good and thoughtful idea for a child.

The man was not a rascal at all. He was a very
good fellow, only he was out of luck, and surely
that was no crime at that time in France. Now that
his stomach was proved to be innocent, it was
allowed to make itself at home; and as soon as it
was well filled and needed nothing more, the man
unwound his tongue and turned it loose, and it was
really a noble one to go. He had been in the wars
for years, and the things he told and the way he
told them fired everybody's patriotism away up
high, and set all hearts to thumping and all pulses
to leaping; then, before anybody rightly knew how
the change was made, he was leading us a sublime
march through the ancient glories of France, and in
fancy we saw the titanic forms of the twelve paladins

---

rise out of the mists of the past and face their fate;
we heard the tread of the innumerable hosts sweep-
ing down to shut them in; we saw this human tide
flow and ebb, ebb and flow, and waste away before
that little band of heroes; we saw each detail pass
before us of that most stupendous, most disastrous,
yet most adored and glorious day in French legend-
ary history; here and there and yonder, across that
vast field of the dead and dying, we saw this and
that and the other paladin dealing his prodigious
blows with weary arm and failing strength, and one
by one we saw them fall, till only one remained—
he that was without peer, he whose name gives name
to the Song of Songs, the song which no Frenchman
can hear and keep his feelings down and his pride of
country cool; then, grandest and pitifulest scene
of all, we saw his own pathetic death; and our still-
ness, as we sat with parted lips and breathless, hang-
ing upon this man's words, gave us a sense of the
awful stillness that reigned in that field of slaughter
when that last surviving soul had passed.

And now, in this solemn hush, the stranger gave
Joan a pat or two on the head and said:

"Little maid—whom God keep!—you have
brought me from death to life this night; now
listen: here is your reward," and at that supreme
time for such a heart-melting, soul-rousing surprise,
without another word he lifted up the most noble
and pathetic voice that was ever heard, and began
to pour out the great Song of Roland!

---

Think of that, with a French audience all stirred
up and ready. Oh, where was your spoken elo-
quence now! what was it to this! How fine he
looked, how stately, how inspired, as he stood there
with that mighty chant welling from his lips and his
heart, his whole body transfigured, and his rags
along with it.

Everybody rose and stood while he sang, and
their faces glowed and their eyes burned; and the
tears came and flowed down their cheeks, and their
forms began to sway unconsciously to the swing of
the song, and their bosoms to heave and pant; and
moanings broke out, and deep ejaculations; and
when the last verse was reached, and Roland lay
dying, all alone, with his face to the field and to his
slain, lying there in heaps and winrows, and took off
and held up his gauntlet to God with his failing
hand, and breathed his beautiful prayer with his
paling lips, all burst out in sobs and wailings. But
when the final great note died out and the song was
done, they all flung themselves in a body at the
singer, stark mad with love of him and love of
France and pride in her great deeds and old renown,
and smothered him with their embracings; but Joan
was there first, hugged close to his breast, and
covering his face with idolatrous kisses.

The storm raged on outside, but that was no
matter; this was the stranger's home now, for as
long as he might please.

---

CHAPTER IV.

All children have nicknames, and we had ours.
We got one apiece early, and they stuck to
us; but Joan was richer in this matter, for, as time
went on, she earned a second, and then a third, and
so on, and we gave them to her. First and last she
had as many as half a dozen. Several of these she
never lost. Peasant girls are bashful naturally; but
she surpassed the rule so far, and colored so easily,
and was so easily embarrassed in the presence of
strangers, that we nicknamed her the Bashful. We
were all patriots, but she was called the Patriot, be-
cause our warmest feeling for our country was cold
beside hers. Also she was called the Beautiful; and
this was not merely because of the extraordinary
beauty of her face and form, but because of the
loveliness of her character. These names she kept,
and one other—the Brave.

We grew along up, in that plodding and peaceful
region, and got to be good-sized boys and girls—
big enough, in fact, to begin to know as much about
the wars raging perpetually to the west and north of
us as our elders, and also to feel as stirred up over

---

the occasional news from those red fields as they
did. I remember certain of these days very clearly.
One Tuesday a crowd of us were romping and sing-
ing around the Fairy Tree, and hanging garlands on
it in memory of our lost little fairy friends, when
Little Mengette cried out:

"Look! What is that?"

When one exclaims like that, in a way that shows
astonishment and apprehension, he gets attention.
All the panting breasts and flushed faces flocked
together, and all the eager eyes were turned in one
direction—down the slope, toward the village.

"It's a black flag."

"A black flag! No—is it?"

"You can see for yourself that it is nothing else."

"It is a black flag, sure! Now, has any ever
seen the like of that before?"

"What can it mean?"

"Mean? It means something dreadful—what
else?"

"That is nothing to the point; anybody knows
that without the telling. But what?—that is the
question."

"It is a chance that he that bears it can answer
as well as any that are here, if you can contain
yourself till he come."

"He runs well. Who is it?"

Some named one, some another; but presently
all saw that it was Étienne Roze, called the Sun-
flower, because he had yellow hair and a round

---

pock-marked face. His ancestors had been Ger-
mans some centuries ago. He came straining up
the slope, now and then projecting his flag-stick
aloft and giving his black symbol of woe a wave in
the air, whilst all eyes watched him, all tongues dis-
cussed him, and every heart beat faster and faster
with impatience to know his news. At last he
sprang among us, and struck his flag-stick into the
ground, saying:

"There! Stand there and represent France while
I get my breath. She needs no other flag now."

All the giddy chatter stopped. It was as if one
had announced a death. In that chilly hush there
was no sound audible but the panting of the breath-
blown boy. When he was presently able to speak,
he said:

"Black news is come. A treaty has been made
at Troyes between France and the English and Bur-
gundians. By it France is betrayed and delivered
over, tied hand and foot, to the enemy. It is the
work of the Duke of Burgundy and that she-devil,
the Queen of France. It marries Henry of England
to Catharine of France—"

"Is not this a lie? Marries the daughter of
France to the Butcher of Agincourt? It is not to
be believed. You have not heard aright."

"If you cannot believe that, Jacques d'Arc, then
you have a difficult task indeed before you, for
worse is to come. Any child that is born of that
marriage—if even a girl—is to inherit the thrones

---

of both England and France, and this double owner-
ship is to remain with its posterity forever!"

"Now that is certainly a lie, for it runs counter
to our Salic law, and so is not legal and cannot have
effect," said Edmond Aubrey, called the Paladin,
because of the armies he was always going to eat up
some day. He would have said more, but he was
drowned out by the clamors of the others, who all
burst into a fury over this feature of the treaty, all
talking at once and nobody hearing anybody, until
presently Haumette persuaded them to be still,
saying:

"It is not fair to break him up so in his tale;
pray let him go on. You find fault with his history
because it seems to be lies. That were reason for
satisfaction—that kind of lies—not discontent.
Tell the rest, Étienne."

"There is but this to tell: Our King, Charles
VI., is to reign until he dies, then Henry V. of
England is to be Regent of France until a child of
his shall be old enough to—"

"That man is to reign over us—the Butcher? It
is lies! all lies!" cried the Paladin. "Besides, look
you—what becomes of our Dauphin? What says
the treaty about him?"

"Nothing. It takes away his throne and makes
him an outcast."

Then everybody shouted at once and said the
news was a lie; and all began to get cheerful again,
saying, "Our King would have to sign the treaty to

---

make it good; and that he would not do, seeing
how it serves his own son."

But the Sunflower said: "I will ask you this:
Would the Queen sign a treaty disinheriting her son?"

"That viper? Certainly. Nobody is talking of
her. Nobody expects better of her. There is no
villainy she will stick at, if it feed her spite; and
she hates her son. Her signing it is of no conse-
quence. The King must sign."

"I will ask you another thing. What is the
King's condition? Mad, isn't he?"

"Yes, and his people love him all the more for it.
It brings him near to them by his sufferings; and
pitying him makes them love him."

"You say right, Jacques d'Arc. Well, what would
you of one that is mad? Does he know what he
does? No. Does he do what others make him do?
Yes. Now, then, I tell you he has signed the treaty."

"Who made him do it?"

"You know, without my telling. The Queen."

Then there was another uproar—everybody talk-
ing at once, and all heaping execrations upon the
Queen's head. Finally Jacques d'Arc said:

"But many reports come that are not true.
Nothing so shameful as this has ever come before,
nothing that cuts so deep, nothing that has dragged
France so low; therefore there is hope that this tale
is but another idle rumor. Where did you get it?"

The color went out of his sister Joan's face. She
dreaded the answer; and her instinct was right.

---

"The curé of Maxey brought it."

There was a general gasp. We knew him, you
see, for a trusty man.

"Did he believe it?"

The hearts almost stopped beating. Then came
the answer:

"He did. And that is not all. He said he knew
it to be true."

Some of the girls began to sob; the boys were
struck silent. The distress in Joan's face was like
that which one sees in the face of a dumb animal
that has received a mortal hurt. The animal bears
it, making no complaint; she bore it also, saying
no word. Her brother Jacques put his hand on her
head and caressed her hair to indicate his sympathy,
and she gathered the hand to her lips and kissed it
for thanks, not saying anything. Presently the re-
action came, and the boys began to talk. Noël
Rainguesson said:

"Oh, are we never going to be men! We do
grow along so slowly, and France never needed
soldiers as she needs them now, to wipe out this
black insult."

"I hate youth!" said Pierre Morel, called the
Dragon-fly because his eyes stuck out so. "You've
always got to wait, and wait, and wait—and here
are the great wars wasting away for a hundred years,
and you never get a chance. If I could only be a
soldier now!"

"As for me, I'm not going to wait much longer,"

---

said the Paladin; "and when I do start you'll hear
from me, I promise you that. There are some who,
in storming a castle, prefer to be in the rear; but as
for me, give me the front or none; I will have none
in front of me but the officers."

Even the girls got the war spirit, and Marie
Dupont said:

"I would I were a man; I would start this
minute!" and looked very proud of herself, and
glanced about for applause.

"So would I," said Cécile Letellier, sniffing the
air like a war-horse that smells the battle; "I war-
rant you I would not turn back from the field though
all England were in front of me."

"Pooh!" said the Paladin; "girls can brag, but
that's all they are good for. Let a thousand of
them come face to face with a handful of soldiers
once, if you want to see what running is like.
Here's little Joan—next she'll be threatening to go
for a soldier!"

The idea was so funny, and got such a good
laugh, that the Paladin gave it another trial, and
said: "Why, you can just see her!—see her
plunge into battle like any old veteran. Yes, indeed;
and not a poor shabby common soldier like us, but
an officer—an officer, mind you, with armor on,
and the bars of a steel helmet to blush behind and
hide her embarrassment when she finds an army in
front of her that she hasn't been introduced to. An
officer? Why, she'll be a captain! A captain, I

---

tell you, with a hundred men at her back—or
maybe girls. Oh, no common-soldier business for
her! And, dear me, when she starts for that other
army, you'll think there's a hurricane blowing it
away!"

Well, he kept it up like that till he made their
sides ache with laughing; which was quite natural,
for certainly it was a very funny idea—at that time
—I mean, the idea of that gentle little creature, that
wouldn't hurt a fly, and couldn't bear the sight of
blood, and was so girlish and shrinking in all ways,
rushing into battle with a gang of soldiers at her
back. Poor thing, she sat there confused and
ashamed to be so laughed at; and yet at that very
minute there was something about to happen which
would change the aspect of things, and make those
young people see that when it comes to laughing,
the person that laughs last has the best chance. For
just then a face which we all knew and all feared
projected itself from behind the Fairy Tree, and the
thought that shot through us all was, crazy Benoist
has gotten loose from his cage, and we are as good
as dead! This ragged and hairy and horrible
creature glided out from behind the tree, and raised
an axe as he came. We all broke and fled, this way
and that, the girls screaming and crying. No, not
all; all but Joan. She stood up and faced the man,
and remained so. As we reached the wood that
borders the grassy clearing and jumped into its
shelter, two or three of us glanced back to see if

---

Benoist was gaining on us, and that is what we saw
—Joan standing, and the maniac gliding stealthily
toward her with his axe lifted. The sight was
sickening. We stood where we were, trembling and
not able to move. I did not want to see the murder
done, and yet I could not take my eyes away. Now
I saw Joan step forward to meet the man, though I
believed my eyes must be deceiving me. Then I
saw him stop. He threatened her with his axe, as
if to warn her not to come further, but she paid no
heed, but went steadily on, until she was right in
front of him—right under his axe. Then she
stopped, and seemed to begin to talk with him. It
made me sick, yes, giddy, and everything swam
around me, and I could not see anything for a time
—whether long or brief I do not know. When this
passed and I looked again, Joan was walking by the
man's side toward the village, holding him by his
hand. The axe was in her other hand.

One by one the boys and girls crept out, and we
stood there gazing, open-mouthed, till those two
entered the village and were hid from sight. It was
then that we named her the Brave.

We left the black flag there to continue its mourn-
ful office, for we had other matter to think of now.
We started for the village on a run, to give warning,
and get Joan out of her peril; though for one, after
seeing what I had seen, it seemed to me that while
Joan had the axe the man's chance was not the best
of the two. When we arrived the danger was past,

---

the madman was in custody. All the people were
flocking to the little square in front of the church to
talk and exclaim and wonder over the event, and it
even made the town forget the black news of the
treaty for two or three hours.

All the women kept hugging and kissing Joan,
and praising her, and crying, and the men patted
her on the head and said they wished she was a
man, they would send her to the wars and never
doubt but that she would strike some blows that
would be heard of. She had to tear herself away
and go and hide, this glory was so trying to her
diffidence.

Of course the people began to ask us for the
particulars. I was so ashamed that I made an ex-
cuse to the first comer, and got privately away and
went back to the Fairy Tree, to get relief from the
embarrassment of those questionings. There I found
Joan, but she was there to get relief from the embar-
rassment of glory. One by one the others shirked
the inquirers and joined us in our refuge. Then we
gathered around Joan, and asked her how she had
dared to do that thing. She was very modest about
it, and said:

"You make a great thing of it, but you mistake;
it was not a great matter. It was not as if I had
been a stranger to the man. I know him, and have
known him long; and he knows me, and likes me.
I have fed him through the bars of his cage many
times; and last December, when they chopped off

---

two of his fingers to remind him to stop seizing and
wounding people passing by, I dressed his hand
every day till it was well again."

"That is all well enough," said Little Mengette,
"but he is a madman, dear, and so his likings and
his gratitude and friendliness go for nothing when
his rage is up. You did a perilous thing."

"Of course you did," said the Sunflower. "Didn't
he threaten to kill you with the axe?"

"Yes."

"Didn't he threaten you more than once?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you feel afraid?"

"No—at least not much—very little."

"Why didn't you?"

She thought a moment, then said, quite simply:

"I don't know."

It made everybody laugh. Then the Sunflower
said it was like a lamb trying to think out how it had
come to eat a wolf, but had to give it up.

Cécile Letellier asked, "Why didn't you run when
we did?"

"Because it was necessary to get him to his cage;
else he would kill some one. Then he would come
to the like harm himself."

It is noticeable that this remark, which implies
that Joan was entirely forgetful of herself and her
own danger, and had thought and wrought for the
preservation of other people alone, was not chal-
lenged, or criticised, or commented upon by any-

---

body there, but was taken by all as matter of course
and true. It shows how clearly her character was
defined, and how well it was known and established.

There was silence for a time, and perhaps we were
all thinking of the same thing—namely, what a
poor figure we had cut in that adventure as con-
trasted with Joan's performance. I tried to think
up some good way of explaining why I had run
away and left a little girl at the mercy of a maniac
armed with an axe, but all of the explanations that
offered themselves to me seemed so cheap and
shabby that I gave the matter up and remained
still. But others were less wise. Noël Rainguesson
fidgeted a while, then broke out with a remark which
showed what his mind had been running on:

"The fact is, I was taken by surprise. That is
the reason. If I had had a moment to think, I
would no more have thought of running than I
would think of running from a baby. For, after
all, what is Théophile Benoist, that I should seem to
be afraid of him? Pooh! the idea of being afraid
of that poor thing! I only wish he would come
along now—I'd show you!"

"So do I!" cried Pierre Morel. "If I wouldn't
make him climb this tree quicker than—well, you'd
see what I would do! Taking a person by surprise,
that way—why, I never meant to run; not in
earnest, I mean. I never thought of running in
earnest; I only wanted to have some fun, and when
I saw Joan standing there, and him threatening her,

---

it was all I could do to restrain myself from going
there and just tearing the livers and lights out of
him. I wanted to do it bad enough, and if it was
to do over again, I would! If ever he comes fool-
ing around me again, I'll—"

"Oh, hush!" said the Paladin, breaking in with
an air of disdain; "the way you people talk, a
person would think there's something heroic about
standing up and facing down that poor remnant of
a man. Why, it's nothing! There's small glory
to be got in facing him down, I should say. Why,
I wouldn't want any better fun than to face down a
hundred like him. If he was to come along here
now, I would walk up to him just as I am now—I
wouldn't care if he had a thousand axes—and
say—"

And so he went on and on, telling the brave
things he would say and the wonders he would do;
and the others put in a word from time to time,
describing over again the gory marvels they would
do if ever that madman ventured to cross their path
again, for next time they would be ready for him,
and would soon teach him that if he thought he
could surprise them twice because he had surprised
them once, he would find himself very seriously
mistaken, that's all.

And so, in the end, they all got back their self-
respect; yes, and even added somewhat to it;
indeed, when the sitting broke up they had a finer
opinion of themselves than they had ever had before.

---

CHAPTER V.

They were peaceful and pleasant, those young
and smoothly-flowing days of ours; that is,
that was the case as a rule, we being remote from
the seat of war; but at intervals roving bands ap-
proached near enough for us to see the flush in the
sky at night which marked where they were burning
some farmstead or village, and we all knew, or at
least felt, that some day they would come yet
nearer, and we should have our turn. This dull
dread lay upon our spirits like a physical weight. It
was greatly augmented a couple of years after the
Treaty of Troyes.

It was truly a dismal year for France. One day
we had been over to have one of our occasional
pitched battles with those hated Burgundian boys of
the village of Maxey, and had been whipped, and
were arriving on our side of the river after dark,
bruised and weary, when we heard the bell ringing
the tocsin. We ran all the way, and when we got
to the square we found it crowded with the excited
villagers, and weirdly lighted by smoking and flaring
torches.

---

On the steps of the church stood a stranger, a
Burgundian priest, who was telling the people news
which made them weep, and rave, and rage, and
curse, by turns. He said our old mad King was
dead, and that now we and France and the crown
were the property of an English baby lying in his
cradle in London. And he urged us to give that
child our allegiance, and be its faithful servants and
well-wishers; and said we should now have a strong
and stable government at last, and that in a little
time the English armies would start on their last
march, and it would be a brief one, for all that it
would need to do would be to conquer what odds
and ends of our country yet remained under that
rare and almost forgotten rag, the banner of France.

The people stormed and raged at him, and you
could see dozens of them stretch their fists above
the sea of torch-lighted faces and shake them at
him; and it was all a wild picture, and stirring to
look at; and the priest was a first-rate part of it,
too, for he stood there in the strong glare and looked
down on those angry people in the blandest and
most indifferent way, so that while you wanted to
burn him at the stake, you still admired the aggra-
vating coolness of him. And his winding-up was
the coolest thing of all. For he told them how, at
the funeral of our old King, the French King-at-
Arms had broken his staff of office over the coffin
of "Charles VI. and his dynasty," at the same time
saying, in a loud voice, "God grant long life to

---

Henry, King of France and England, our sovereign
lord!" and then he asked them to join him in a
hearty Amen to that!

The people were white with wrath, and it tied
their tongues for the moment, and they could not
speak. But Joan was standing close by, and she
looked up in his face, and said in her sober, earnest
way:

"I would I might see thy head struck from thy
body!"—then, after a pause, and crossing herself
—"if it were the will of God."

This is worth remembering, and I will tell you
why: it is the only harsh speech Joan ever uttered
in her life. When I shall have revealed to you the
storms she went through, and the wrongs and perse-
cutions, then you will see that it was wonderful that
she said but one bitter thing while she lived.

From the day that that dreary news came we had
one scare after another, the marauders coming
almost to our doors every now and then; so that
we lived in ever-increasing apprehension, and yet
were somehow mercifully spared from actual attack.
But at last our turn did really come. This was in
the spring of '28. The Burgundians swarmed in
with a great noise, in the middle of a dark night,
and we had to jump up and fly for our lives. We
took the road to Neufchâteau, and rushed along in
the wildest disorder, everybody trying to get ahead,
and thus the movements of all were impeded; but
Joan had a cool head—the only cool head there—

---

and she took command and brought order out of
that chaos. She did her work quickly and with
decision and dispatch, and soon turned the panic
flight into a quite steady-going march. You will
grant that for so young a person, and a girl at that,
this was a good piece of work.

She was sixteen now, shapely and graceful, and
of a beauty so extraordinary that I might allow
myself any extravagance of language in describing
it and yet have no fear of going beyond the truth.
There was in her face a sweetness and serenity and
purity that justly reflected her spiritual nature. She
was deeply religious, and this is a thing which some-
times gives a melancholy cast to a person's counte-
nance, but it was not so in her case. Her religion
made her inwardly content and joyous; and if she
was troubled at times, and showed the pain of it in
her face and bearing, it came of distress for her
country; no part of it was chargeable to her
religion.

A considerable part of our village was destroyed,
and when it became safe for us to venture back there
we realized what other people had been suffering in
all the various quarters of France for many years—
yes, decades of years. For the first time we saw
wrecked and smoke-blackened homes, and in the
lanes and alleys carcasses of dumb creatures that had
been slaughtered in pure wantonness—among them
calves and lambs that had been pets of the children;
and it was pity to see the children lament over them.

---

And then, the taxes, the taxes! Everybody
thought of that. That burden would fall heavy now
in the commune's crippled condition, and all faces
grew long with the thought of it. Joan said:

"Paying taxes with naught to pay them with is
what the rest of France has been doing these many
years, but we never knew the bitterness of that be-
fore. We shall know it now."

And so she went on talking about it and growing
more and more troubled about it, until one could
see that it was filling all her mind.

At last we came upon a dreadful object. It was
the madman—hacked and stabbed to death in his
iron cage in the corner of the square. It was a
bloody and dreadful sight. Hardly any of us young
people had ever seen a man before who had lost his
life by violence; so this cadaver had an awful fasci-
nation for us; we could not take our eyes from it.
I mean, it had that sort of fascination for all of us
but one. That one was Joan. She turned away in
horror, and could not be persuaded to go near it
again. There—it is a striking reminder that we are
but creatures of use and custom; yes, and it is a
reminder, too, of how harshly and unfairly fate deals
with us sometimes. For it was so ordered that the
very ones among us who were most fascinated with
mutilated and bloody death were to live their lives in
peace, while that other, who had a native and deep
horror of it, must presently go forth and have it as
a familiar spectacle every day on the field of battle.

---

You may well believe that we had plenty of matter
for talk now, since the raiding of our village seemed
by long odds the greatest event that had really ever
occurred in the world; for although these dull peas-
ants may have thought they recognized the bigness
of some of the previous occurrences that had filtered
from the world's history dimly into their minds, the
truth is that they hadn't. One biting little fact,
visible to their eyes of flesh and felt in their own
personal vitals, became at once more prodigious to
them than the grandest remote episode in the world's
history which they had got at second-hand and by
hearsay. It amuses me now when I recall how our
elders talked then. They fumed and fretted in a
fine fashion.

"Ah, yes," said old Jacques d'Arc, "things are
come to a pretty pass, indeed! The King must be
informed of this. It is time that he cease from
idleness and dreaming, and get at his proper busi-
ness." He meant our young disinherited King, the
hunted refugee, Charles VII.

"You say well," said the maire. "He should
be informed, and that at once. It is an outrage that
such things should be permitted. Why, we are not
safe in our beds, and he taking his ease yonder. It
shall be made known, indeed it shall—all France
shall hear of it!"

To hear them talk, one would have imagined that
all the previous ten thousand sackings and burnings
in France had been but fables, and this one the

---

only fact. It is always the way; words will answer
as long as it is only a person's neighbor who is in
trouble, but when that person gets into trouble him-
self, it is time that the King rise up and do some-
thing.

The big event filled us young people with talk,
too. We let it flow in a steady stream while we
tended the flocks. We were beginning to feel pretty
important now, for I was eighteen and the other
youths were from one to four years older—young
men, in fact. One day the Paladin was arrogantly
criticising the patriot generals of France and said:

"Look at Dunois, Bastard of Orleans—call him
a general! Just put me in his place once—never
mind what I would do, it is not for me to say, I
have no stomach for talk, my way is to act and let
others do the talking—but just put me in his place
once, that's all! And look at Saintrailles—pooh!
and that blustering La Hire, now what a general
that is!"

It shocked everybody to hear these great names
so flippantly handled, for to us these renowned
soldiers were almost gods. In their far-off splendor
they rose upon our imaginations dim and huge,
shadowy and awful, and it was a fearful thing to
hear them spoken of as if they were mere men, and
their acts open to comment and criticism. The
color rose in Joan's face, and she said:

"I know not how any can be so hardy as to use
such words regarding these sublime men, who are

---

the very pillars of the French State, supporting it
with their strength and preserving it at daily cost of
their blood. As for me, I could count myself
honored past all deserving if I might be allowed but
the privilege of looking upon them once—at a dis-
tance, I mean, for it would not become one of my
degree to approach them too near."

The Paladin was disconcerted for a moment, see-
ing by the faces around him that Joan had put into
words what the others felt, then he pulled his com-
placency together and fell to fault-finding again.
Joan's brother Jean said:

"If you don't like what our generals do, why
don't you go to the great wars yourself and better
their work? You are always talking about going to
the wars, but you don't go."

"Look you," said the Paladin, "it is easy to say
that. Now I will tell you why I remain chafing here
in a bloodless tranquillity which my reputation
teaches you is repulsive to my nature. I do not go
because I am not a gentleman. That is the whole
reason. What can one private soldier do in a con-
test like this? Nothing. He is not permitted to
rise from the ranks. If I were a gentleman would I
remain here? Not one moment. I can save France
—ah, you may laugh, but I know what is in me, I
know what is hid under this peasant cap. I can
save France, and I stand ready to do it, but not
under these present conditions. If they want me,
let them send for me; otherwise, let them take

---

the consequences; I shall not budge but as an
officer."

"Alas, poor France—France is lost!" said
Pierre d'Arc.

"Since you sniff so at others, why don't you go
to the wars yourself, Pierre d'Arc?"

"Oh, I haven't been sent for, either. I am no
more a gentleman than you. Yet I will go; I
promise to go. I promise to go as a private under
your orders—when you are sent for."

They all laughed, and the Dragon-fly said:

"So soon? Then you need to begin to get
ready; you might be called for in five years—who
knows? Yes, in my opinion you'll march for the
wars in five years."

"He will go sooner," said Joan. She said it in
a low voice and musingly, but several heard it.

"How do you know that, Joan?" said the
Dragon-fly, with a surprised look. But Jean d'Arc
broke in and said:

"I want to go myself, but as I am rather young
yet, I also will wait, and march when the Paladin is
sent for."

"No," said Joan, "he will go with Pierre."

She said it as one who talks to himself aloud with-
out knowing it, and none heard it but me. I glanced
at her and saw that her knitting-needles were idle in
her hands, and that her face had a dreamy and
absent look in it. There were fleeting movements
of her lips as if she might be occasionally saying

---

parts of sentences to herself. But there was no
sound, for I was the nearest person to her and I
heard nothing. But I set my ears open, for those
two speeches had affected me uncannily, I being
superstitious and easily troubled by any little thing
of a strange and unusual sort.

Noël Rainguesson said:

"There is one way to let France have a chance
for her salvation. We've got one gentleman in the
commune, at any rate. Why can't the Scholar
change name and condition with the Paladin? Then
he can be an officer. France will send for him then,
and he will sweep these English and Burgundian
armies into the sea like flies."

I was the Scholar. That was my nickname, be-
cause I could read and write. There was a chorus
of approval, and the Sunflower said:

"That is the very thing—it settles every diffi-
culty. The Sieur de Conte will easily agree to that.
Yes, he will march at the back of Captain Paladin
and die early, covered with common-soldier
glory."

"He will march with Jean and Pierre, and live till
these wars are forgotten," Joan muttered; "and at
the eleventh hour Noël and the Paladin will join
these, but not of their own desire." The voice was
so low that I was not perfectly sure that these were
the words, but they seemed to be. It makes one
feel creepy to hear such things.

"Come, now," Noël continued, "it's all ar-

---

ranged; there's nothing to do but organize under
the Paladin's banner and go forth and rescue France.
You'll all join?"

All said yes, except Jacques d'Arc, who said:

"I'll ask you to excuse me. It is pleasant to
talk war, and I am with you there, and I've always
thought I should go soldiering about this time, but
the look of our wrecked village and that carved-up
and bloody madman have taught me that I am not
made for such work and such sights. I could never
be at home in that trade. Face swords and the big
guns and death? It isn't in me. No, no; count
me out. And besides, I'm the eldest son, and
deputy prop and protector of the family. Since
you are going to carry Jean and Pierre to the wars,
somebody must be left behind to take care of our
Joan and her sister. I shall stay at home, and grow
old in peace and tranquillity."

"He will stay at home, but not grow old," mur-
mured Joan.

The talk rattled on in the gay and careless fashion
privileged to youth, and we got the Paladin to map
out his campaigns and fight his battles and win his
victories and extinguish the English and put our
King upon his throne and set his crown upon his
head. Then we asked him what he was going to
answer when the King should require him to name
his reward. The Paladin had it all arranged in his
head, and brought it out promptly:

"He shall give me a dukedom, name me premier

---

peer, and make me Hereditary Lord High Constable
of France."

"And marry you to a princess—you're not
going to leave that out, are you?"

The Paladin colored a trifle, and said, brusquely:

"He may keep his princesses—I can marry more
to my taste."

Meaning Joan, though nobody suspected it at that
time. If any had, the Paladin would have been
finely ridiculed for his vanity. There was no fit
mate in that village for Joan of Arc. Every one
would have said that.

In turn, each person present was required to say
what reward he would demand of the King if he
could change places with the Paladin and do the
wonders the Paladin was going to do. The answers
were given in fun, and each of us tried to outdo his
predecessors in the extravagance of the reward he
would claim; but when it came to Joan's turn, and
they rallied her out of her dreams and asked her to
testify, they had to explain to her what the question
was, for her thought had been absent, and she had
heard none of this latter part of our talk. She sup-
posed they wanted a serious answer, and she gave
it. She sat considering some moments, then she said:

"If the Dauphin, out of his grace and nobleness,
should say to me, 'Now that I am rich and am
come to my own again, choose and have,' I should
kneel and ask him to give command that our village
should nevermore be taxed."

---

It was so simple and out of her heart that it
touched us and we did not laugh, but fell to think-
ing. We did not laugh; but there came a day when
we remembered that speech with a mournful pride,
and were glad that we had not laughed, perceiving
then how honest her words had been, and seeing
how faithfully she made them good when the time
came, asking just that boon of the King and refusing
to take even any least thing for herself.

---

CHAPTER VI.

All through her childhood and up to the middle
of her fourteenth year, Joan had been the
most light-hearted creature and the merriest in the
village, with a hop-skip-and-jump gait and a happy
and catching laugh; and this disposition, supple-
mented by her warm and sympathetic nature and
frank and winning ways, had made her everybody's
pet. She had been a hot patriot all this time, and
sometimes the war news had sobered her spirits and
wrung her heart and made her acquainted with tears,
but always when these interruptions had run their
course her spirits rose and she was her old self
again.

But now for a whole year and a half she had been
mainly grave; not melancholy, but given to thought,
abstraction, dreams. She was carrying France upon
her heart, and she found the burden not light. I
knew that this was her trouble, but others attributed
her abstraction to religious ecstasy, for she did not
share her thinkings with the village at large, yet
gave me glimpses of them, and so I knew, better
than the rest, what was absorbing her interest.

---

Many a time the idea crossed my mind that she had
a secret—a secret which she was keeping wholly to
herself, as well from me as from the others. This
idea had come to me because several times she had
cut a sentence in two and changed the subject when
apparently she was on the verge of a revelation of
some sort. I was to find this secret out, but not
just yet.

The day after the conversation which I have been
reporting we were together in the pastures and fell
to talking about France, as usual. For her sake I
had always talked hopefully before, but that was
mere lying, for really there was not anything to
hang a rag of hope for France upon. Now it was
such a pain to lie to her, and cost me such shame to
offer this treachery to one so snow-pure from lying
and treachery, and even from suspicion of such
basenesses in others, as she was, that I was resolved
to face about now and begin over again, and never
insult her more with deception. I started on the
new policy by saying—still opening up with a small
lie, of course, for habit is habit, and not to be flung
out of the window by any man, but coaxed down
stairs a step at a time:

"Joan, I have been thinking the thing all over
last night, and have concluded that we have been in
the wrong all this time; that the case of France is
desperate; that it has been desperate ever since
Agincourt; and that to-day it is more than desper-
ate, it is hopeless."

---

I did not look her in the face while I was saying
it; it could not be expected of a person. To break
her heart, to crush her hope with a so frankly brutal
speech as that, without one charitable soft place in
it—it seemed a shameful thing, and it was. But
when it was out, the weight gone, and my conscience
rising to the surface, I glanced at her face to see the
result.

There was none to see. At least none that I was
expecting. There was a barely perceptible sugges-
tion of wonder in her serious eyes, but that was all;
and she said, in her simple and placid way:

"The case of France hopeless? Why should you
think that? Tell me."

It is a most pleasant thing to find that what you
thought would inflict a hurt upon one whom you
honor, has not done it. I was relieved now, and
could say all my say without any furtivenesses and
without embarrassment. So I began:

"Let us put sentiment and patriotic illusions
aside, and look the facts in the face. What do they
say? They speak as plainly as the figures in a
merchant's account-book. One has only to add the
two columns up to see that the French house is
bankrupt, that one-half of its property is already in
the English sheriff's hands and the other half in
nobody's—except those of irresponsible raiders
and robbers confessing allegiance to nobody. Our
King is shut up with his favorites and fools in in-
glorious idleness and poverty in a narrow little patch

---

of the kingdom—a sort of back lot, as one may
say—and has no authority there or anywhere else,
hasn't a farthing to his name, nor a regiment of
soldiers; he is not fighting, he is not intending to
fight, he means to make no further resistance; in
truth, there is but one thing that he is intending to
do—give the whole thing up, pitch his crown into
the sewer, and run away to Scotland. There are
the facts. Are they correct?"

"Yes, they are correct."

"Then it is as I have said: one needs but to add
them together in order to realize what they mean."

She asked, in an ordinary, level tone:

"What—that the case of France is hopeless?"

"Necessarily. In face of these facts, doubt of it
is impossible."

"How can you say that? How can you feel like
that?"

"How can I? How could I think or feel in any
other way, in the circumstances? Joan, with these
fatal figures before you, have you really any hope
for France—really and actually?"

"Hope—oh, more than that! France will win
her freedom and keep it. Do not doubt it."

It seemed to me that her clear intellect must surely
be clouded to-day. It must be so, or she would see
that those figures could mean only the one thing.
Perhaps if I marshaled them again she would see.
So I said:

"Joan, your heart, which worships France, is

---

beguiling your head. You are not perceiving the
importance of these figures. Here—I want to
make a picture of them, here on the ground with a
stick. Now, this rough outline is France. Through
its middle, east and west, I draw a river."

"Yes; the Loire."

"Now, then, this whole northern half of the
country is in the tight grip of the English."

"Yes."

"And this whole southern half is really in
nobody's hands at all—as our King confesses by
meditating desertion and flight to a foreign land.
England has armies here; opposition is dead; she
can assume full possession whenever she may
choose. In very truth, all France is gone, France
is already lost, France has ceased to exist. What
was France is now but a British province. Is this
true?"

Her voice was low, and just touched with emo-
tion, but distinct:

"Yes, it is true."

"Very well. Now add this clinching fact, and
surely the sum is complete: When have French sol-
diers won a victory? Scotch soldiers, under the
French flag, have won a barren fight or two a few
years back, but I am speaking of French ones.
Since eight thousand Englishmen nearly annihilated
sixty thousand Frenchmen a dozen years ago at
Agincourt, French courage has been paralyzed.
And so it is a common saying to-day that if you

---

confront fifty French soldiers with five English
ones, the French will run."

"It is a pity, but even these things are true."

"Then certainly the day for hoping is past."

I believed the case would be clear to her now. I
thought it could not fail to be clear to her, and that
she would say, herself, that there was no longer any
ground for hope. But I was mistaken; and disap-
pointed also. She said, without any doubt in her tone:

"France will rise again. You shall see."

"Rise?—with this burden of English armies on
her back!"

"She will cast it off; she will trample it under
foot!" This with spirit.

"Without soldiers to fight with?"

"The drums will summon them. They will
answer, and they will march."

"March to the rear, as usual?"

"No; to the front—ever to the front—always
to the front! You shall see."

"And the pauper King?"

"He will mount his throne—he will wear his
crown."

"Well, of a truth this makes one's head dizzy.
Why, if I could believe that in thirty years from
now the English domination would be broken and
the French monarch's head find itself hooped with a
real crown of sovereignty—"

"Both will have happened before two years are
sped."

---

"Indeed? and who is going to perform all these
sublime impossibilities?"

"God."

It was a reverent low note, but it rang clear.

What could have put those strange ideas in her
head? This question kept running in my mind
during two or three days. It was inevitable that I
should think of madness. What other way was
there to account for such things? Grieving and
brooding over the woes of France had weakened
that strong mind, and filled it with fantastic phan-
toms—yes, that must be it.

But I watched her, and tested her, and it was not
so. Her eye was clear and sane, her ways were
natural, her speech direct and to the point. No,
there was nothing the matter with her mind; it was
still the soundest in the village and the best. She
went on thinking for others, planning for others,
sacrificing herself for others, just as always before.
She went on ministering to her sick and to her
poor, and still stood ready to give the wayfarer her
bed and content herself with the floor. There was
a secret somewhere, but madness was not the key to
it. This was plain.

Now the key did presently come into my hands,
and the way that it happened was this. You have
heard all the world talk of this matter which I am
about to speak of, but you have not heard an eye-
witness talk of it before.

---

I was coming from over the ridge, one day—it
was the 15th of May, '28—and when I got to the
edge of the oak forest and was about to step out of
it upon the turfy open space in which the haunted
beech-tree stood, I happened to cast a glance from
cover, first—then I took a step backward, and
stood in the shelter and concealment of the foliage.
For I had caught sight of Joan, and thought I would
devise some sort of playful surprise for her. Think
of it—that trivial conceit was neighbor, with but a
scarcely measurable interval of time between, to an
event destined to endure forever in histories and
songs.

The day was overcast, and all that grassy space
wherein the Tree stood lay in a soft rich shadow.
Joan sat on a natural seat formed by gnarled great
roots of the Tree. Her hands lay loosely, one re-
posing in the other, in her lap. Her head was bent
a little toward the ground, and her air was that of
one who is lost in thought, steeped in dreams, and
not conscious of herself or of the world. And now
I saw a most strange thing, for I saw a white
shadow come slowly gliding along the grass toward
the Tree. It was of grand proportions—a robed
form, with wings—and the whiteness of this shadow
was not like any other whiteness that we know of,
except it be the whiteness of the lightnings, but
even the lightnings are not so intense as it was, for
one can look at them without hurt, whereas this
brilliancy was so blinding that it pained my eyes and

---

brought the water into them. I uncovered my head,
perceiving that I was in the presence of something
not of this world. My breath grew faint and diffi-
cult, because of the terror and the awe that pos-
sessed me.

Another strange thing. The wood had been
silent—smitten with that deep stillness which comes
when a storm-cloud darkens a forest, and the wild
creatures lose heart and are afraid; but now all the
birds burst forth in song, and the joy, the rapture,
the ecstasy of it was beyond belief; and was so
eloquent and so moving, withal, that it was plain it
was an act of worship. With the first note of those
birds Joan cast herself upon her knees, and bent her
head low and crossed her hands upon her breast.

She had not seen the shadow yet. Had the song
of the birds told her it was coming? It had that
look to me. Then the like of this must have hap-
pened before. Yes, there might be no doubt of
that.

The shadow approached Joan slowly; the ex-
tremity of it reached her, flowed over her, clothed
her in its awful splendor. In that immortal light
her face, only humanly beautiful before, became
divine; flooded with that transforming glory her
mean peasant habit was become like to the raiment
of the sun-clothed children of God as we see them
thronging the terraces of the Throne in our dreams
and imaginings.

Presently she rose and stood, with her head still

---

bowed a little, and with her arms down and the ends
of her fingers lightly laced together in front of her;
and standing so, all drenched with that wonderful
light, and yet apparently not knowing it, she seemed
to listen—but I heard nothing. After a little she
raised her head, and looked up as one might look
up toward the face of a giant, and then clasped her
hands and lifted them high, imploringly, and began
to plead. I heard some of the words. I heard her say:

"But I am so young! oh, so young to leave my
mother and my home and go out into the strange
world to undertake a thing so great! Ah, how can
I talk with men, be comrade with men?—soldiers!
It would give me over to insult, and rude usage,
and contempt. How can I go to the great wars,
and lead armies?—I a girl, and ignorant of such
things, knowing nothing of arms, nor how to mount
a horse, nor ride it……. Yet—if it is com-
manded—"

Her voice sank a little, and was broken by sobs,
and I made out no more of her words. Then I
came to myself. I reflected that I had been in-
truding upon a mystery of God—and what might
my punishment be? I was afraid, and went deeper
into the wood. Then I carved a mark in the bark
of a tree, saying to myself, it may be that I am
dreaming and have not seen this vision at all. I will
come again, when I know that I am awake and not
dreaming, and see if this mark is still here; then I
shall know.

---

CHAPTER VII.

I heard my name called. It was Joan's voice.
It startled me, for how could she know I was
there? I said to myself, it is part of the dream; it
is all dream—voice, vision and all; the fairies have
done this. So I crossed myself and pronounced the
name of God, to break the enchantment. I knew I
was awake now and free from the spell, for no spell
can withstand this exorcism. Then I heard my name
called again, and I stepped at once from under
cover, and there indeed was Joan, but not looking
as she had looked in the dream. For she was not
crying now, but was looking as she had used to look
a year and a half before, when her heart was light
and her spirits high. Her old-time energy and fire
were back, and a something like exaltation showed
itself in her face and bearing. It was almost as if
she had been in a trance all that time and had come
awake again. Really, it was just as if she had been
away and lost, and was come back to us at last;
and I was so glad that I felt like running to call
everybody and have them flock around her and give
her welcome. I ran to her excited, and said:

"Ah, Joan, I've got such a wonderful thing to

---

tell you about! You would never imagine it. I've
had a dream, and in the dream I saw you right here
where you are standing now, and—"

But she put up her hand and said:

"It was not a dream."

It gave me a shock, and I began to feel afraid
again.

"Not a dream?" I said, "how can you know
about it, Joan?"

"Are you dreaming now?"

"I—I suppose not. I think I am not."

"Indeed you are not. I know you are not.
And you were not dreaming when you cut the mark
in the tree."

I felt myself turning cold with fright, for now I
knew of a certainty that I had not been dreaming,
but had really been in the presence of a dread some-
thing not of this world. Then I remembered that
my sinful feet were upon holy ground—the ground
where that celestial shadow had rested. I moved
quickly away, smitten to the bones with fear. Joan
followed, and said:

"Do not be afraid; indeed there is no need.
Come with me. We will sit by the spring and I will
tell you all my secret."

When she was ready to begin, I checked her and
said:

"First tell me this. You could not see me in the
wood; how did you know I cut a mark in the
tree?"

---

"Wait a little; I will soon come to that; then
you will see."

"But tell me one thing now; what was that awful
shadow that I saw?"

"I will tell you, but do not be disturbed; you
are not in danger. It was the shadow of an arch-
angel—Michael, the chief and lord of the armies
of heaven."

I could but cross myself and tremble for having
polluted that ground with my feet.

"You were not afraid, Joan? Did you see his
face—did you see his form?"

"Yes; I was not afraid, because this was not the
first time. I was afraid the first time."

"When was that, Joan?"

"It is nearly three years ago now."

"So long? Have you seen him many times?"

"Yes, many times."

"It is this, then, that has changed you; it was
this that made you thoughtful and not as you were
before. I see it now. Why did you not tell us
about it?"

"It was not permitted. It is permitted now, and
soon I shall tell all. But only you, now. It must
remain a secret a few days still."

"Has none seen that white shadow before but me?"

"No one. It has fallen upon me before when
you and others were present, but none could see it.
To-day it has been otherwise, and I was told why;
but it will not be visible again to any."

---

"It was a sign to me, then—and a sign with a
meaning of some kind?"

"Yes, but I may not speak of that."

"Strange—that that dazzling light could rest
upon an object before one's eyes and not be
visible."

"With it comes speech, also. Several saints
come, attended by myriads of angels, and they
speak to me; I hear their voices, but others do not.
They are very dear to me—my Voices; that is
what I call them to myself."

"Joan, what do they tell you?"

"All manner of things—about France, I mean."

"What things have they been used to tell you?"

She sighed, and said:

"Disasters—only disasters, and misfortunes, and
humiliations. There was naught else to foretell."

"They spoke of them to you beforehand?"

"Yes. So that I knew what was going to happen
before it happened. It made me grave—as you
saw. It could not be otherwise. But always there
was a word of hope, too. More than that: France
was to be rescued, and made great and free again.
But how and by whom—that was not told. Not
until to-day." As she said those last words a sudden
deep glow shone in her eyes, which I was to see
there many times in after-days when the bugles
sounded the charge and learn to call it the battle-
light. Her breast heaved, and the color rose in her
face. "But to-day I know. God has chosen the

---

meanest of His creatures for this work; and by His
command, and in His protection, and by His
strength, not mine, I am to lead His armies, and
win back France, and set the crown upon the head
of His servant that is Dauphin and shall be King."

I was amazed, and said:

"You, Joan? You, a child, lead armies?"

"Yes. For one little moment or two the thought
crushed me; for it is as you say—I am only a
child; a child and ignorant—ignorant of everything
that pertains to war, and not fitted for the rough
life of camps and the companionship of soldiers.
But those weak moments passed; they will not come
again. I am enlisted, I will not turn back, God
helping me, till the English grip is loosed from the
throat of France. My Voices have never told me
lies, they have not lied to-day. They say I am to
go to Robert de Baudricourt, governor of Vaucou-
leurs, and he will give me men-at-arms for escort
and send me to the King. A year from now a blow
will be struck which will be the beginning of the
end, and the end will follow swiftly."

"Where will it be struck?"

"My Voices have not said; nor what will happen
this present year, before it is struck. It is appointed
me to strike it, that is all I know; and follow it with
others, sharp and swift, undoing in ten weeks Eng-
land's long years of costly labor, and setting the
crown upon the Dauphin's head—for such is God's
will; my Voices have said it, and shall I doubt it?

---

No; it will be as they have said, for they say only
that which is true."

These were tremendous sayings. They were im-
possibilities to my reason, but to my heart they rang
true; and so, while my reason doubted, my heart
believed—believed, and held fast to its belief from
that day. Presently I said:

"Joan, I believe the things which you have said,
and now I am glad that I am to march with you to
the great wars—that is, if it is with you I am to
march when I go."

She looked surprised, and said:

"It is true that you will be with me when I go to
the wars, but how did you know?"

"I shall march with you, and so also will Jean
and Pierre, but not Jacques."

"All true—it is so ordered, as was revealed to
me lately, but I did not know until to-day that the
marching would be with me, or that I should march
at all. How did you know these things?"

I told her when it was that she had said them.
But she did not remember about it. So then I knew
that she had been asleep, or in a trance or an ecstasy
of some kind, at that time. She bade me keep these
and the other revelations to myself for the present,
and I said I would, and kept the faith I promised.

None who met Joan that day failed to notice the
change that had come over her. She moved and
spoke with energy and decision; there was a strange

---

new fire in her eye, and also a something wholly
new and remarkable in her carriage and in the set of
her head. This new light in the eye and this new
bearing were born of the authority and leadership
which had this day been vested in her by the decree
of God, and they asserted that authority as plainly
as speech could have done it, yet without ostenta-
tion or bravado. This calm consciousness of com-
mand, and calm unconscious outward expression of
it, remained with her thenceforth until her mission
was accomplished.

Like the other villagers, she had always accorded
me the deference due my rank; but now, without
word said on either side, she and I changed places;
she gave orders, not suggestions. I received them
with the deference due a superior, and obeyed them
without comment. In the evening she said to me:

"I leave before dawn. No one will know it but
you. I go to speak with the governor of Vaucou-
leurs as commanded, who will despise me and treat
me rudely, and perhaps refuse my prayer at this
time. I go first to Burey, to persuade my uncle
Laxart to go with me, it not being meet that I go
alone. I may need you in Vaucouleurs; for if the
governor will not receive me I will dictate a letter to
him, and so must have some one by me who knows
the art of how to write and spell the words. You
will go from here to-morrow in the afternoon, and
remain in Vaucouleurs until I need you."

I said I would obey, and she went her way. You

---

see how clear a head she had, and what a just and
level judgment. She did not order me to go with
her; no, she would not subject her good name to
gossiping remark. She knew that the governor,
being a noble, would grant me, another noble, audi-
ence; but no, you see, she would not have that,
either. A poor peasant girl presenting a petition
through a young nobleman—how would that look?
She always protected her modesty from hurt; and
so, for reward, she carried her good name un-
smirched to the end. I knew what I must do now,
if I would have her approval: go to Vaucouleurs,
keep out of her sight, and be ready when
wanted.

I went the next afternoon, and took an obscure
lodging; the next day I called at the castle and paid
my respects to the governor, who invited me to dine
with him at noon of the following day. He was an
ideal soldier of the time; tall, brawny, gray-headed,
rough, full of strange oaths acquired here and there
and yonder in the wars and treasured as if they were
decorations. He had been used to the camp all his
life, and to his notion war was God's best gift to
man. He had his steel cuirass on, and wore boots
that came above his knees, and was equipped with a
huge sword; and when I looked at this martial
figure, and heard the marvelous oaths, and guessed
how little of poetry and sentiment might be looked
for in this quarter, I hoped the little peasant girl
would not get the privilege of confronting this

---

battery, but would have to content herself with the
dictated letter.

I came again to the castle the next day at noon,
and was conducted to the great dining-hall and
seated by the side of the governor at a small table
which was raised a couple of steps higher than the
general table. At the small table sat several other
guests besides myself, and at the general table sat
the chief officers of the garrison. At the entrance
door stood a guard of halberdiers, in morion and
breastplate.

As for talk, there was but one topic, of course—
the desperate situation of France. There was a
rumor, some one said, that Salisbury was making
preparations to march against Orleans. It raised a
turmoil of excited conversation, and opinions fell
thick and fast. Some believed he would march at
once, others that he could not accomplish the in-
vestment before fall, others that the siege would be
long, and bravely contested; but upon one thing all
voices agreed: that Orleans must eventually fall,
and with it France. With that, the prolonged dis-
cussion ended, and there was silence. Every man
seemed to sink himself in his own thoughts, and to
forget where he was. This sudden and profound
stillness, where before had been so much animation,
was impressive and solemn. Now came a servant
and whispered something to the governor, who said:

"Would talk with me?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

---

"H'm! A strange idea, certainly. Bring them
in."

It was Joan and her uncle Laxart. At the spec-
tacle of the great people the courage oozed out of
the poor old peasant and he stopped midway and
would come no further, but remained there with his
red nightcap crushed in his hands and bowing
humbly here, there, and everywhere, stupefied with
embarrassment and fear. But Joan came steadily
forward, erect and self-possessed, and stood before
the governor. She recognized me, but in no way
indicated it. There was a buzz of admiration, even
the governor contributing to it, for I heard him
mutter, "By God's grace, it is a beautiful creature!"
He inspected her critically a moment or two, then
said:

"Well, what is your errand, my child?"

"My message is to you, Robert de Baudricourt,
governor of Vaucouleurs, and it is this: that you
will send and tell the Dauphin to wait and not give
battle to his enemies, for God will presently send
him help."

This strange speech amazed the company, and
many murmured, "The poor young thing is de-
mented." The governor scowled, and said:

"What nonsense is this? The King—or the
Dauphin, as you call him—needs no message of
that sort. He will wait, give yourself no uneasiness
as to that. What further do you desire to say to
me?"

---

"This. To beg that you will give me an escort
of men-at-arms and send me to the Dauphin."

"What for?"

"That he may make me his general, for it is ap-
pointed that I shall drive the English out of France,
and set the crown upon his head."

"What—you? Why, you are but a child!"

"Yet am I appointed to do it, nevertheless."

"Indeed! And when will all this happen?"

"Next year he will be crowned, and after that
will remain master of France."

There was a great and general burst of laughter,
and when it had subsided the governor said:

"Who has sent you with these extravagant mes-
sages?"

"My Lord."

"What Lord?"

"The King of Heaven."

Many murmured, "Ah, poor thing, poor thing!"
and others, "Ah, her mind is but a wreck!" The
governor hailed Laxart, and said:

"Harkye!—take this mad child home and whip
her soundly. That is the best cure for her ailment."

As Joan was moving away she turned and said,
with simplicity:

"You refuse me the soldiers, I know not why,
for it is my Lord that has commanded you. Yes, it
is He that has made the command; therefore must
I come again, and yet again; then I shall have the
men-at-arms."

---

There was a great deal of wondering talk, after
she was gone; and the guards and servants passed
the talk to the town, the town passed it to the
country; Domremy was already buzzing with it
when we got back.

---

CHAPTER VIII.

Human nature is the same everywhere: it deifies
success, it has nothing but scorn for defeat.
The village considered that Joan had disgraced it
with her grotesque performance and its ridiculous
failure; so all the tongues were busy with the
matter, and as bilious and bitter as they were busy;
insomuch that if the tongues had been teeth she
would not have survived her persecutions. Those
persons who did not scold did what was worse and
harder to bear; for they ridiculed her, and mocked
at her, and ceased neither day nor night from their
witticisms and jeerings and laughter. Haumette
and Little Mengette and I stood by her, but the
storm was too strong for her other friends, and they
avoided her, being ashamed to be seen with her
because she was so unpopular, and because of the
sting of the taunts that assailed them on her account.
She shed tears in secret, but none in public. In
public she carried herself with serenity, and showed
no distress, nor any resentment—conduct which
should have softened the feeling against her, but

---

it did not. Her father was so incensed that he
could not talk in measured terms about her wild
project of going to the wars like a man. He had
dreamed of her doing such a thing, some time
before, and now he remembered that dream with
apprehension and anger, and said that rather than
see her unsex herself and go away with the armies,
he would require her brothers to drown her; and
that if they should refuse, he would do it with his
own hands.

But none of these things shook her purpose in the
least. Her parents kept a strict watch upon her to
keep her from leaving the village, but she said her
time was not yet; that when the time to go was
come she should know it, and then the keepers
would watch in vain.

The summer wasted along; and when it was
seen that her purpose continued steadfast, the
parents were glad of a chance which finally offered
itself for bringing her projects to an end through
marriage. The Paladin had the effrontery to pre-
tend that she had engaged herself to him several
years before, and now he claimed a ratification of
the engagement.

She said his statement was not true, and refused
to marry him. She was cited to appear before the
ecclesiastical court at Toul to answer for her per-
versity; when she declined to have counsel, and
elected to conduct her case herself, her parents and
all her ill-wishers rejoiced, and looked upon her as

---

already defeated. And that was natural enough;
for who would expect that an ignorant peasant girl
of sixteen would be otherwise than frightened and
tongue-tied when standing for the first time in pres-
ence of the practiced doctors of the law, and sur-
rounded by the cold solemnities of a court? Yet all
these people were mistaken. They flocked to Toul
to see and enjoy this fright and embarrassment and
defeat, and they had their trouble for their pains.
She was modest, tranquil, and quite at her ease.
She called no witnesses, saying she would content
herself with examining the witnesses for the prose-
cution. When they had testified, she rose and re-
viewed their testimony in a few words, pronounced
it vague, confused, and of no force, then she placed
the Paladin again on the stand and began to search
him. His previous testimony went rag by rag to
ruin under her ingenious hands, until at last he
stood bare, so to speak, he that had come so richly
clothed in fraud and falsehood. His counsel began
an argument, but the court declined to hear it, and
threw out the case, adding a few words of grave
compliment for Joan, and referring to her as "this
marvelous child."

After this victory, with this high praise from so
imposing a source added, the fickle village turned
again, and gave Joan countenance, compliment, and
peace. Her mother took her back to her heart, and
even her father relented and said he was proud of
her. But the time hung heavy on her hands, never-

---

theless, for the siege of Orleans was begun, the
clouds lowered darker and darker over France, and
still her Voices said wait, and gave her no direct
commands. The winter set in, and wore tediously
along; but at last there was a change.

---

IN COURT AND CAMP

---

---

CHAPTER I.

The 5th of January, 1429, Joan came to me with
her uncle Laxart, and said:

"The time is come. My Voices are not vague
now, but clear, and they have told me what to do.
In two months I shall be with the Dauphin."

Her spirits were high, and her bearing martial. I
caught the infection and felt a great impulse stirring
in me that was like what one feels when he hears
the roll of the drums and the tramp of marching
men.

"I believe it," I said.

"I also believe it," said Laxart. "If she had
told me before, that she was commanded of God to
rescue France, I should not have believed; I should
have let her seek the governor by her own ways and
held myself clear of meddling in the matter, not
doubting she was mad. But I have seen her stand
before those nobles and mighty men unafraid, and
say her say; and she had not been able to do that
but by the help of God. That I know. Therefore
with all humbleness I am at her command, to do
with me as she will."

"My uncle is very good to me," Joan said. "I

---

sent and asked him to come and persuade my
mother to let him take me home with him to tend
his wife, who is not well. It is arranged, and we
go at dawn to-morrow. From his house I shall go
soon to Vaucouleurs, and wait and strive until my
prayer is granted. Who were the two cavaliers who
sat to your left at the governor's table that day?"

"One was the Sieur Jean de Novelonpont de
Metz, the other the Sieur Bertrand de Poulengy."

"Good metal—good metal, both. I marked
them for men of mine…… What is it I see in your
face? Doubt?"

I was teaching myself to speak the truth to her,
not trimming it or polishing it; so I said:

"They considered you out of your head, and
said so. It is true they pitied you for being in such
misfortune, but still they held you to be mad."

This did not seem to trouble her in any way or
wound her. She only said:

"The wise change their minds when they perceive
that they have been in error. These will. They
will march with me. I shall see them presently.
……You seem to doubt again? Do you doubt?"

"N-no. Not now. I was remembering that it
was a year ago, and that they did not belong there,
but only chanced to stop a day on their journey."

"They will come again. But as to matters now
in hand; I came to leave with you some instructions.
You will follow me in a few days. Order your
affairs, for you will be absent long."

---

"Will Jean and Pierre go with me?"

"No; they would refuse now, but presently they
will come, and with them they will bring my parents'
blessing, and likewise their consent that I take up
my mission. I shall be stronger, then—stronger
for that; for lack of it I am weak now." She
paused a little while, and the tears gathered in her
eyes; then she went on: "I would say good-bye to
Little Mengette. Bring her outside the village at
dawn; she must go with me a little of the way—"

"And Haumette?"

She broke down and began to cry, saying:

"No, oh, no—she is too dear to me, I could not
bear it, knowing I should never look upon her face
again."

Next morning I brought Mengette, and we four
walked along the road in the cold dawn till the
village was far behind; then the two girls said their
good-byes, clinging about each other's neck, and
pouring out their grief in loving words and tears, a
pitiful sight to see. And Joan took one long look
back upon the distant village, and the Fairy Tree,
and the oak forest, and the flowery plain, and the
river, as if she was trying to print these scenes on
her memory so that they would abide there always
and not fade, for she knew she would not see them
any more in this life; then she turned, and went
from us, sobbing bitterly. It was her birthday and
mine. She was seventeen years old.

---

CHAPTER II.

After a few days, Laxart took Joan to Vaucou-
leurs, and found lodging and guardianship for
her with Catherine Royer, a wheelwright's wife, an
honest and good woman. Joan went to mass regu-
larly, she helped do the housework, earning her
keep in that way, and if any wished to talk with her
about her mission—and many did—she talked
freely, making no concealments regarding the matter
now. I was soon housed near by, and witnessed
the effects which followed. At once the tidings
spread that a young girl was come who was ap-
pointed of God to save France. The common peo-
ple flocked in crowds to look at her and speak with
her, and her fair young loveliness won the half of
their belief, and her deep earnestness and trans-
parent sincerity won the other half. The well-to-do
remained away and scoffed, but that is their way.

Next, a prophecy of Merlin's, more than eight
hundred years old, was called to mind, which said
that in a far future time France would be lost by a
woman and restored by a woman. France was now,
for the first time, lost—and by a woman, Isabel of

---

Bavaria, her base Queen; doubtless this fair and
pure young girl was commissioned of Heaven to
complete the prophecy.

This gave the growing interest a new and power-
ful impulse; the excitement rose higher and higher,
and hope and faith along with it; and so from
Vaucouleurs wave after wave of this inspiring en-
thusiasm flowed out over the land, far and wide,
invading all the villages and refreshing and revivify-
ing the perishing children of France; and from
these villages came people who wanted to see for
themselves, hear for themselves; and they did see
and hear, and believe. They filled the town; they
more than filled it; inns and lodgings were packed,
and yet half of the inflow had to go without shelter.
And still they came, winter as it was, for when a
man's soul is starving, what does he care for meat
and roof so he can but get that nobler hunger fed?
Day after day, and still day after day the great tide
rose. Domremy was dazed, amazed, stupefied, and
said to itself, "Was this world-wonder in our
familiar midst all these years and we too dull to see
it?" Jean and Pierre went out from the village,
stared at and envied like the great and fortunate of
the earth, and their progress to Vaucouleurs was
like a triumph, all the country-side flocking to see
and salute the brothers of one with whom angels
had spoken face to face, and into whose hands by
command of God they had delivered the destinies of
France.

---

The brothers brought the parents' blessing and
godspeed to Joan, and their promise to bring it to
her in person later; and so, with this culminating
happiness in her heart and the high hope it inspired,
she went and confronted the governor again. But
he was no more tractable than he had been before.
He refused to send her to the King. She was dis-
appointed, but in no degree discouraged. She said:

"I must still come to you until I get the men-at-
arms; for so it is commanded, and I may not dis-
obey. I must go to the Dauphin, though I go on
my knees."

I and the two brothers were with Joan daily, to
see the people that came and hear what they said;
and one day, sure enough, the Sieur Jean de Metz
came. He talked with her in a petting and playful
way, as one talks with children, and said:

"What are you doing here, my little maid? Will
they drive the King out of France, and shall we all
turn English?"

She answered him in her tranquil, serious way:

"I am come to bid Robert de Baudricourt take
or send me to the King, but he does not heed my
words."

"Ah, you have an admirable persistence, truly;
a whole year has not turned you from your wish. I
saw you when you came before."

Joan said, as tranquilly as before:

"It is not a wish, it is a purpose. He will grant
it. I can wait."

---

"Ah, perhaps it will not be wise to make too sure
of that, my child. These governors are stubborn
people to deal with. In case he shall not grant your
prayer—"

"He will grant it. He must. It is not matter of
choice."

The gentleman's playful mood began to disappear
—one could see that, by his face. Joan's earnest-
ness was affecting him. It always happened that
people who began in jest with her ended by being
in earnest. They soon began to perceive depths in
her that they had not suspected; and then her mani-
fest sincerity and the rock-like steadfastness of her
convictions were forces which cowed levity, and it
could not maintain its self-respect in their presence.
The Sieur de Metz was thoughtful for a moment or
two, then he began, quite soberly:

"Is it necessary that you go to the King soon?—
that is, I mean—"

"Before Mid-Lent, even though I wear away my
legs to the knees!"

She said it with that sort of repressed fieriness
that means so much when a person's heart is in a
thing. You could see the response in that noble-
man's face; you could see his eye light up; there
was sympathy there. He said, most earnestly:

"God knows I think you should have the men-at-
arms, and that somewhat would come of it. What
is it that you would do? What is your hope and
purpose?"

---

"To rescue France. And it is appointed that I
shall do it. For no one else in the world, neither
kings, nor dukes, nor any other, can recover the
kingdom of France, and there is no help but in
me."

The words had a pleading and pathetic sound,
and they touched that good nobleman. I saw it
plainly. Joan dropped her voice a little, and said:
"But indeed I would rather spin with my poor
mother, for this is not my calling; but I must go
and do it, for it is my Lord's will."

"Who is your Lord?"

"He is God."

Then the Sieur de Metz, following the impressive
old feudal fashion, knelt and laid his hands within
Joan's in sign of fealty, and made oath that by
God's help he himself would take her to the King.

The next day came the Sieur Bertrand de Pou-
lengy, and he also pledged his oath and knightly
honor to abide with her and follow whithersoever she
might lead.

This day, too, toward evening, a great rumor
went flying abroad through the town—namely, that
the very governor himself was going to visit the
young girl in her humble lodgings. So in the morn-
ing the streets and lanes were packed with people
waiting to see if this strange thing would indeed
happen. And happen it did. The governor rode
in state, attended by his guards, and the news of it
went everywhere, and made a great sensation, and

---

modified the scoffings of the people of quality and
raised Joan's credit higher than ever.

The governor had made up his mind to one
thing: Joan was either a witch or a saint, and he
meant to find out which it was. So he brought a
priest with him to exorcise the devil that was in her
in case there was one there. The priest performed
his office, but found no devil. He merely hurt
Joan's feelings and offended her piety without need,
for he had already confessed her before this, and
should have known, if he knew anything, that devils
cannot abide the confessional, but utter cries of
anguish and the most profane and furious cursings
whenever they are confronted with that holy office.

The governor went away troubled and full of
thought, and not knowing what to do. And while
he pondered and studied, several days went by and
the 14th of February was come. Then Joan went
to the castle and said:

"In God's name, Robert de Baudricourt, you are
too slow about sending me, and have caused damage
thereby, for this day the Dauphin's cause has lost a
battle near Orleans, and will suffer yet greater injury
if you do not send me to him soon."

The governor was perplexed by this speech, and
said:

"To-day, child, to-day? How can you know
what has happened in that region to-day? It would
take eight or ten days for the word to come."

"My Voices have brought the word to me, and it

---

is true. A battle was lost to-day, and you are in
fault to delay me so."

The governor walked the floor a while, talking
within himself, but letting a great oath fall outside
now and then; and finally he said:

"Harkye! go in peace, and wait. If it shall turn
out as you say, I will give you the letter and send
you to the King, and not otherwise."

Joan said with fervor:

"Now God be thanked, these waiting days are
almost done. In nine days you will fetch me the
letter."

Already the people of Vaucouleurs had given her
a horse and had armed and equipped her as a
soldier. She got no chance to try the horse and
see if she could ride it, for her great first duty was
to abide at her post and lift up the hopes and spirits
of all who would come to talk with her, and prepare
them to help in the rescue and regeneration of the
kingdom. This occupied every waking moment she
had. But it was no matter. There was nothing
she could not learn—and in the briefest time, too.
Her horse would find this out in the first hour.
Meantime the brothers and I took the horse in turn
and began to learn to ride. And we had teaching
in the use of the sword and other arms also.

On the 20th Joan called her small army together
—the two knights and her two brothers and me—
for a private council of war. No, it was not a
council, that is not the right name, for she did not

---

consult with us, she merely gave us orders. She
mapped out the course she would travel toward the
King, and did it like a person perfectly versed in
geography; and this itinerary of daily marches was
so arranged as to avoid here and there peculiarly
dangerous regions by flank movements—which
showed that she knew her political geography as
intimately as she knew her physical geography; yet
she had never had a day's schooling, of course, and
was without education. I was astonished, but
thought her Voices must have taught her. But
upon reflection I saw that this was not so. By her
references to what this and that and the other person
had told her, I perceived that she had been diligently
questioning those crowds of visiting strangers, and
that out of them she had patiently dug all this mass
of invaluable knowledge. The two knights were
filled with wonder at her good sense and sagacity.

She commanded us to make preparations to travel
by night and sleep by day in concealment, as almost
the whole of our long journey would be through the
enemy's country.

Also, she commanded that we should keep the
date of our departure a secret, since she meant to
get away unobserved. Otherwise we should be sent
off with a grand demonstration which would adver-
tise us to the enemy, and we should be ambushed
and captured somewhere. Finally she said:

"Nothing remains, now, but that I confide to you
the date of our departure, so that you may make all

---

needful preparation in time, leaving nothing to be
done in haste and badly at the last moment. We
march the 23d, at eleven of the clock at night."

Then we were dismissed. The two knights were
startled—yes, and troubled; and the Sieur Bertrand
said:

"Even if the governor shall really furnish the
letter and the escort, he still may not do it in time
to meet the date she has chosen. Then how can
she venture to name that date? It is a great risk—
a great risk to select and decide upon the date, in
this state of uncertainty."

I said:

"Since she has named the 23d, we may trust her.
The Voices have told her, I think. We shall do
best to obey."

We did obey. Joan's parents were notified to
come before the 23d, but prudence forbade that
they be told why this limit was named.

All day, the 23d, she glanced up wistfully when-
ever new bodies of strangers entered the house, but
her parents did not appear. Still she was not dis-
couraged, but hoped on. But when night fell at
last, her hopes perished, and the tears came; how-
ever, she dashed them away, and said:

"It was to be so, no doubt; no doubt it was so
ordered; I must bear it, and will."

De Metz tried to comfort her by saying:

"The governor sends no word; it may be that
they will come to-morrow, and—"

---

He got no further, for she interrupted him, say-
ing:

"To what good end? We start at eleven to-
night."

And it was so. At ten the governor came, with
his guard and torch-bearers, and delivered to her a
mounted escort of men-at-arms, with horses and
equipment for me and for the brothers, and gave
Joan a letter to the King. Then he took off his
sword, and belted it about her waist with his own
hands, and said:

"You said true, child. The battle was lost, on
the day you said. So I have kept my word. Now
go—come of it what may."

Joan gave him thanks, and he went his way.

The lost battle was the famous disaster that is
called in history the Battle of the Herrings.

All the lights in the house were at once put out,
and a little while after, when the streets had become
dark and still, we crept stealthily through them and
out at the western gate and rode away under whip
and spur.

---

CHAPTER III.

We were twenty-five strong, and well equipped.
We rode in double file, Joan and her brothers
in the center of the column, with Jean de Metz at
the head of it and the Sieur Bertrand at its extreme
rear. The knights were so placed to prevent deser-
tions—for the present. In two or three hours we
should be in the enemy's country, and then none
would venture to desert. By and by we began to
hear groans and sobs and execrations from different
points along the line, and upon inquiry found that
six of our men were peasants who had never ridden
a horse before, and were finding it very difficult to
stay in their saddles, and moreover were now begin-
ning to suffer considerable bodily torture. They
had been seized by the governor at the last moment
and pressed into the service to make up the tale,
and he had placed a veteran alongside of each with
orders to help him stick to the saddle, and kill him
if he tried to desert.

These poor devils had kept quiet as long as they
could, but their physical miseries were become so
sharp by this time that they were obliged to give
them vent. But we were within the enemy's country

---

now, so there was no help for them, they must con-
tinue the march, though Joan said that if they chose
to take the risk they might depart. They preferred
to stay with us. We modified our pace now, and
moved cautiously, and the new men were warned to
keep their sorrows to themselves and not get the
command into danger with their curses and lamenta-
tions.

Toward dawn we rode deep into a forest, and
soon all but the sentries were sound asleep in spite
of the cold ground and the frosty air.

I woke at noon out of such a solid and stupefying
sleep that at first my wits were all astray, and I did
not know where I was nor what had been happen-
ing. Then my senses cleared, and I remembered.
As I lay there thinking over the strange events of
the past month or two the thought came into my
mind, greatly surprising me, that one of Joan's pro-
phecies had failed; for where were Noël and the
Paladin, who were to join us at the eleventh hour?
By this time, you see, I had gotten used to expect-
ing everything Joan said to come true. So, being
disturbed and troubled by these thoughts, I opened
my eyes. Well, there stood the Paladin leaning
against a tree and looking down on me! How often
that happens; you think of a person, or speak of a
person, and there he stands before you, and you not
dreaming he is near. It looks as if his being near is
really the thing that makes you think of him, and
not just an accident, as people imagine. Well, be

---

that as it may, there was the Paladin, anyway, look-
ing down in my face and waiting for me to wake. I
was ever so glad to see him, and jumped up and
shook him by the hand, and led him a little way
from the camp—he limping like a cripple—and
told him to sit down, and said:

"Now, where have you dropped down from?
And how did you happen to light in this place?
And what do the soldier-clothes mean? Tell me all
about it."

He answered:

"I marched with you last night."

"No!" (To myself I said, "The prophecy has
not all failed—half of it has come true.")

"Yes, I did. I hurried up from Domremy to
join, and was within a half a minute of being too
late. In fact, I was too late, but I begged so hard
that the governor was touched by my brave devotion
to my country's cause—those are the words he
used—and so he yielded, and allowed me to come."

I thought to myself, this is a lie, he is one of
those six the governor recruited by force at the last
moment; I know it, for Joan's prophecy said he
would join at the eleventh hour, but not by his own
desire. Then I said aloud:

"I am glad you came; it is a noble cause, and
one should not sit at home in times like these."

"Sit at home! I could no more do it than the
thunderstone could stay hid in the clouds when the
storm calls it."

---

"That is the right talk. It sounds like you."

That pleased him.

"I'm glad you know me. Some don't. But
they will, presently. They will know me well
enough before I get done with this war."

"That is what I think. I believe that wherever
danger confronts you you will make yourself con-
spicuous."

He was charmed with this speech, and it swelled
him up like a bladder. He said:

"If I know myself—and I think I do—my per-
formances in this campaign will give you occasion
more than once to remember those words."

"I were a fool to doubt it. That I know."

"I shall not be at my best, being but a common
soldier; still, the country will hear of me. If I were
where I belong; if I were in the place of La Hire,
or Saintrailles, or the Bastard of Orleans—well, I
say nothing, I am not of the talking kind, like Noël
Rainguesson and his sort, I thank God. But it will
be something, I take it—a novelty in this world, I
should say—to raise the fame of a private soldier
above theirs, and extinguish the glory of their names
with its shadow."

"Why, look here, my friend," I said, "do you
know that you have hit out a most remarkable idea
there? Do you realize the gigantic proportions of
it? For look you; to be a general of vast renown,
what is that? Nothing—history is clogged and
confused with them; one cannot keep their names

---

in his memory, there are so many. But a common
soldier of supreme renown—why, he would stand
alone! He would be the one moon in a firmament
of mustard-seed stars; his name would outlast the
human race! My friend, who gave you that idea?"

He was ready to burst with happiness, but he
suppressed betrayal of it as well as he could. He
simply waived the compliment aside with his hand
and said, with complacency:

"It is nothing. I have them often—ideas like
that—and even greater ones. I do not consider
this one much."

"You astonish me; you do, indeed. So it is
really your own?"

"Quite. And there is plenty more where it came
from"—tapping his head with his finger, and taking
occasion at the same time to cant his morion over
his right ear, which gave him a very self-satisfied
air—"I do not need to borrow my ideas, like Noël
Rainguesson."

"Speaking of Noël, when did you see him last?"

"Half an hour ago. He is sleeping yonder like
a corpse. Rode with us last night."

I felt a great upleap in my heart, and said to my-
self, now I am at rest and glad; I will never doubt
her prophecies again. Then I said aloud:

"It gives me joy. It makes me proud of our
village. There is no keeping our lion-hearts at
home in these great times, I see that."

"Lion-heart! Who—that baby? Why, he

---

begged like a dog to be let off. Cried, and said
he wanted to go to his mother. Him a lion-heart!
—that tumble-bug!"

"Dear me, why I supposed he volunteered, of
course. Didn't he?"

"Oh, yes, volunteered the way people do to the
headsman. Why, when he found I was coming up
from Domremy to volunteer, he asked me to let him
come along in my protection, and see the crowds
and the excitement. Well, we arrived and saw the
torches filing out at the Castle, and ran there, and
the governor had him seized, along with four more,
and he begged to be let off, and I begged for his
place, and at last the governor allowed me to join,
but wouldn't let Noël off, because he was disgusted
with him he was such a cry-baby. Yes, and much
good he'll do the King's service; he'll eat for six
and run for sixteen. I hate a pigmy with half a
heart and nine stomachs!"

"Why, this is very surprising news to me, and I
am sorry and disappointed to hear it. I thought he
was a very manly fellow."

The Paladin gave me an outraged look, and said:

"I don't see how you can talk like that, I'm sure
I don't. I don't see how you could have got such
a notion. I don't dislike him, and I'm not saying
these things out of prejudice, for I don't allow my-
self to have prejudices against people. I like him,
and have always comraded with him from the cradle,
but he must allow me to speak my mind about

---

his faults, and I am willing he shall speak his
about mine, if I have any. And, true enough,
maybe I have; but I reckon they'll bear inspection
—I have that idea, anyway. A manly fellow! You
should have heard him whine and wail and swear,
last night, because the saddle hurt him. Why didn't
the saddle hurt me? Pooh—I was as much at home
in it as if I had been born there. And yet it was
the first time I was ever on a horse. All those old
soldiers admired my riding; they said they had
never seen anything like it. But him—why, they
had to hold him on, all the time."

An odor as of breakfast came stealing through the
wood; the Paladin unconsciously inflated his nostrils
in lustful response, and got up and limped painfully
away, saying he must go and look to his horse.

At bottom he was all right and a good-hearted
giant, without any harm in him, for it is no harm to
bark, if one stops there and does not bite, and it is
no harm to be an ass, if one is content to bray and
not kick. If this vast structure of brawn, and
muscle and vanity and foolishness seemed to have
a libelous tongue, what of it? There was no malice
behind it; and besides, the defect was not of his
own creation; it was the work of Noël Rainguesson,
who had nurtured it, fostered it, built it up and per-
fected it, for the entertainment he got out of it.
His careless light heart had to have somebody to
nag and chaff and make fun of, the Paladin had only
needed development in order to meet its require-

---

ments, consequently the development was taken in
hand and diligently attended to and looked after,
gnat-and-bull fashion, for years, to the neglect and
damage of far more important concerns. The re-
sult was an unqualified success. Noël prized the
society of the Paladin above everybody else's; the
Paladin preferred anybody's to Noël's. The big
fellow was often seen with the little fellow, but it
was for the same reason that the bull is often seen
with the gnat.

With the first opportunity, I had a talk with Noël.
I welcomed him to our expedition, and said:

"It was fine and brave of you to volunteer, Noël."

His eye twinkled, and he answered:

"Yes, it was rather fine, I think. Still, the credit
doesn't all belong to me; I had help."

"Who helped you?"

"The governor."

"How?"

"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing. I came up
from Domremy to see the crowds and the general
show, for I hadn't ever had any experience of such
things, of course, and this was a great opportunity;
but I hadn't any mind to volunteer. I overtook the
Paladin on the road and let him have my company
the rest of the way, although he did not want it and
said so; and while we were gawking and blinking in
the glare of the governor's torches they seized us
and four more and added us to the escort, and that
is really how I came to volunteer. But, after all, I

---

wasn't sorry, remembering how dull life would have
been in the village without the Paladin."

"How did he feel about it? Was he satisfied?"

"I think he was glad."

"Why?"

"Because he said he wasn't. He was taken by
surprise, you see, and it is not likely that he could
tell the truth without preparation. Not that he
would have prepared, if he had had the chance, for
I do not think he would. I am not charging him
with that. In the same space of time that he could
prepare to speak the truth, he could also prepare to
lie; besides, his judgment would be cool then, and
would warn him against fooling with new methods
in an emergency. No, I am sure he was glad, be-
cause he said he wasn't."

"Do you think he was very glad?"

"Yes, I know he was. He begged like a slave,
and bawled for his mother. He said his health was
delicate, and he didn't know how to ride a horse,
and he knew he couldn't outlive the first march.
But really he wasn't looking as delicate as he was
feeling. There was a cask of wine there, a proper
lift for four men. The governor's temper got afire,
and he delivered an oath at him that knocked up the
dust where it struck the ground, and told him to
shoulder that cask or he would carve him to cutlets
and send him home in a basket. The Paladin did it,
and that secured his promotion to a privacy in the
escort without any further debate."

---

"Yes, you seem to make it quite plain that he
was glad to join—that is, if your premises are right
that you start from. How did he stand the march
last night?"

"About as I did. If he made the more noise, it
was the privilege of his bulk. We stayed in our
saddles because we had help. We are equally lame
to-day, and if he likes to sit down, let him; I prefer
to stand."

---

CHAPTER IV.

We were called to quarters and subjected to a
searching inspection by Joan. Then she
made a short little talk in which she said that even
the rude business of war could be conducted better
without profanity and other brutalities of speech
than with them, and that she should strictly require
us to remember and apply this admonition. She
ordered half an hour's horsemanship-drill for the
novices then, and appointed one of the veterans to
conduct it. It was a ridiculous exhibition, but we
learned something, and Joan was satisfied and com-
plimented us. She did not take any instruction her-
self or go through the evolutions and manœuvres, but
merely sat her horse like a martial little statue and
looked on. That was sufficient for her, you see.
She would not miss or forget a detail of the lesson,
she would take it all in with her eye and her mind,
and apply it afterward with as much certainty and
confidence as if she had already practiced it.

We now made three night-marches of twelve or
thirteen leagues each, riding in peace and undis-
turbed, being taken for a roving band of Free Com-

---

panions. Country folk were glad to have that sort
of people go by without stopping. Still, they were
very wearing marches, and not comfortable, for the
bridges were few and the streams many, and as we
had to ford them we found the water dismally cold,
and afterward had to bed ourselves, still wet, on the
frosty or snowy ground, and get warm as we might
and sleep if we could, for it would not have been
prudent to build fires. Our energies languished
under these hardships and deadly fatigues, but
Joan's did not. Her step kept its spring and firm-
ness and her eye its fire. We could only wonder at
this, we could not explain it.

But if we had had hard times before, I know not
what to call the five nights that now followed, for
the marches were as fatiguing, the baths as cold, and
we were ambuscaded seven times in addition, and
lost two novices and three veterans in the resulting
fights. The news had leaked out and gone abroad
that the inspired Virgin of Vaucouleurs was making
for the King with an escort, and all the roads were
being watched now.

These five nights disheartened the command a
good deal. This was aggravated by a discovery
which Noël made, and which he promptly made
known at headquarters. Some of the men had been
trying to understand why Joan continued to be
alert, vigorous, and confident while the strongest
men in the company were fagged with the heavy
marches and exposure and were become morose and

---

irritable. There, it shows you how men can have
eyes and yet not see. All their lives those men had
seen their own womenfolks hitched up with a cow
and dragging the plow in the fields while the men
did the driving. They had also seen other evidences
that women have far more endurance and patience
and fortitude than men—but what good had their
seeing these things been to them? None. It had
taught them nothing. They were still surprised to
see a girl of seventeen bear the fatigues of war better
than trained veterans of the army. Moreover, they
did not reflect that a great soul, with a great pur-
pose, can make a weak body strong and keep it so;
and here was the greatest soul in the universe; but
how could they know that, those dumb creatures?
No, they knew nothing, and their reasonings were
of a piece with their ignorance. They argued and
discussed among themselves, with Noël listening,
and arrived at the decision that Joan was a witch,
and had her strange pluck and strength from Satan;
so they made a plan to watch for a safe opportunity
and take her life.

To have secret plottings of this sort going on in
our midst was a very serious business, of course,
and the knights asked Joan's permission to hang the
plotters, but she refused without hesitancy. She
said:

"Neither these men nor any others can take my
life before my mission is accomplished, therefore
why should I have their blood upon my hands? I

---

will inform them of this, and also admonish them.
Call them before me."

When they came she made that statement to them
in a plain matter-of-fact way, and just as if the
thought never entered her mind that any one could
doubt it after she had given her word that it was
true. The men were evidently amazed and im-
pressed to hear her say such a thing in such a sure
and confident way, for prophecies boldly uttered
never fall barren on superstitious ears. Yes, this
speech certainly impressed them, but her closing
remark impressed them still more. It was for the
ringleader, and Joan said it sorrowfully:

"It is a pity that you should plot another's death
when your own is so close at hand."

That man's horse stumbled and fell on him in the
first ford which we crossed that night, and he was
drowned before we could help him. We had no
more conspiracies.

This night was harassed with ambuscades, but we
got through without having any men killed. One
more night would carry us over the hostile frontier if
we had good luck, and we saw the night close down
with a good deal of solicitude. Always before, we
had been more or less reluctant to start out into the
gloom and the silence to be frozen in the fords and
persecuted by the enemy, but this time we were im-
patient to get under way and have it over, although
there was promise of more and harder fighting than
any of the previous nights had furnished. More-

---

over, in front of us about three leagues there was
a deep stream with a frail wooden bridge over it,
and as a cold rain mixed with snow had been falling
steadily all day we were anxious to find out whether
we were in a trap or not. If the swollen stream
had washed away the bridge, we might properly
consider ourselves trapped and cut off from escape.

As soon as it was dark we filed out from the
depths of the forest where we had been hidden and
began the march. From the time that we had begun
to encounter ambushes Joan had ridden at the head
of the column, and she took this post now. By the
time we had gone a league the rain and snow had
turned to sleet, and under the impulse of the storm-
wind it lashed my face like whips, and I envied Joan
and the knights, who could close their visors and
shut up their heads in their helmets as in a box.
Now, out of the pitchy darkness and close at hand,
came the sharp command:

"Halt!"

We obeyed. I made out a dim mass in front of
us which might be a body of horsemen, but one
could not be sure. A man rode up and said to
Joan in a tone of reproof:

"Well, you have taken your time, truly. And
what have you found out? Is she still behind us,
or in front?"

Joan answered in a level voice:

"She is still behind."

This news softened the stranger's tone. He said:

---

"If you know that to be true, you have not lost
your time, Captain. But are you sure? How do
you know?"

"Because I have seen her."

"Seen her! Seen the Virgin herself?"

"Yes, I have been in her camp."

"Is it possible! Captain Raymond, I ask you
to pardon me for speaking in that tone just now.
You have performed a daring and admirable service.
Where was she camped?"

"In the forest, not more than a league from
here."

"Good! I was afraid we might be still behind
her, but now that we know she is behind us, every-
thing is safe. She is our game. We will hang her.
You shall hang her yourself. No one has so well
earned the privilege of abolishing this pestilent limb
of Satan."

"I do not know how to thank you sufficiently.
If we catch her, I—"

"If! I will take care of that; give yourself no
uneasiness. All I want is just a look at her, to see
what the imp is like that has been able to make all
this noise, then you and the halter may have her.
How many men has she?"

"I counted but eighteen, but she may have had
two or three pickets out."

"Is that all? It won't be a mouthful for my
force. Is it true that she is only a girl?"

"Yes; she is not more than seventeen."

---

"It passes belief! Is she robust, or slender?"

"Slender."

The officer pondered a moment or two, then he
said:

"Was she preparing to break camp?"

"Not when I had my last glimpse of her."

"What was she doing?"

"She was talking quietly with an officer."

"Quietly? Not giving orders?"

"No, talking as quietly as we are now."

"That is good. She is feeling a false security.
She would have been restless and fussy else—it is
the way of her sex when danger is about. As she
was making no preparation to break camp—"

"She certainly was not when I saw her last."

"—and was chatting quietly and at her ease, it
means that this weather is not to her taste. Night-
marching in sleet and wind is not for chits of seven-
teen. No; she will stay where she is. She has my
thanks. We will camp, ourselves; here is as good a
place as any. Let us get about it."

"If you command it—certainly. But she has
two knights with her. They might force her to
march, particularly if the weather should improve."

I was scared, and impatient to be getting out of
this peril, and it distressed and worried me to have
Joan apparently set herself to work to make delay
and increase the danger—still, I thought she prob-
ably knew better than I what to do. The officer
said:

---

"Well, in that case we are here to block the
way."

"Yes, if they come this way. But if they should
send out spies, and find out enough to make them
want to try for the bridge through the woods? Is
it best to allow the bridge to stand?"

It made me shiver to hear her.

The officer considered a while, then said:

"It might be well enough to send a force to
destroy the bridge. I was intending to occupy it with
the whole command, but that is not necessary now."

Joan said, tranquilly:

"With your permission, I will go and destroy it
myself."

Ah, now I saw her idea, and was glad she had
had the cleverness to invent it and the ability to keep
her head cool and think of it in that tight place.
The officer replied:

"You have it, Captain, and my thanks. With
you to do it, it will be well done; I could send
another in your place, but not a better."

They saluted, and we moved forward. I breathed
freer. A dozen times I had imagined I heard the
hoof-beats of the real Captain Raymond's troop
arriving behind us, and had been sitting on pins and
needles all the while that that conversation was
dragging along. I breathed freer, but was still not
comfortable, for Joan had given only the simple
command, "Forward!" Consequently we moved
in a walk. Moved in a dead walk past a dim and

---

lengthening column of enemies at our side. The
suspense was exhausting, yet it lasted but a short
while, for when the enemy's bugles sang the "Dis-
mount!" Joan gave the word to trot, and that was
a great relief to me. She was always at herself, you
see. Before the command to dismount had been
given, somebody might have wanted the countersign
somewhere along that line if we came flying by at
speed, but now we seemed to be on our way to our
allotted camping position, so we were allowed to
pass unchallenged. The further we went the more
formidable was the strength revealed by the hostile
force. Perhaps it was only a hundred or two, but
to me it seemed a thousand. When we passed the
last of these people I was thankful, and the deeper
we plowed into the darkness beyond them the better
I felt. I came nearer and nearer to feeling good,
for an hour; then we found the bridge still stand-
ing, and I felt entirely good. We crossed it and
destroyed it, and then I felt—but I cannot describe
what I felt. One has to feel it himself in order to
know what it is like.

We had expected to hear the rush of a pursuing
force behind us, for we thought that the real Cap-
tain Raymond would arrive and suggest that perhaps
the troop that had been mistaken for his belonged
to the Virgin of Vaucouleurs; but he must have
been delayed seriously, for when we resumed our
march beyond the river there were no sounds behind
us except those which the storm was furnishing.

---

I said that Joan had harvested a good many com-
pliments intended for Captain Raymond, and that
he would find nothing of a crop left but a dry stub-
ble of reprimands when he got back, and a com-
mander just in the humor to superintend the gather-
ing of it in.

Joan said:

"It will be as you say, no doubt; for the com-
mander took a troop for granted, in the night and
unchallenged, and would have camped without send-
ing a force to destroy the bridge if he had been left
unadvised, and none are so ready to find fault with
others as those who do things worthy of blame
themselves."

The Sieur Bertrand was amused at Joan's naïve
way of referring to her advice as if it had been a
valuable present to a hostile leader who was saved
by it from making a censurable blunder of omission,
and then he went on to admire how ingeniously she
had deceived that man and yet had not told him
anything that was not the truth. This troubled
Joan, and she said:

"I thought he was deceiving himself. I forbore
to tell him lies, for that would have been wrong;
but if my truths deceived him, perhaps that made
them lies, and I am to blame. I would God I knew
if I have done wrong."

She was assured that she had done right, and that
in the perils and necessities of war deceptions that
help one's own cause and hurt the enemy's were

---

always permissible; but she was not quite satisfied
with that, and thought that even when a great cause
was in danger one ought to have the privilege of
trying honorable ways first. Jean said:

"Joan, you told us yourself that you were going
to Uncle Laxart's to nurse his wife, but you didn't
say you were going further, yet you did go on to
Vaucouleurs. There!"

"I see now," said Joan, sorrowfully, "I told no
lie, yet I deceived. I had tried all other ways first,
but I could not get away, and I had to get away.
My mission required it. I did wrong, I think, and
am to blame."

She was silent a moment, turning the matter over
in her mind, then she added, with quiet decision,
"But the thing itself was right, and I would do it
again."

It seemed an over-nice distinction, but nobody
said anything. If we had known her as well as she
knew herself, and as her later history revealed her
to us, we should have perceived that she had a clear
meaning there, and that her position was not iden-
tical with ours, as we were supposing, but occupied
a higher plane. She would sacrifice herself—and
her best self; that is, her truthfulness—to save her
cause; but only that; she would not buy her life at
that cost; whereas our war-ethics permitted the pur-
chase of our lives, or any mere military advantage,
small or great, by deception. Her saying seemed a
commonplace at that time, the essence of its mean-

---

ing escaping us; but one sees now that it contained
a principle which lifted it above that and made it
great and fine.

Presently the wind died down, the sleet stopped
falling, and the cold was less severe. The road was
become a bog, and the horses labored through it at
a walk—they could do no better. As the heavy
time wore on, exhaustion overcame us, and we slept
in our saddles. Not even the dangers that threat-
ened us could keep us awake.

This tenth night seemed longer than any of the
others, and of course it was the hardest, because we
had been accumulating fatigue from the beginning,
and had more of it on hand now than at any pre-
vious time. But we were not molested again.
When the dull dawn came at last we saw a river
before us and we knew it was the Loire; we entered
the town of Gien, and knew we were in a friendly
land, with the hostiles all behind us. That was a
glad morning for us.

We were a worn and bedraggled and shabby-
looking troop; and still, as always, Joan was the
freshest of us all, in both body and spirits. We
had averaged above thirteen leagues a night, by
tortuous and wretched roads. It was a remarkable
march, and shows what men can do when they have
a leader with a determined purpose and a resolution
that never flags.

---

CHAPTER V.

We rested and otherwise refreshed ourselves two
or three hours at Gien, but by that time the
news was abroad that the young girl commissioned
of God to deliver France was come; wherefore, such
a press of people flocked to our quarters to get sight
of her that it seemed best to seek a quieter place;
so we pushed on and halted at a small village called
Fierbois.

We were now within six leagues of the King,
who was at the Castle of Chinon. Joan dictated a
letter to him at once, and I wrote it. In it she said
she had come a hundred and fifty leagues to bring
him good news, and begged the privilege of deliver-
ing it in person. She added that although she had
never seen him she would know him in any disguise
and would point him out.

The two knights rode away at once with the letter.
The troop slept all the afternoon, and after supper
we felt pretty fresh and fine, especially our little
group of young Domremians. We had the com-
fortable tap-room of the village inn to ourselves,
and for the first time in ten unspeakably long days

---

were exempt from bodings and terrors and hard-
ships and fatiguing labors. The Paladin was sud-
denly become his ancient self again, and was swag-
gering up and down, a very monument of self-
complacency. Noël Rainguesson said:

"I think it is wonderful, the way he has brought
us through."

"Who?" asked Jean.

"Why, the Paladin."

The Paladin seemed not to hear.

"What had he to do with it?" asked Pierre
d'Arc.

"Everything. It was nothing but Joan's confi-
dence in his discretion that enabled her to keep up
her heart. She could depend on us and on herself
for valor, but discretion is the winning thing in war,
after all; discretion is the rarest and loftiest of
qualities, and he has got more of it than any other
man in France—more of it, perhaps, than any
other sixty men in France."

"Now you are getting ready to make a fool
of yourself, Noël Rainguesson," said the Paladin,
"and you want to coil some of that long tongue of
yours around your neck and stick the end of it in
your ear, then you'll be the less likely to get into
trouble."

"I didn't know he had more discretion than
other people," said Pierre, "for discretion argues
brains, and he hasn't any more brains than the rest
of us, in my opinion."

---

"No, you are wrong there. Discretion hasn't
anything to do with brains; brains are an obstruc-
tion to it, for it does not reason, it feels. Perfect
discretion means absence of brains. Discretion is a
quality of the heart—solely a quality of the heart;
it acts upon us through feeling. We know this be-
cause if it were an intellectual quality it would only
perceive a danger, for instance, where a danger
exists; whereas—"

"Hear him twaddle—the damned idiot!" mut-
tered the Paladin.

"—whereas, it being purely a quality of the
heart, and proceeding by feeling, not reason, its
reach is correspondingly wider and sublimer, en-
abling it to perceive and avoid dangers that haven't
any existence at all; as, for instance, that night in
the fog, when the Paladin took his horse's ears for
hostile lances and got off and climbed a tree—"

"It's a lie! a lie without shadow of foundation,
and I call upon you all to beware how you give
credence to the malicious inventions of this ram-
shackle slander-mill that has been doing its best to
destroy my character for years, and will grind up
your own reputations for you next. I got off to
tighten my saddle-girth—I wish I may die in my
tracks if it isn't so—and whoever wants to believe
it can, and whoever don't can let it alone."

"There, that is the way with him, you see; he
never can discuss a theme temperately, but always
flies off the handle and becomes disagreeable. And

---

you notice his defect of memory. He remembers
getting off his horse, but forgets all the rest, even
the tree. But that is natural; he would remember
getting off the horse because he was so used to
doing it. He always did it when there was an alarm
and the clash of arms at the front."

"Why did he choose that time for it?" asked
Jean.

"I don't know. To tighten up his girth, he
thinks, to climb a tree, I think; I saw him climb
nine trees in a single night."

"You saw nothing of the kind! A person that
can lie like that deserves no one's respect. I ask
you all to answer me. Do you believe what this
reptile has said?"

All seemed embarrassed, and only Pierre replied.
He said, hesitatingly:

"I—well, I hardly know what to say. It is a
delicate situation. It seems offensive to refuse to
believe a person when he makes so direct a state-
ment, and yet I am obliged to say, rude as it may
appear, that I am not able to believe the whole of it
—no, I am not able to believe that you climbed
nine trees."

"There!" cried the Paladin; "now what do you
think of yourself, Noël Rainguesson? How many
do you believe I climbed, Pierre?"

"Only eight."

The laughter that followed inflamed the Paladin's
anger to white heat, and he said:

---

"I bide my time—I bide my time. I will reckon
with you all, I promise you that!"

"Don't get him started," Noël pleaded; "he is
a perfect lion when he gets started. I saw enough
to teach me that, after the third skirmish. After it
was over I saw him come out of the bushes and
attack a dead man single-handed."

"It is another lie; and I give you fair warning
that you are going too far. You will see me attack
a live one if you are not careful."

"Meaning me, of course. This wounds me more
than any number of injurious and unkind speeches
could do. Ingratitude to one's benefactor—"

"Benefactor? What do I owe you, I should like
to know?"

"You owe me your life. I stood between the
trees and the foe, and kept hundreds and thousands
of the enemy at bay when they were thirsting for
your blood. And I did not do it to display my
daring, I did it because I loved you and could not
live without you."

"There—you have said enough! I will not stay
here to listen to these infamies. I can endure your
lies, but not your love. Keep that corruption for
somebody with a stronger stomach than mine. And
I want to say this, before I go. That you people's
small performances might appear the better and win
you the more glory, I hid my own deeds through
all the march. I went always to the front, where
the fighting was thickest, to be remote from you, in

---

order that you might not see and be discouraged by
the things I did to the enemy. It was my purpose
to keep this a secret in my own breast, but you
force me to reveal it. If you ask for my witnesses,
yonder they lie, on the road we have come. I found
that road mud, I paved it with corpses. I found
that country sterile, I fertilized it with blood. Time
and again I was urged to go to the rear because the
command could not proceed on account of my dead.
And yet you, you miscreant, accuse me of climbing
trees! Pah!"

And he strode out, with a lofty air, for the recital
of his imaginary deeds had already set him up again
and made him feel good.

Next day we mounted and faced toward Chinon.
Orleans was at our back now, and close by, lying in
the strangling grip of the English; soon, please
God, we would face about and go to their relief.
From Gien the news had spread to Orleans that the
peasant Maid of Vaucouleurs was on her way,
divinely commissioned to raise the siege. The news
made a great excitement and raised a great hope—
the first breath of hope those poor souls had
breathed in five months. They sent commissioners
at once to the King to beg him to consider this
matter, and not throw this help lightly away. These
commissioners were already at Chinon by this
time.

When we were half way to Chinon we happened
upon yet one more squad of enemies. They burst

---

suddenly out of the woods, and in considerable
force, too; but we were not the apprentices we were
ten or twelve days before; no, we were seasoned to
this kind of adventure now; our hearts did not jump
into our throats and our weapons tremble in our
hands. We had learned to be always in battle array,
always alert, and always ready to deal with any
emergency that might turn up. We were no more
dismayed by the sight of those people than our
commander was. Before they could form, Joan had
delivered the order, "Forward!" and we were down
upon them with a rush. They stood no chance;
they turned tail and scattered, we plowing through
them as if they had been men of straw. That was
our last ambuscade, and it was probably laid for us
by that treacherous rascal, the King's own minister
and favorite, De la Tremouille.

We housed ourselves in an inn, and soon the
town came flocking to get a glimpse of the Maid.

Ah, the tedious King and his tedious people!
Our two good knights came presently, their patience
well wearied, and reported. They and we reverently
stood—as becomes persons who are in the presence
of kings and the superiors of kings—until Joan,
troubled by this mark of homage and respect, and
not content with it nor yet used to it, although we
had not permitted ourselves to do otherwise since
the day she prophesied that wretched traitor's death
and he was straightway drowned, thus confirming
many previous signs that she was indeed an am-

---

bassador commissioned of God, commanded us to
sit; then the Sieur de Metz said to Joan:

"The King has got the letter, but they will not
let us have speech with him."

"Who is it that forbids?"

"None forbids, but there be three or four that
are nearest his person—schemers and traitors every
one—that put obstructions in the way, and seek all
ways, by lies and pretexts, to make delay. Chiefest
of these are Georges de la Tremouille and that plot-
ting fox, the Archbishop of Rheims. While they
keep the King idle and in bondage to his sports and
follies, they are great and their importance grows;
whereas if ever he assert himself and rise and strike
for crown and country like a man, their reign is
done. So they but thrive, they care not if the
crown go to destruction and the King with it."

"You have spoken with others besides these?"

"Not of the Court, no—the Court are the meek
slaves of those reptiles, and watch their mouths and
their actions, acting as they act, thinking as they
think, saying as they say: wherefore they are cold
to us, and turn aside and go another way when we
appear. But we have spoken with the commission-
ers from Orleans. They said with heat: 'It is a
marvel that any man in such desperate case as is
the King can moon around in this torpid way, and
see his all go to ruin without lifting a finger to stay
the disaster. What a most strange spectacle it is!
Here he is, shut up in this wee corner of the realm

---

like a rat in a trap; his royal shelter this huge
gloomy tomb of a castle, with wormy rags for up-
holstery and crippled furniture for use, a very house
of desolation; in his treasury forty francs, and not a
farthing more, God be witness! no army, nor any
shadow of one; and by contrast with this hungry
poverty you behold this crownless pauper and his
shoals of fools and favorites tricked out in the
gaudiest silks and velvets you shall find in any
Court in Christendom. And look you, he knows
that when our city falls—as fall it surely will ex-
cept succor come swiftly—France falls; he knows
that when that day comes he will be an outlaw and a
fugitive, and that behind him the English flag will
float unchallenged over every acre of his great
heritage; he knows these things, he knows that our
faithful city is fighting all solitary and alone against
disease, starvation, and the sword to stay this awful
calamity, yet he will not strike one blow to save her,
he will not hear our prayers, he will not even look
upon our faces.' That is what the commissioners
said, and they are in despair."

Joan said, gently:

"It is pity, but they must not despair. The
Dauphin will hear them presently. Tell them so."

She almost always called the King the Dauphin.
To her mind he was not King yet, not being
crowned.

"We will tell them so, and it will content them,
for they believe you come from God. The Arch-

---

bishop and his confederate have for backer that
veteran soldier Raoul de Gaucourt, Grand Master of
the Palace, a worthy man, but simply a soldier, with
no head for any greater matter. He cannot make
out to see how a country girl, ignorant of war, can
take a sword in her small hand and win victories
where the trained generals of France have looked
for defeats only, for fifty years—and always found
them. And so he lifts his frosty mustache and
scoffs."

"When God fights it is but small matter whether
the hand that bears His sword is big or little. He
will perceive this in time. Is there none in that Cas-
tle of Chinon who favors us?"

"Yes, the King's mother-in-law, Yolande, Queen
of Sicily, who is wise and good. She spoke with
the Sieur Bertrand."

"She favors us, and she hates those others, the
King's beguilers," said Bertrand. "She was full
of interest, and asked a thousand questions, all of
which I answered according to my ability. Then
she sat thinking over these replies until I thought
she was lost in a dream and would wake no more.
But it was not so. At last she said, slowly, and as
if she were talking to herself: 'A child of seven-
teen—a girl—country bred—untaught—ignorant
of war, the use of arms, and the conduct of battles
—modest, gentle, shrinking—yet throws away her
shepherd's crook and clothes herself in steel, and
fights her way through a hundred and fifty leagues

---

of hostile territory, never losing heart or hope, and
never showing fear, and comes—she to whom a
king must be a dread and awful presence—and will
stand up before such an one and say, Be not afraid,
God has sent me to save you! Ah, whence could
come a courage and conviction so sublime as this
but from very God Himself!' She was silent again
awhile, thinking and making up her mind; then she
said, 'And whether she comes of God or no, there
is that in her heart that raises her above men—high
above all men that breathe in France to-day—for
in her is that mysterious something that puts heart
into soldiers, and turns mobs of cowards into armies
of fighters that forget what fear is when they are in
that presence—fighters who go into battle with joy
in their eyes and songs on their lips, and sweep
over the field like a storm—that is the spirit that
can save France, and that alone, come it whence it
may! It is in her, I do truly believe, for what else
could have borne up that child on that great march,
and made her despise its dangers and fatigues? The
King must see her face to face—and shall!' She
dismissed me with those good words, and I know her
promise will be kept. They will delay her all they
can—those animals—but she will not fail in the
end."

"Would she were King!" said the other knight,
fervently. "For there is little hope that the King
himself can be stirred out of his lethargy. He is
wholly without hope, and is only thinking of throw-

---

ing away everything and flying to some foreign
land. The commissioners say there is a spell upon
him that makes him hopeless—yes, and that it is
shut up in a mystery which they cannot fathom."

"I know the mystery," said Joan, with quiet
confidence; "I know it, and he knows it, but no
other but God. When I see him I will tell him a
secret that will drive away his trouble, then he will
hold up his head again."

I was miserable with curiosity to know what it was
that she would tell him, but she did not say, and I
did not expect she would. She was but a child, it
is true; but she was not a chatterer to tell great
matters and make herself important to little people;
no, she was reserved, and kept things to herself, as
the truly great always do.

The next day Queen Yolande got one victory over
the King's keepers, for, in spite of their protesta-
tions and obstructions, she procured an audience for
our two knights, and they made the most they could
out of their opportunity. They told the King what
a spotless and beautiful character Joan was, and
how great and noble a spirit animated her, and they
implored him to trust in her, believe in her, and
have faith that she was sent to save France. They
begged him to consent to see her. He was strongly
moved to do this, and promised that he would not
drop the matter out of his mind, but would consult
with his council about it. This began to look en-
couraging. Two hours later there was a great stir

---

below, and the inn-keeper came flying up to say a
commission of illustrious ecclesiastics was come from
the King—from the King his very self, understand!
—think of this vast honor to his humble little hos-
telry!—and he was so overcome with the glory of it
that he could hardly find breath enough in his ex-
cited body to put the facts into words. They were
come from the King to speak with the Maid of
Vaucouleurs. Then he flew down stairs, and pres-
ently appeared again, backing into the room, and
bowing to the ground with every step, in front of
four imposing and austere bishops and their train of
servants.

Joan rose, and we all stood. The bishops took
seats, and for a while no word was said, for it was
their prerogative to speak first, and they were so
astonished to see what a child it was that was making
such a noise in the world and degrading personages
of their dignity to the base function of ambassadors
to her in her plebeian tavern, that they could not
find any words to say at first. Then presently their
spokesman told Joan they were aware that she had a
message for the King, wherefore she was now com-
manded to put it into words, briefly and without
waste of time or embroideries of speech.

As for me, I could hardly contain my joy—our
message was to reach the King at last! And there
was the same joy and pride and exultation in the
faces of our knights, too, and in those of Joan's
brothers. And I knew that they were all praying—

---

as I was—that the awe which we felt in the presence
of these great dignitaries, and which would have tied
our tongues and locked our jaws, would not affect
her in the like degree, but that she would be enabled
to word her message well, and with little stumbling,
and so make a favorable impression here, where it
would be so valuable and so important.

Ah, dear, how little we were expecting what hap-
pened then! We were aghast to hear her say what
she said. She was standing in a reverent attitude,
with her head down and her hands clasped in front
of her; for she was always reverent toward the con-
secrated servants of God. When the spokesman had
finished, she raised her head and set her calm eye
on those faces, not any more disturbed by their
state and grandeur than a princess would have been,
and said, with all her ordinary simplicity and
modesty of voice and manner:

"Ye will forgive me, reverend sirs, but I have no
message save for the King's ear alone."

Those surprised men were dumb for a moment,
and their faces flushed darkly; then the spokesman
said:

"Hark ye, do you fling the King's command in
his face and refuse to deliver this message of yours
to his servants appointed to receive it?"

"God has appointed one to receive it, and an-
other's commandment may not take precedence of
that. I pray you let me have speech of his grace
the Dauphin."

---

"Forbear this folly, and come at your message!
Deliver it, and waste no more time about it."

"You err indeed, most reverend fathers in God,
and it is not well. I am not come hither to talk,
but to deliver Orleans, and lead the Dauphin to his
good city of Rheims, and set the crown upon his
head."

"Is that the message you send to the King?"

But Joan only said, in the simple fashion which
was her wont:

"Ye will pardon me for reminding you again—
but I have no message to send to any one."

The King's messengers rose in deep anger and
swept out of the place without further words, we
and Joan kneeling as they passed.

Our countenances were vacant, our hearts full of
a sense of disaster. Our precious opportunity was
thrown away; we could not understand Joan's con-
duct, she who had been so wise until this fatal hour.
At last the Sieur Bertrand found courage to ask her
why she had let this great chance to get her message
to the King go by.

"Who sent them here?" she asked.

"The King."

"Who moved the King to send them?" She
waited for an answer; none came, for we began to
see what was in her mind—so she answered her-
self: "The Dauphin's council moved him to it.
Are they enemies to me and to the Dauphin's weal,
or are they friends?"

---

"Enemies," answered the Sieur Bertrand.

"If one would have a message go sound and un-
garbled, does one choose traitors and tricksters to
send it by?"

I saw that we had been fools, and she wise. They
saw it too, so none found anything to say. Then
she went on:

"They had but small wit that contrived this trap.
They thought to get my message and seem to deliver
it straight, yet deftly twist it from its purpose. You
know that one part of my message is but this—to
move the Dauphin by argument and reasonings to
give me men-at-arms and send me to the siege. If
an enemy carried these in the right words, the exact
words, and no word missing, yet left out the persua-
sions of gesture and supplicating tone and beseech-
ing looks that inform the words and make them live,
where were the value of that argument—whom
could it convince? Be patient, the Dauphin will
hear me presently; have no fear."

The Sieur de Metz nodded his head several times,
and muttered as to himself:

"She was right and wise, and we are but dull
fools, when all is said."

It was just my thought; I could have said it my-
self; and indeed it was the thought of all there
present. A sort of awe crept over us, to think how
that untaught girl, taken suddenly and unprepared,
was yet able to penetrate the cunning devices of a
King's trained advisers and defeat them. Marveling

---

over this, and astonished at it, we fell silent and
spoke no more. We had come to know that she
was great in courage, fortitude, endurance, patience,
conviction, fidelity to all duties—in all things, in-
deed, that make a good and trusty soldier and per-
fect him for his post; now we were beginning to
feel that maybe there were greatnesses in her brain
that were even greater than these great qualities of
the heart. It set us thinking.

What Joan did that day bore fruit the very day
after. The King was obliged to respect the spirit of
a young girl who could hold her own and stand her
ground like that, and he asserted himself sufficiently
to put his respect into an act instead of into polite
and empty words. He moved Joan out of that poor
inn, and housed her, with us her servants, in the
Castle of Courdray, personally confiding her to the
care of Madame de Bellier, wife of old Raoul de
Gaucourt, Master of the Palace. Of course, this
royal attention had an immediate result; all the
great lords and ladies of the Court began to flock
there to see and listen to the wonderful girl-soldier
that all the world was talking about, and who had
answered the King's mandate with a bland refusal to
obey. Joan charmed them every one with her
sweetness and simplicity and unconscious eloquence,
and all the best and capablest among them recog-
nized that there was an indefinable something about
her that testified that she was not made of common
clay, that she was built on a grander plan than the

---

mass of mankind, and moved on a loftier plane.
These spread her fame. She always made friends
and advocates that way; neither the high nor the
low could come within the sound of her voice and the
sight of her face and go out from her presence in-
different.

---

CHAPTER VI.

Well, anything to make delay. The King's
council advised him against arriving at a
decision in our matter too precipitately. He arrive
at a decision too precipitately! So they sent a
committee of priests—always priests—into Lor-
raine to inquire into Joan's character and history—
a matter which would consume several weeks, of
course. You see how fastidious they were. It was
as if people should come to put out the fire when
a man's house was burning down, and they waited
till they could send into another country to find out
if he had always kept the Sabbath or not, before
letting him try.

So the days poked along; dreary for us young
people in some ways, but not in all, for we had one
great anticipation in front of us; we had never seen
a king, and now some day we should have that pro-
digious spectacle to see and to treasure in our
memories all our lives; so we were on the lookout,
and always eager and watching for the chance. The
others were doomed to wait longer than I, as it
turned out. One day great news came—the Orleans

---

commissioners, with Yolande and our knights, had
at last turned the council's position and persuaded
the King to see Joan.

Joan received the immense news gratefully but
without losing her head, but with us others it was
otherwise; we could not eat or sleep or do any
rational thing for the excitement and the glory of it.
During two days our pair of noble knights were in
distress and trepidation on Joan's account, for the
audience was to be at night, and they were afraid
that Joan would be so paralyzed by the glare of
light from the long files of torches, the solemn
pomps and ceremonies, the great concourse of re-
nowned personages, the brilliant costumes, and the
other splendors of the Court, that she, a simple
country maid, and all unused to such things, would
be overcome by these terrors and make a piteous
failure.

No doubt I could have comforted them, but I was
not free to speak. Would Joan be disturbed by this
cheap spectacle, this tinsel show, with its small King
and his butterfly dukelets?—she who had spoken
face to face with the princes of heaven, the familiars
of God, and seen their retinue of angels stretching
back into the remoteness of the sky, myriads upon
myriads, like a measureless fan of light, a glory like
the glory of the sun streaming from each of those
innumerable heads, the massed radiance filling the
deeps of space with a blinding splendor? I thought
not.

---

Queen Yolande wanted Joan to make the best
possible impression upon the King and the Court,
so she was strenuous to have her clothed in the
richest stuffs, wrought upon the princeliest pattern,
and set off with jewels; but in that she had to be
disappointed, of course, Joan not being persuadable
to it, but begging to be simply and sincerely dressed,
as became a servant of God, and one sent upon a
mission of a serious sort and grave political import.
So then the gracious Queen imagined and contrived
that simple and witching costume which I have de-
scribed to you so many times, and which I cannot
think of even now in my dull age without being
moved just as rhythmical and exquisite music moves
one; for that was music, that dress—that is what it
was—music that one saw with the eyes and felt in
the heart. Yes, she was a poem, she was a dream,
she was a spirit when she was clothed in that.

She kept that raiment always, and wore it several
times upon occasions of state, and it is preserved to
this day in the Treasury of Orleans, with two of her
swords, and her banner, and other things now sacred
because they had belonged to her.

At the appointed time the Count of Vendôme, a
great lord of the court, came richly clothed, with
his train of servants and assistants, to conduct Joan
to the King, and the two knights and I went with
her, being entitled to this privilege by reason of our
official positions near her person.

When we entered the great audience hall, there it

---

all was, just as I have already painted it. Here were
ranks of guards in shining armor and with polished
halberds; two sides of the hall were like flower-
gardens for variety of color and the magnificence of
the costumes; light streamed upon these masses of
color from two hundred and fifty flambeaux. There
was a wide free space down the middle of the hall,
and at the end of it was a throne royally canopied,
and upon it sat a crowned and sceptred figure nobly
clothed and blazing with jewels.

It is true that Joan had been hindered and put off
a good while, but now that she was admitted to an
audience at last, she was received with honors
granted to only the greatest personages. At the
entrance door stood four heralds in a row, in splen-
did tabards, with long slender silver trumpets at
their mouths, with square silken banners depending
from them embroidered with the arms of France.
As Joan and the Count passed by, these trumpets
gave forth in unison one long rich note, and as we
moved down the hall under the pictured and gilded
vaulting, this was repeated at every fifty feet of our
progress—six times in all. It made our good
knights proud and happy, and they held themselves
erect, and stiffened their stride, and looked fine and
soldierly. They were not expecting this beautiful
and honorable tribute to our little country maid.

Joan walked two yards behind the Count, we
three walked two yards behind Joan. Our solemn
march ended when we were as yet some eight or ten

---

steps from the throne. The Count made a deep
obeisance, pronounced Joan's name, then bowed
again and moved to his place among a group of
officials near the throne. I was devouring the
crowned personage with all my eyes, and my heart
almost stood still with awe.

The eyes of all others were fixed upon Joan in a
gaze of wonder which was half worship, and which
seemed to say, "How sweet—how lovely—how
divine!" All lips were parted and motionless, which
was a sure sign that those people, who seldom for-
get themselves, had forgotten themselves now, and
were not conscious of anything but the one object
they were gazing upon. They had the look of
people who are under the enchantment of a vision.

Then they presently began to come to life again,
rousing themselves out of the spell and shaking it
off as one drives away little by little a clinging
drowsiness or intoxication. Now they fixed their
attention upon Joan with a strong new interest of
another sort; they were full of curiosity to see what
she would do—they having a secret and particular
reason for this curiosity. So they watched. This
is what they saw:

She made no obeisance, nor even any slight in-
clination of her head, but stood looking toward the
throne in silence. That was all there was to see at
present.

I glanced up at De Metz, and was shocked at the
paleness of his face. I whispered and said:

---

JOAN DISCOVERS THE DISGUISED KING

---

---

"What is it man, what is it?"

His answering whisper was so weak I could hardly
catch it:

"They have taken advantage of the hint in her
letter to play a trick upon her! She will err, and
they will laugh at her. That is not the King that
sits there."

Then I glanced at Joan. She was still gazing
steadfastly toward the throne, and I had the curious
fancy that even her shoulders and the back of her
head expressed bewilderment. Now she turned her
head slowly, and her eye wandered along the lines
of standing courtiers till it fell upon a young man
who was very quietly dressed; then her face lighted
joyously, and she ran and threw herself at his feet,
and clasped his knees, exclaiming in that soft melo-
dious voice which was her birthright and was now
charged with deep and tender feeling:

"God of his grace give you long life, O dear and
gentle Dauphin!"

In his astonishment and exultation De Metz cried
out:

"By the shadow of God, it is an amazing thing!"
Then he mashed all the bones of my hand in his grate-
ful grip, and added, with a proud shake of his mane,
"Now, what have these painted infidels to say!"

Meantime the young person in the plain clothes
was saying to Joan:

"Ah, you mistake, my child, I am not the King.
There he is," and he pointed to the throne.

---

The knight's face clouded, and he muttered in
grief and indignation:

"Ah, it is a shame to use her so. But for this lie
she had gone through safe. I will go and proclaim
to all the house what—"

"Stay where you are!" whispered I and the
Sieur Bertrand in a breath, and made him stop in
his place.

Joan did not stir from her knees, but still lifted
her happy face toward the King, and said:

"No, gracious liege, you are he, and none
other."

De Metz's troubles vanished away, and he said:

"Verily, she was not guessing, she knew. Now,
how could she know? It is a miracle. I am con-
tent, and will meddle no more, for I perceive that
she is equal to her occasions, having that in her
head that cannot profitably be helped by the vacancy
that is in mine."

This interruption of his lost me a remark or
two of the other talk; however, I caught the King's
next question:

"But tell me who you are, and what would
you?"

"I am called Joan the Maid, and am sent to say
that the King of Heaven wills that you be crowned
and consecrated in your good city of Rheims, and
be thereafter Lieutenant of the Lord of Heaven,
who is King of France. And He willeth also that
you set me at my appointed work and give me men-

---

at-arms." After a slight pause she added, her eye
lighting at the sound of her words, "For then will I
raise the siege of Orleans and break the English
power!"

The young monarch's amused face sobered a little
when this martial speech fell upon that sick air like
a breath blown from embattled camps and fields of
war, and his trifling smile presently faded wholly
away and disappeared. He was grave now, and
thoughtful. After a little he waved his hand lightly,
and all the people fell away and left those two by
themselves in a vacant space. The knights and I
moved to the opposite side of the hall and stood
there. We saw Joan rise at a sign, then she and the
King talked privately together.

All that host had been consumed with curiosity to
see what Joan would do. Well, they had seen, and
now they were full of astonishment to see that she
had really performed that strange miracle according
to the promise in her letter; and they were fully as
much astonished to find that she was not overcome
by the pomps and splendors about her, but was
even more tranquil and at her ease in holding speech
with a monarch than ever they themselves had been,
with all their practice and experience.

As for our two knights, they were inflated beyond
measure with pride in Joan, but nearly dumb, as to
speech, they not being able to think out any way to
account for her managing to carry herself through
this imposing ordeal without ever a mistake or an

---

awkwardness of any kind to mar the grace and
credit of her great performance.

The talk between Joan and the King was long and
earnest, and held in low voices. We could not
hear, but we had our eyes and could note effects;
and presently we and all the house noted one effect
which was memorable and striking, and has been set
down in memoirs and histories and in testimony at
the Process of Rehabilitation by some who witnessed
it; for all knew it was big with meaning, though
none knew what that meaning was at that time, of
course. For suddenly we saw the King shake off
his indolent attitude and straighten up like a man,
and at the same time look immeasurably astonished.
It was as if Joan had told him something almost too
wonderful for belief, and yet of a most uplifting and
welcome nature.

It was long before we found out the secret of
this conversation, but we know it now, and all the
world knows it. That part of the talk was like this
—as one may read in all histories. The perplexed
King asked Joan for a sign. He wanted to believe
in her and her mission, and that her Voices were
supernatural and endowed with knowledge hidden
from mortals, but how could he do this unless these
Voices could prove their claim in some absolutely
unassailable way? It was then that Joan said:

"I will give you a sign, and you shall no more
doubt. There is a secret trouble in your heart
which you speak of to none—a doubt which wastes

---

away your courage, and makes you dream of throw-
ing all away and fleeing from your realm. Within
this little while you have been praying, in your own
breast, that God of his grace would resolve that
doubt, even if the doing of it must show you that
no kingly right is lodged in you."

It was that that amazed the King, for it was as
she had said: his prayer was the secret of his own
breast, and none but God could know about it. So
he said:

"The sign is sufficient. I know now that these
Voices are of God. They have said true in this
matter; if they have said more, tell it me—I will
believe."

"They have resolved that doubt, and I bring their
very words, which are these: Thou art lawful heir to
the King thy father, and true heir of France. God
has spoken it. Now lift up thy head, and doubt no
more, but give me men-at-arms and let me get about
my work."

Telling him he was of lawful birth was what
straightened him up and made a man of him for a
moment, removing his doubts upon that head and
convincing him of his royal right; and if any could
have hanged his hindering and pestiferous council
and set him free, he would have answered Joan's
prayer and set her in the field. But no, those
creatures were only checked, not checkmated; they
could invent some more delays.

We had been made proud by the honors which

---

had so distinguished Joan's entrance into that place
—honors restricted to personages of very high rank
and worth—but that pride was as nothing com-
pared with the pride we had in the honor done her
upon leaving it. For whereas those first honors
were shown only to the great, these last, up to this
time, had been shown only to the royal. The King
himself led Joan by the hand down the great hall to
the door, the glittering multitude standing and
making reverence as they passed, and the silver
trumpets sounding those rich notes of theirs. Then
he dismissed her with gracious words, bending low
over her hand and kissing it. Always—from all
companies, high or low—she went forth richer in
honor and esteem than when she came.

And the King did another handsome thing by
Joan, for he sent us back to Courdray Castle torch-
lighted and in state, under escort of his own troop—
his guard of honor—the only soldiers he had; and
finely equipped and bedizened they were, too,
though they hadn't seen the color of their wages
since they were children, as a body might say. The
wonders which Joan had been performing before the
King had been carried all around by this time, so
the road was so packed with people who wanted to
get a sight of her that we could hardly dig through;
and as for talking together, we couldn't, all attempts
at talk being drowned in the storm of shoutings and
huzzas that broke out all along as we passed, and
kept abreast of us like a wave the whole way.

---

CHAPTER VII.

We were doomed to suffer tedious waits and de-
lays, and we settled ourselves down to our fate
and bore it with a dreary patience, counting the
slow hours and the dull days and hoping for a turn
when God should please to send it. The Paladin
was the only exception—that is to say, he was the
only one who was happy and had no heavy times.
This was partly owing to the satisfaction he got out
of his clothes. He bought them when he first ar-
rived. He bought them at second hand—a Spanish
cavalier's complete suit, wide-brimmed hat with flow-
ing plumes, lace collar and cuffs, faded velvet doublet
and trunks, short cloak hung from the shoulder,
funnel-topped buskins, long rapier, and all that—a
graceful and picturesque costume, and the Paladin's
great frame was the right place to hang it for effect.
He wore it when off duty; and when he swaggered
by with one hand resting on the hilt of his rapier,
and twirling his new mustache with the other, every-
body stopped to look and admire; and well they
might, for he was a fine and stately contrast to the
small French gentleman of the day squeezed into the
trivial French costume of the time.

---

He was king bee of the little village that snuggled
under the shelter of the frowning towers and bastions
of Courdray Castle, and acknowledged lord of the
tap-room of the inn. When he opened his mouth
there, he got a hearing. Those simple artisans and
peasants listened with deep and wondering interest;
for he was a traveler and had seen the world—all
of it that lay between Chinon and Domremy, at any
rate—and that was a wide stretch more of it than
they might ever hope to see; and he had been in
battle, and knew how to paint its shock and strug-
gle, its perils and surprises, with an art that was all
his own. He was cock of that walk, hero of that
hostelry; he drew custom as honey draws flies; so
he was the pet of the inn-keeper, and of his wife and
daughter, and they were his obliged and willing
servants.

Most people who have the narrative gift—that
great and rare endowment—have with it the defect
of telling their choice things over the same way every
time, and this injures them and causes them to sound
stale and wearisome after several repetitions; but it
was not so with the Paladin, whose art was of a finer
sort; it was more stirring and interesting to hear him
tell about a battle the tenth time than it was the first
time, because he did not tell it twice the same way,
but always made a new battle of it and a better one,
with more casualties on the enemy's side each time,
and more general wreck and disaster all around, and
more widows and orphans and suffering in the neigh-

---

borhood where it happened. He could not tell his
battles apart himself, except by their names; and by
the time he had told one of them ten times he had to
lay it aside and start a new one in its place, because
it had grown so that there wasn't room enough in
France for it any more, but was lapping over the
edges. But up to that point the audience would not
allow him to substitute a new battle, knowing that
the old ones were the best, and sure to improve as
long as France could hold them; and so, instead of
saying to him as they would have said to another,
"Give us something fresh, we are fatigued with that
old thing," they would say, with one voice and with
a strong interest, "Tell about the surprise at
Beaulieu again—tell it three or four times!" That
is a compliment which few narrative experts have
heard in their lifetime.

At first when the Paladin heard us tell about the
glories of the Royal Audience he was broken-hearted
because he was not taken with us to it; next, his
talk was full of what he would have done if he had
been there; and within two days he was telling what
he did do when he was there. His mill was fairly
started, now, and could be trusted to take care of its
affair. Within three nights afterwards all his battles
were taking a rest, for already his worshipers in the
tap-room were so infatuated with the great tale of the
Royal Audience that they would have nothing else,
and so besotted with it were they that they would
have cried if they could not have gotten it.

---

Noël Rainguesson hid himself and heard it, and
came and told me, and after that we went together
to listen, bribing the inn hostess to let us have her
little private parlor, where we could stand at the
wickets in the door and see and hear.

The tap-room was large, yet had a snug and cosy
look, with its inviting little tables and chairs scattered
irregularly over its red brick floor, and its great fire
flaming and crackling in the wide chimney. It was a
comfortable place to be in on such chilly and blus-
tering March nights as these, and a goodly company
had taken shelter there, and were sipping their wine
in contentment and gossiping one with another in a
neighborly way while they waited for the historian.
The host, the hostess, and their pretty daughter
were flying here and there and yonder among the
tables and doing their best to keep up with the
orders. The room was about forty feet square, and
a space or aisle down the center of it had been kept
vacant and reserved for the Paladin's needs. At the
end of it was a platform ten or twelve feet wide, with
a big chair and a small table on it, and three steps
leading up to it.

Among the wine-sippers were many familiar faces:
the cobbler, the farrier, the blacksmith, the wheel-
wright, the armorer, the maltster, the weaver, the
baker, the miller's man with his dusty coat, and so
on; and conspicuous and important, as a matter of
course, was the barber-surgeon, for he is that in all
villages. As he has to pull everybody's teeth and

---

purge and bleed all the grown people once a month
to keep their health sound, he knows everybody, and
by constant contact with all sorts of folk becomes
a master of etiquette and manners and a conversa-
tionalist of large facility. There were plenty of car-
riers, drovers, and their sort, and journeymen
artisans.

When the Paladin presently came sauntering indo-
lently in, he was received with a cheer, and the bar-
ber bustled forward and greeted him with several low
and most graceful and courtly bows, also taking his
hand and touching his lips to it. Then he called in
a loud voice for a stoup of wine for the Paladin, and
when the host's daughter brought it up on to the
platform and dropped her curtesy and departed, the
barber called after her, and told her to add the wine
to his score. This won him ejaculations of approval,
which pleased him very much and made his little rat-
eyes shine; and such applause is right and proper,
for when we do a liberal and gallant thing it is but
natural that we should wish to see notice taken of it.

The barber called upon the people to rise and
drink the Paladin's health, and they did it with
alacrity and affectionate heartiness, clashing their
metal flagons together with a simultaneous crash, and
heightening the effect with a resounding cheer. It
was a fine thing to see how that young swashbuckler
had made himself so popular in a strange land in so
little a while, and without other helps to his advance-
ment than just his tongue and the talent to use it

---

given him by God—a talent which was but one
talent in the beginning, but was now become ten
through husbandry and the increment and usufruct
that do naturally follow that and reward it as by a
law.

The people sat down and began to hammer on the
tables with their flagons and call for "the King's
Audience!—the King's Audience!—the King's
Audience!" The Paladin stood there in one of his
best attitudes, with his plumed great hat tipped over
to the left, the folds of his short cloak drooping from
his shoulder, and the one hand resting upon the hilt
of his rapier and the other lifting his beaker. As
the noise died down he made a stately sort of a bow,
which he had picked up somewhere, then fetched his
beaker with a sweep to his lips and tilted his head
back and drained it to the bottom. The barber
jumped for it and set it upon the Paladin's table.
Then the Paladin began to walk up and down his
platform with a great deal of dignity and quite at his
ease; and as he walked he talked, and every little
while stopped and stood facing his house and so
standing continued his talk.

We went three nights in succession. It was plain
that there was a charm about the performance that
was apart from the mere interest which attaches to
lying. It was presently discoverable that this charm
lay in the Paladin's sincerity. He was not lying
consciously; he believed what he was saying. To
him, his initial statements were facts, and whenever

---

he enlarged a statement, the enlargement became a
fact too. He put his heart into his extravagant nar-
rative, just as a poet puts his heart into a heroic fic-
tion, and his earnestness disarmed criticism—dis-
armed it as far as he himself was concerned. Nobody
believed his narrative, but all believed that he be-
lieved it.

He made his enlargements without flourish, with-
out emphasis, and so casually that often one failed
to notice that a change had been made. He spoke
of the governor of Vaucouleurs, the first night,
simply as the governor of Vaucouleurs; he spoke of
him the second night as his uncle the governor of
Vaucouleurs; the third night he was his father. He
did not seem to know that he was making these ex-
traordinary changes; they dropped from his lips in
a quite natural and effortless way. By his first
night's account the governor merely attached him to
the Maid's military escort in a general and unofficial
way; the second night his uncle the governor sent
him with the Maid as lieutenant of her rear guard;
the third night his father the governor put the whole
command, Maid and all, in his especial charge. The
first night the governor spoke of him as a youth
without name or ancestry, but "destined to achieve
both"; the second night his uncle the governor
spoke of him as the latest and worthiest lineal de-
scendant of the chiefest and noblest of the Twelve
Paladins of Charlemagne; the third night he spoke
of him as the lineal descendant of the whole dozen.

---

In three nights he promoted the Count of Vendôme
from a fresh acquaintance to schoolmate, and then
brother-in-law.

At the King's Audience everything grew, in the
same way. First the four silver trumpets were
twelve, then thirty-five, finally ninety-six; and by
that time he had thrown in so many drums and cym-
bals that he had to lengthen the hall from five hun-
dred feet to nine hundred to accommodate them.
Under his hand the people present multiplied in
the same large way.

The first two nights he contented himself with
merely describing and exaggerating the chief dra-
matic incident of the Audience, but the third night
he added illustration to description. He throned the
barber in his own high chair to represent the sham
King; then he told how the Court watched the Maid
with intense interest and suppressed merriment, ex-
pecting to see her fooled by the deception and get
herself swept permanently out of credit by the storm
of scornful laughter which would follow. He
worked this scene up till he got his house in a burn-
ing fever of excitement and anticipation, then came
his climax. Turning to the barber, he said:

"But mark you what she did. She gazed stead-
fastly upon that sham's villain face as I now gaze
upon yours—this being her noble and simple atti-
tude, just as I stand now—then turned she—thus
—to me, and stretching her arm out—so—and
pointing with her finger, she said, in that firm, calm

---

tone which she was used to use in directing the con-
duct of a battle, 'Pluck me this false knave from the
throne!' I, striding forward as I do now, took him
by the collar and lifted him out and held him aloft
—thus—as if he had been but a child." (The
house rose, shouting, stamping, and banging with
their flagons, and went fairly mad over this mag-
nificent exhibition of strength—and there was not
the shadow of a laugh anywhere, though the specta-
cle of the limp but proud barber hanging there in the
air like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck was a
thing that had nothing of solemnity about it.)
"Then I set him down upon his feet—thus—being
minded to get him by a better hold and heave him
out of the window, but she bid me forbear, so by
that error he escaped with his life.

"Then she turned her about and viewed the throng
with those eyes of hers, which are the clear-shining
windows whence her immortal wisdom looketh out
upon the world, resolving its falsities and coming
at the kernel of truth that is hid within them, and
presently they fell upon a young man modestly
clothed, and him she proclaimed for what he truly
was, saying, 'I am thy servant—thou art the King!'
Then all were astonished, and a great shout went
up, the whole six thousand joining in it, so that the
walls rocked with the volume and the tumult of it."

He made a fine and picturesque thing of the
march-out from the Audience, augmenting the glories
of it to the last limit of the impossibilities; then he

---

took from his finger and held up a brass nut from a
bolt-head which the head-ostler at the castle had
given him that morning, and made his conclusion
—thus:

"Then the King dismissed the Maid most gra-
ciously—as indeed was her desert—and, turning to
me, said, 'Take this signet-ring, son of the Paladins,
and command me with it in your day of need; and
look you,' said he, touching my temple, 'preserve
this brain, France has use for it; and look well to
its casket also, for I foresee that it will be hooped
with a ducal coronet one day.' I took the ring,
and knelt and kissed his hand, saying, 'Sire, where
glory calls, there will I be found; where danger and
death are thickest, that is my native air; when
France and the throne need help—well, I say noth-
ing, for I am not of the talking sort—let my deeds
speak for me, it is all I ask.'

"So ended that most fortunate and memorable
episode, so big with future weal for the crown and
the nation, and unto God be the thanks! Rise!
Fill your flagons! Now—to France and the King
—drink!"

They emptied them to the bottom, then burst into
cheers and huzzas, and kept it up as much as two
minutes, the Paladin standing at stately ease the
while and smiling benignantly from his platform.

---

CHAPTER VIII.

When Joan told the King what that deep secret
was that was torturing his heart, his doubts
were cleared away; he believed she was sent of God,
and if he had been let alone he would have set her
upon her great mission at once. But he was not let
alone. Tremouille and the holy fox of Rheims
knew their man. All they needed to say was this
—and they said it:

"Your Highness says her Voices have revealed to
you, by her mouth, a secret known only to yourself
and God. How can you know that her Voices are
not of Satan, and she his mouthpiece?—for does
not Satan know the secrets of men and use his
knowledge for the destruction of their souls? It is
a dangerous business, and your Highness will do
well not to proceed in it without probing the matter
to the bottom."

That was enough. It shriveled up the King's
little soul like a raisin, with terrors and apprehen-
sions, and straightway he privately appointed a com-
mission of bishops to visit and question Joan daily
until they should find out whether her supernatural
helps hailed from heaven or from hell.

---

The King's relative, the Duke of Alençon, three
years prisoner of war to the English, was in these
days released from captivity through promise of a
great ransom; and the name and fame of the Maid
having reached him—for the same filled all mouths
now, and penetrated to all parts—he came to
Chinon to see with his own eyes what manner of
creature she might be. The King sent for Joan and
introduced her to the Duke. She said, in her simple
fashion:

"You are welcome; the more of the blood of
France that is joined to this cause, the better for the
cause and it."

Then the two talked together, and there was just
the usual result: when they parted, the Duke was
her friend and advocate.

Joan attended the King's mass the next day, and
afterward dined with the King and the Duke. The
King was learning to prize her company and value
her conversation; and that might well be, for, like
other kings, he was used to getting nothing out of
people's talk but guarded phrases, colorless and non-
committal, or carefully tinted to tally with the color
of what he said himself; and so this kind of conver-
sation only vexes and bores, and is wearisome; but
Joan's talk was fresh and free, sincere and honest,
and unmarred by timorous self-watching and con-
straint. She said the very thing that was in her
mind, and said it in a plain, straightforward way.
One can believe that to the King this must have been

---

like fresh cold water from the mountains to parched
lips used to the water of the sun-baked puddles of
the plain.

After dinner Joan so charmed the Duke with her
horsemanship and lance-practice in the meadows by
the Castle of Chinon, whither the King also had
come to look on, that he made her a present of a
great black war-steed.

Every day the commission of bishops came and
questioned Joan about her Voices and her mission,
and then went to the King with their report. These
pryings accomplished but little. She told as much
as she considered advisable, and kept the rest to
herself. Both threats and trickeries were wasted
upon her. She did not care for the threats, and the
traps caught nothing. She was perfectly frank and
childlike about these things. She knew the bishops
were sent by the King, that their questions were the
King's questions, and that by all law and custom a
King's questions must be answered; yet she told the
King in her naïve way at his own table one day that
she answered only such of those questions as suited
her.

The bishops finally concluded that they couldn't
tell whether Joan was sent by God or not. They
were cautious, you see. There were two powerful
parties at Court; therefore to make a decision either
way would infallibly embroil them with one of those
parties; so it seemed to them wisest to roost on the
fence and shift the burden to other shoulders. And

---

that is what they did. They made final report that
Joan's case was beyond their powers, and recom-
mended that it be put into the hands of the learned
and illustrious doctors of the University of Poitiers.
Then they retired from the field, leaving behind
them this little item of testimony, wrung from them
by Joan's wise reticence: they said she was a
"gentle and simple little shepherdess, very candid,
but not given to talking."

It was quite true—in their case. But if they
could have looked back and seen her with us in the
happy pastures of Domremy, they would have per-
ceived that she had a tongue that could go fast
enough when no harm could come of her words.

So we traveled to Poitiers, to endure there three
weeks of tedious delay while this poor child was
being daily questioned and badgered before a great
bench of—what? Military experts?—since what
she had come to apply for was an army and the
privilege of leading it to battle against the enemies of
France. Oh no; it was a great bench of priests and
monks—profoundly learned and astute casuists—
renowned professors of theology! Instead of setting
a military commission to find out if this valorous
little soldier could win victories, they set a company
of holy hair-splitters and phrase-mongers to work to
find out if the soldier was sound in her piety and had
no doctrinal leaks. The rats were devouring the
house, but instead of examining the cat's teeth and
claws, they only concerned themselves to find out if

---

it was a holy cat. If it was a pious cat, a moral cat,
all right, never mind about the other capacities, they
were of no consequence.

Joan was as sweetly self-possessed and tranquil be-
fore this grim tribunal, with its robed celebrities, its
solemn state and imposing ceremonials, as if she
were but a spectator and not herself on trial. She
sat there, solitary on her bench, untroubled, and
disconcerted the science of the sages with her sublime
ignorance—an ignorance which was a fortress; arts,
wiles, the learning drawn from books, and all like
missiles rebounded from its unconscious masonry and
fell to the ground harmless; they could not dislodge
the garrison which was within—Joan's serene great
heart and spirit, the guards and keepers of her
mission.

She answered all questions frankly, and she told
all the story of her visions and of her experiences
with the angels and what they said to her; and the
manner of the telling was so unaffected, and so
earnest and sincere, and made it all seem so lifelike
and real, that even that hard practical court forgot
itself and sat motionless and mute, listening with a
charmed and wondering interest to the end. And if
you would have other testimony than mine, look in
the histories and you will find where an eye-witness,
giving sworn testimony in the Rehabilitation process,
says that she told that tale "with a noble dignity and
simplicity," and as to its effect, says in substance
what I have said. Seventeen, she was—seventeen,

---

and all alone on her bench by herself; yet was not
afraid, but faced that great company of erudite
doctors of law and theology, and by the help of no
art learned in the schools, but using only the en-
chantments which were hers by nature, of youth,
sincerity, a voice soft and musical, and an eloquence
whose source was the heart, not the head, she laid
that spell upon them. Now was not that a beautiful
thing to see? If I could, I would put it before you
just as I saw it; then I know what you would say.

As I have told you, she could not read. One day
they harried and pestered her with arguments,
reasonings, objections, and other windy and wordy
trivialities, gathered out of the works of this and that
and the other great theological authority, until at
last her patience vanished, and she turned upon them
sharply and said:

"I don't know A from B; but I know this: that
I am come by command of the Lord of Heaven to
deliver Orleans from the English power and crown
the King at Rheims, and the matters ye are puttering
over are of no consequence!"

Necessarily those were trying days for her, and
wearing for everybody that took part; but her share
was the hardest, for she had no holidays, but must
be always on hand and stay the long hours through,
whereas this, that, and the other inquisitor could
absent himself and rest up from his fatigues when he
got worn out. And yet she showed no wear, no
weariness, and but seldom let fly her temper. As

---

a rule she put her day through calm, alert, patient,
fencing with those veteran masters of scholarly
sword-play and coming out always without a scratch.

One day a Dominican sprung upon her a question
which made everybody cock up his ears with interest;
as for me, I trembled, and said to myself she is
caught this time, poor Joan, for there is no way of
answering this. The sly Dominican began in this
way—in a sort of indolent fashion, as if the thing
he was about was a matter of no moment:

"You assert that God has willed to deliver France
from this English bondage?"

"Yes, He has willed it."

"You wish for men-at arms, so that you may go
to the relief of Orleans, I believe?"

"Yes—and the sooner the better."

"God is all-powerful, and able to do whatsoever
thing He wills to do, is it not so?"

"Most surely. None doubts it."

The Dominican lifted his head suddenly, and
sprung that question I have spoken of, with exulta-
tion:

"Then answer me this. If He has willed to de-
liver France, and is able to do whatsoever He wills,
where is the need for men-at-arms?"

There was a fine stir and commotion when he said
that, and a sudden thrusting forward of heads and
putting up of hands to ears to catch the answer; and
the Dominican wagged his head with satisfaction,
and looked about him collecting his applause, for it

---

shone in every face. But Joan was not disturbed.
There was no note of disquiet in her voice when she
answered:

"He helps who help themselves. The sons of
France will fight the battles, but He will give the
victory!"

You could see a light of admiration sweep the
house from face to face like a ray from the sun.
Even the Dominican himself looked pleased, to see
his master-stroke so neatly parried, and I heard a
venerable bishop mutter, in the phrasing common to
priest and people in that robust time, "By God, the
child has said true. He willed that Goliath should
be slain, and He sent a child like this to do it!"

Another day, when the inquisition had dragged
along until everybody looked drowsy and tired but
Joan, Brother Séguin, professor of theology in the
University of Poitiers, who was a sour and sarcastic
man, fell to plying Joan with all sorts of nagging
questions in his bastard Limousin French—for he
was from Limoges. Finally he said:

"How is it that you could understand those
angels? What language did they speak?"

"French."

"In-deed! How pleasant to know that our
language is so honored! Good French?"

"Yes—perfect."

"Perfect, eh? Well, certainly you ought to know.
It was even better than your own, eh?"

"As to that, I—I believe I cannot say," said

---

she, and was going on, but stopped. Then she
added, almost as if she were saying it to herself,
"Still, it was an improvement on yours!"

I knew there was a chuckle back of her eyes, for
all their innocence. Everybody shouted. Brother
Séguin was nettled, and asked brusquely:

"Do you believe in God?"

Joan answered with an irritating nonchalance:

"Oh, well, yes—better than you, it is likely."

Brother Séguin lost his patience, and heaped sar-
casm after sarcasm upon her, and finally burst out in
angry earnest, exclaiming:

"Very well, I can tell you this, you whose belief
in God is so great: God has not willed that any
shall believe in you without a sign. Where is your
sign?—show it!"

This roused Joan, and she was on her feet in a
moment, and flung out her retort with spirit:

"I have not come to Poitiers to show signs and do
miracles. Send me to Orleans and you shall have
signs enough. Give me men-at-arms—few or
many—and let me go!"

The fire was leaping from her eyes—ah, the
heroic little figure! can't you see her? There was
a great burst of acclamations, and she sat down
blushing, for it was not in her delicate nature to like
being conspicuous.

This speech and that episode about the French
language scored two points against Brother Séguin,
while he scored nothing against Joan; yet, sour man

---

as he was, he was a manly man, and honest, as you
can see by the histories; for at the Rehabilitation he
could have hidden those unlucky incidents if he had
chosen, but he didn't do it, but spoke them right
out in his evidence.

On one of the later days of that three-weeks ses-
sion the gowned scholars and professors made one
grand assault all along the line, fairly overwhelming
Joan with objections and arguments culled from the
writings of every ancient and illustrious authority of
the Roman Church. She was well-nigh smothered;
but at last she shook herself free and struck back,
crying out:

"Listen! The Book of God is worth more than
all these ye cite, and I stand upon it. And I tell ye
there are things in that Book that not one among ye
can read, with all your learning!"

From the first she was the guest, by invitation, of
the dame De Rabateau, wife of a councilor of the
Parliament of Poitiers; and to that house the great
ladies of the city came nightly to see Joan and talk
with her; and not these only, but the old lawyers,
councilors, and scholars of the Parliament and the
University. And these grave men, accustomed to
weigh every strange and questionable thing, and
cautiously consider it, and turn it about this way and
that and still doubt it, came night after night, and
night after night, falling ever deeper and deeper
under the influence of that mysterious something,
that spell, that elusive and unwordable fascination,

---

which was the supremest endowment of Joan of Arc,
that winning and persuasive and convincing something
which high and low alike recognized and felt, but
which neither high nor low could explain or de-
scribe; and one by one they all surrendered, saying,
"This child is sent of God."

All day long Joan, in the great court and subject
to its rigid rules of procedure, was at a disadvantage;
her judges had things their own way; but at night
she held court herself, and matters were reversed,
she presiding, with her tongue free and her same
judges there before her. There could be but one
result: all the objections and hindrances they could
build around her with their hard labors of the day
she would charm away at night. In the end, she
carried her judges with her in a mass, and got her
great verdict without a dissenting voice.

The court was a sight to see when the president of
it read it from his throne, for all the great people of
the town were there who could get admission and
find room. First there were some solemn cere-
monies, proper and usual at such times; then, when
there was silence again, the reading followed, pene-
trating the deep hush so that every word was heard
in even the remotest parts of the house:

"It is found, and is hereby declared, that Joan of
Arc, called the Maid, is a good Christian and good
Catholic; that there is nothing in her person or her
words contrary to the faith; and that the King may
and ought to accept the succor she offers; for to

---

repel it would be to offend the Holy Spirit, and
render him unworthy of the aid of God."

The court rose, and then the storm of plaudits
burst forth unrebuked, dying down and bursting
forth again and again, and I lost sight of Joan, for
she was swallowed up in a great tide of people who
rushed to congratulate her and pour out benedictions
upon her and upon the cause of France, now
solemnly and irrevocably delivered into her little
hands.

---

CHAPTER IX.

It was indeed a great day, and a stirring thing to
see.

She had won! It was a mistake of Tremouille and
her other ill-wishers to let her hold court those
nights.

The commission of priests sent to Lorraine osten-
sibly to inquire into Joan's character—in fact to
weary her with delays and wear out her purpose and
make her give it up—arrived back and reported her
character perfect. Our affairs were in full career
now, you see.

The verdict made a prodigious stir. Dead France
woke suddenly to life, wherever the great news
traveled. Whereas before, the spiritless and cowed
people hung their heads and slunk away if one men-
tioned war to them, now they came clamoring to be
enlisted under the banner of the Maid of Vaucouleurs,
and the roaring of war songs and the thundering of
the drums filled all the air. I remembered now what
she had said, that time there in our village when I
proved by facts and statistics that France's case was
hopeless, and nothing could ever rouse the people
from their lethargy:

---

"They will hear the drums—and they will answer,
they will march!"

It has been said that misfortunes never come one
at a time, but in a body. In our case it was the
same with good luck. Having got a start, it came
flooding in, tide after tide. Our next wave of it was
of this sort. There had been grave doubts among
the priests as to whether the Church ought to permit
a female soldier to dress like a man. But now came
a verdict on that head. Two of the greatest scholars
and theologians of the time—one of whom had been
Chancellor of the University of Paris—rendered it.
They decided that since Joan "must do the work of
a man and a soldier, it is just and legitimate that her
apparel should conform to the situation."

It was a great point gained, the Church's authority
to dress as a man. Oh, yes, wave on wave the good
luck came sweeping in. Never mind about the
smaller waves, let us come to the largest one of all,
the wave that swept us small fry quite off our feet
and almost drowned us with joy. The day of the
great verdict, couriers had been despatched to the
King with it, and the next morning bright and early
the clear notes of a bugle came floating to us on the
crisp air, and we pricked up our ears and began to
count them. One—two—three; pause; one—
two; pause; one—two—three, again—and out we
skipped and went flying; for that formula was
used only when the King's herald-at-arms would
deliver a proclamation to the people. As we hurried

---

along, people came racing out of every street and
house and alley, men, women, and children, all
flushed, excited, and throwing lacking articles of
clothing on as they ran; still those clear notes pealed
out, and still the rush of people increased till the whole
town was abroad and streaming along the principal
street. At last we reached the square, which was
now packed with citizens, and there, high on the
pedestal of the great cross, we saw the herald in his
brilliant costume, with his servitors about him. The
next moment he began his delivery in the powerful
voice proper to his office:

"Know all men, and take heed therefore, that the
most high, the most illustrious Charles, by the grace
of God King of France, hath been pleased to confer
upon his well-beloved servant Joan of Arc, called the
Maid, the title, emoluments, authorities, and dignity
of General-in-Chief of the Armies of France—"

Here a thousand caps flew into the air, and the
multitude burst into a hurricane of cheers that raged
and raged till it seemed as if it would never come to
an end; but at last it did; then the herald went on
and finished:

—"and hath appointed to be her lieutenant and
chief of staff a prince of his royal house, his grace
the Duke of Alençon!"

That was the end, and the hurricane began again,
and was split up into innumerable strips by the
blowers of it and wafted through all the lanes and
streets of the town.

---

General of the Armies of France, with a prince of
the blood for subordinate! Yesterday she was noth-
ing—to-day she was this. Yesterday she was not
even a sergeant, not even a corporal, not even a
private—to-day, with one step, she was at the top.
Yesterday she was less than nobody to the newest
recruit—to-day her command was law to La Hire,
Saintrailles, the Bastard of Orleans, and all those
others, veterans of old renown, illustrious masters of
the trade of war. These were the thoughts I was
thinking; I was trying to realize this strange and
wonderful thing that had happened, you see.

My mind went traveling back, and presently lighted
upon a picture—a picture which was still so new
and fresh in my memory that it seemed a matter of
only yesterday—and indeed its date was no further
back than the first days of January. This is what it
was. A peasant girl in a far-off village, her seven-
teenth year not yet quite completed, and herself and
her village as unknown as if they had been on the
other side of the globe. She had picked up a friend-
less wanderer somewhere and brought it home—a
small gray kitten in a forlorn and starving condition
—and had fed it and comforted it and got its con-
fidence and made it believe in her, and now it was
curled up in her lap asleep, and she was knitting a
coarse stocking and thinking—dreaming—about
what, one may never know. And now—the kitten
had hardly had time to become a cat, and yet already
the girl is General of the Armies of France, with a

---

prince of the blood to give orders to, and out of her
village obscurity her name has climbed up like the
sun and is visible from all corners of the land! It
made me dizzy to think of these things, they were
so out of the common order, and seemed so impos-
sible.

---

CHAPTER X.

Joan's first official act was to dictate a letter to
the English commanders at Orleans, summon-
ing them to deliver up all strongholds in their pos-
session and depart out of France. She must have
been thinking it all out before and arranging it in
her mind, it flowed from her lips so smoothly, and
framed itself into such vivacious and forcible lan-
guage. Still, it might not have been so; she always
had a quick mind and a capable tongue, and her
faculties were constantly developing in these latter
weeks. This letter was to be forwarded presently
from Blois. Men, provisions, and money were
offering in plenty now, and Joan appointed Blois as
a recruiting station and depot of supplies, and
ordered up La Hire from the front to take charge.

The Great Bastard—him of the ducal house, and
governor of Orleans—had been clamoring for weeks
for Joan to be sent to him, and now came another
messenger, old D'Aulon, a veteran officer, a trusty
man and fine and honest. The King kept him, and
gave him to Joan to be chief of her household, and
commanded her to appoint the rest of her people

---

herself, making their number and dignity accord
with the greatness of her office; and at the same
time he gave order that they should be properly
equipped with arms, clothing, and horses.

Meantime the King was having a complete suit
of armor made for her at Tours. It was of the
finest steel, heavily plated with silver, richly orna-
mented with engraved designs, and polished like a
mirror.

Joan's Voices had told her that there was an
ancient sword hidden somewhere behind the altar of
St. Catherine's at Fierbois, and she sent De Metz to
get it. The priests knew of no such sword, but a
search was made, and sure enough it was found in
that place, buried a little way under the ground. It
had no sheath and was very rusty, but the priests
polished it up and sent it to Tours, whither we were
now to come. They also had a sheath of crimson
velvet made for it, and the people of Tours equipped
it with another one, made of cloth of gold. But
Joan meant to carry this sword always in battle; so
she laid the showy sheaths away and got one made
of leather. It was generally believed that this sword
had belonged to Charlemagne, but that was only a
matter of opinion. I wanted to sharpen that old
blade, but she said it was not necessary, as she
should never kill anybody, and should carry it only
as a symbol of authority.

At Tours she designed her Standard, and a Scotch
painter named James Power made it. It was of the

---

most delicate white boucassin, with fringes of silk.
For device it bore the image of God the Father
throned in the clouds and holding the world in His
hand; two angels knelt at His feet, presenting lilies;
inscription, Jesus, Maria; on the reverse the crown
of France supported by two angels.

She also caused a smaller standard or pennon to
be made, whereon was represented an angel offering
a lily to the Holy Virgin.

Everything was humming there at Tours. Every
now and then one heard the bray and crash of mili-
tary music, every little while one heard the measured
tramp of marching men—squads of recruits leaving
for Blois; songs and shoutings and huzzas filled the
air night and day, the town was full of strangers,
the streets and inns were thronged, the bustle of
preparation was everywhere, and everybody carried
a glad and cheerful face. Around Joan's head-
quarters a crowd of people was always massed,
hoping for a glimpse of the new General, and when
they got it, they went wild; but they seldom got it,
for she was busy planning her campaign, receiving
reports, giving orders, dispatching couriers, and
giving what odd moments she could spare to the
companies of great folk waiting in the drawing-
rooms. As for us boys, we hardly saw her at all,
she was so occupied.

We were in a mixed state of mind—sometimes
hopeful, sometimes not; mostly not. She had not

---

appointed her household yet—that was our trouble.
We knew she was being overrun with applications
for places in it, and that these applications were
backed by great names and weighty influence,
whereas we had nothing of the sort to recommend
us. She could fill her humblest places with titled
folk—folk whose relationships would be a bulwark
for her and a valuable support at all times. In these
circumstances would policy allow her to consider
us? We were not as cheerful as the rest of the
town, but were inclined to be depressed and worried.
Sometimes we discussed our slim chances and gave
them as good an appearance as we could. But the
very mention of the subject was anguish to the
Paladin; for whereas we had some little hope, he
had none at all. As a rule, Noël Rainguesson was
quite willing to let the dismal matter alone; but not
when the Paladin was present. Once we were talk-
ing the thing over, when Noël said:

"Cheer up, Paladin; I had a dream last night,
and you were the only one among us that got an
appointment. It wasn't a high one, but it was an
appointment, anyway—some kind of a lackey or
body-servant, or something of that kind."

The Paladin roused up and looked almost cheer-
ful; for he was a believer in dreams, and in any-
thing and everything of a superstitious sort, in fact.
He said, with a rising hopefulness:

"I wish it might come true. Do you think it will
come true?"

---

"Certainly; I might almost say I know it will,
for my dreams hardly ever fail."

"Noël, I could hug you if that dream could come
true, I could, indeed! To be servant to the first
General of France and have all the world hear of it,
and the news go back to the village and make those
gawks stare that always said I wouldn't ever amount
to anything—wouldn't it be great! Do you think
it will come true, Noël? Don't you believe it will?"

"I do. There's my hand on it."

"Noël, if it comes true I'll never forget you—
shake again! I should be dressed in a noble livery,
and the news would go to the village, and those
animals would say, 'Him, lackey to the General-in-
Chief, with the eyes of the whole world on him,
admiring—well, he has shot up into the sky now,
hasn't he!'"

He began to walk the floor and pile castles in
the air so fast and so high that we could hardly
keep up with him. Then all of a sudden all the joy
went out of his face and misery took its place, and
he said:

"Oh, dear, it is all a mistake, it will never come
true. I forgot about that foolish business at Toul.
I have kept out of her sight as much as I could, all
these weeks, hoping she would forget that and for-
give it—but I know she never will. She can't, of
course. And, after all, I wasn't to blame. I did
say she promised to marry me, but they put me up
to it and persuaded me, I swear they did!" The

---

vast creature was almost crying. Then he pulled
himself together and said, remorsefully, "It was the
only lie I've ever told, and—"

He was drowned out with a chorus of groans and
outraged exclamations; and before he could begin
again, one of D'Aulon's liveried servants appeared
and said we were required at headquarters. We
rose, and Noël said:

"There—what did I tell you? I have a presenti-
ment—the spirit of prophecy is upon me. She is
going to appoint him, and we are to go there and do
him homage. Come along!"

But the Paladin was afraid to go, so we left him.

When we presently stood in the presence, in front
of a crowd of glittering officers of the army, Joan
greeted us with a winning smile, and said she ap-
pointed all of us to places in her household, for she
wanted her old friends by her. It was a beautiful
surprise to have ourselves honored like this when
she could have had people of birth and consequence
instead, but we couldn't find our tongues to say so,
she was become so great and so high above us now.
One at a time we stepped forward and each received
his warrant from the hand of our chief, D'Aulon.
All of us had honorable places; the two knights
stood highest; then Joan's two brothers; I was first
page and secretary, a young gentleman named
Raimond was second page; Noël was her messen-
ger; she had two heralds, and also a chaplain and
almoner, whose name was Jean Pasquerel. She had

---

previously appointed a maître d'hôtel and a number
of domestics. Now she looked around and said:

"But where is the Paladin?"

The Sieur Bertrand said:

"He thought he was not sent for, your Excel-
lency."

"Now that is not well. Let him be called."

"The Paladin entered humbly enough. He ven-
tured no farther than just within the door. He
stopped there, looking embarrassed and afraid.
Then Joan spoke pleasantly, and said:

"I watched you on the road. You began badly,
but improved. Of old you were a fantastic talker,
but there is a man in you, and I will bring it out."
It was fine to see the Paladin's face light up when
she said that. "Will you follow where I lead?"

"Into the fire!" he said; and I said to myself,
"By the ring of that, I think she has turned this
braggart into a hero. It is another of her miracles,
I make no doubt of it."

"I believe you," said Joan. "Here—take my
banner. You will ride with me in every field, and
when France is saved, you will give it me back."

He took the banner, which is now the most precious
of the memorials that remain of Joan of Arc, and
his voice was unsteady with emotion when he said:

"If I ever disgrace this trust, my comrades here
will know how to do a friend's office upon my body,
and this charge I lay upon them, as knowing they
will not fail me."

---

CHAPTER XI.

Noel and I went back together—silent at first,
and impressed. Finally Noël came up out of
his thinkings and said:

"The first shall be last and the last first—there's
authority for this surprise. But at the same time
wasn't it a lofty hoist for our big bull!"

"It truly was; I am not over being stunned yet.
It was the greatest place in her gift."

"Yes, it was. There are many generals, and she
can create more; but there is only one Standard-
Bearer."

"True. It is the most conspicuous place in the
army, after her own."

"And the most coveted and honorable. Sons of
two dukes tried to get it, as we know. And of all
people in the world, this majestic windmill carries it
off. Well, isn't it a gigantic promotion, when you
come to look at it!"

"There's no doubt about it. It's a kind of
copy of Joan's own in miniature."

"I don't know how to account for it—do you?"

"Yes—without any trouble at all—that is, I
think I do."

---

Noël was surprised at that, and glanced up
quickly, as if to see if I was in earnest. He
said:

"I thought you couldn't be in earnest, but I
see you are. If you can make me understand this
puzzle, do it. Tell me what the explanation is."

"I believe I can. You have noticed that our
chief knight says a good many wise things and has a
thoughtful head on his shoulders. One day, riding
along, we were talking about Joan's great talents,
and he said, 'But, greatest of all her gifts, she has
the seeing eye.' I said, like an unthinking fool,
'The seeing eye?—I shouldn't count that for much
—I suppose we all have it.' 'No,' he said; 'very
few have it.' Then he explained, and made his
meaning clear. He said the common eye sees only
the outside of things, and judges by that, but the
seeing eye pierces through and reads the heart and
the soul, finding there capacities which the outside
didn't indicate or promise, and which the other kind
of eye couldn't detect. He said the mightiest
military genius must fail and come to nothing if it
have not the seeing eye—that is to say, if it cannot
read men and select its subordinates with an infallible
judgment. It sees as by intuition that this man is
good for strategy, that one for dash and dare-devil
assault, the other for patient bull-dog persistence,
and it appoints each to his right place and wins,
while the commander without the seeing eye would
give to each the other's place and lose. He was right

---

about Joan, and I saw it. When she was a child
and the tramp came one night, her father and all of
us took him for a rascal, but she saw the honest
man through the rags. When I dined with the
governor of Vaucouleurs so long ago, I saw nothing
in our two knights, though I sat with them and
talked with them two hours; Joan was there five
minutes, and neither spoke with them nor heard
them speak, yet she marked them for men of worth
and fidelity, and they have confirmed her judgment.
Whom has she sent for to take charge of this
thundering rabble of new recruits at Blois, made up
of old disbanded Armagnac raiders, unspeakable
hellions, every one? Why, she has sent for Satan
himself—that is to say, La Hire—that military
hurricane, that godless swashbuckler, that lurid con-
flagration of blasphemy, that Vesuvius of profanity,
forever in eruption. Does he know how to deal
with that mob of roaring devils? Better than any
man that lives; for he is the head devil of this world
his own self, he is the match of the whole of them
combined, and probably the father of most of them.
She places him in temporary command until she can
get to Blois herself—and then! Why, then she
will certainly take them in hand personally, or I
don't know her as well as I ought to, after all these
years of intimacy. That will be a sight to see—
that fair spirit in her white armor, delivering her
will to that muck-heap, that rag-pile, that abandoned
refuse of perdition."

---

"La Hire!" cried Noël, "our hero of all these
years—I do want to see that man!"

"I too. His name stirs me just as it did when I
was a little boy."

"I want to hear him swear."

"Of course. I would rather hear him swear than
another man pray. He is the frankest man there is,
and the naïvest. Once when he was rebuked for
pillaging on his raids, he said it was nothing. Said
he, 'If God the Father were a soldier, He would
rob.' I judge he is the right man to take temporary
charge there at Blois. Joan has cast the seeing eye
upon him, you see."

"Which brings us back to where we started. I
have an honest affection for the Paladin, and not
merely because he is a good fellow, but because he
is my child—I made him what he is, the windiest
blusterer and most catholic liar in the kingdom. I'm
glad of his luck, but I hadn't the seeing eye. I
shouldn't have chosen him for the most danger-
ous post in the army, I should have placed him
in the rear to kill the wounded and violate the
dead."

"Well, we shall see. Joan probably knows what
is in him better than we do. And I'll give you
another idea. When a person in Joan of Arc's
position tells a man he is brave, he believes it; and
believing it is enough; in fact, to believe yourself
brave is to be brave; it is the one only essential
thing."

---

"Now you've hit it!" cried Noël. "She's got
the creating mouth as well as the seeing eye! Ah,
yes, that is the thing. France was cowed and a
coward; Joan of Arc has spoken, and France is
marching, with her head up!"

I was summoned now to write a letter from Joan's
dictation. During the next day and night our sev-
eral uniforms were made by the tailors, and our new
armor provided. We were beautiful to look upon
now, whether clothed for peace or war. Clothed
for peace, in costly stuffs and rich colors, the Paladin
was a tower dyed with the glories of the sunset;
plumed and sashed and iron-clad for war, he was a
still statelier thing to look at.

Orders had been issued for the march toward
Blois. It was a clear, sharp, beautiful morning.
As our showy great company trotted out in column,
riding two and two, Joan and the Duke of Alençon
in the lead, D'Aulon and the big standard-bearer
next, and so on, we made a handsome spectacle, as
you may well imagine; and as we plowed through
the cheering crowds, with Joan bowing her plumed
head to left and right and the sun glinting from her
silver mail, the spectators realized that the curtain
was rolling up before their eyes upon the first act of
a prodigious drama, and their rising hopes were ex-
pressed in an enthusiasm that increased with each
moment, until at last one seemed to even physically
feel the concussion of the huzzas as well as hear
them. Far down the street we heard the softened

---

strains of wind-blown music, and saw a cloud of
lancers moving, the sun glowing with a subdued
light upon the massed armor, but striking bright
upon the soaring lance-heads—a vaguely luminous
nebula, so to speak, with a constellation twinkling
above it—and that was our guard of honor. It
joined us, the procession was complete, the first
war-march of Joan of Arc was begun, the curtain
was up.

---

CHAPTER XII.

We were at Blois three days. Oh, that camp, it
is one of the treasures of my memory!
Order? There was no more order among those
brigands than there is among the wolves and the
hyenas. They went roaring and drinking about,
whooping, shouting, swearing, and entertaining
themselves with all manner of rude and riotous
horse-play; and the place was full of loud and lewd
women, and they were no whit behind the men for
romps and noise and fantastics.

It was in the midst of this wild mob that Noël and
I had our first glimpse of La Hire. He answered to
our dearest dreams. He was of great size and of
martial bearing, he was cased in mail from head to
heel, with a bushel of swishing plumes on his
helmet, and at his side the vast sword of the time.

He was on his way to pay his respects in state to
Joan, and as he passed through the camp he was
restoring order, and proclaiming that the Maid was
come, and he would have no such spectacle as this
exposed to the head of the army. His way of
creating order was his own, not borrowed. He did
it with his great fists. As he moved along swearing

---

and admonishing, he let drive this way, that way,
and the other, and wherever his blow landed, a man
went down.

"Damn you!" he said, "staggering and cursing
around like this, and the Commander-in-Chief in the
camp! Straighten up!" and he laid the man flat.
What his idea of straightening up was, was his own
secret.

We followed the veteran to headquarters, listen-
ing, observing, admiring—yes, devouring, you may
say, the pet hero of the boys of France from our
cradles up to that happy day, and their idol and
ours. I called to mind how Joan had once rebuked
the Paladin, there in the pastures of Domremy, for
uttering lightly those mighty names, La Hire and
the Bastard of Orleans, and how she said that if she
could but be permitted to stand afar off and let her
eyes rest once upon those great men, she would
hold it a privilege. They were to her and the other
girls just what they were to the boys. Well, here
was one of them at last—and what was his errand?
It was hard to realize it, and yet it was true; he
was coming to uncover his head before her and take
her orders.

While he was quieting a considerable group of his
brigands in his soothing way, near headquarters, we
stepped on ahead and got a glimpse of Joan's
military family, the great chiefs of the army, for
they had all arrived now. There they were, six
officers of wide renown, handsome men in beautiful

---

armor, but the Lord High Admiral of France was
the handsomest of them all and had the most gallant
bearing.

When La Hire entered, one could see the surprise
in his face at Joan's beauty and extreme youth, and
one could see, too, by Joan's glad smile, that it
made her happy to get sight of this hero of her
childhood at last. La Hire bowed low, with his
helmet in his gauntleted hand, and made a bluff but
handsome little speech with hardly an oath in it, and
one could see that those two took to each other on
the spot.

The visit of ceremony was soon over, and the
others went away; but La Hire stayed, and he and
Joan sat there, and he sipped her wine, and they
talked and laughed together like old friends. And
presently she gave him some instructions, in his
quality as master of the camp, which made his
breath stand still. For, to begin with, she said that
all those loose women must pack out of the place at
once, she wouldn't allow one of them to remain.
Next, the rough carousing must stop, drinking must
be brought within proper and strictly defined limits,
and discipline must take the place of disorder.
And finally she climaxed the list of surprises with
this—which nearly lifted him out of his armor:

"Every man who joins my standard must confess
before the priest and absolve himself from sin; and
all accepted recruits must be present at divine service
twice a day."

---

La Hire could not say a word for a good part of
a minute, then he said, in deep dejection:

"Oh, sweet child, they were littered in hell, these
poor darlings of mine! Attend mass? Why, dear
heart, they'll see us both damned first!"

And he went on, pouring out a most pathetic
stream of arguments and blasphemy, which broke
Joan all up, and made her laugh as she had not
laughed since she played in the Domremy pastures.
It was good to hear.

But she stuck to her point; so the soldier yielded,
and said all right, if such were the orders he must
obey, and would do the best that was in him; then
he refreshed himself with a lurid explosion of oaths,
and said that if any man in the camp refused to
renounce sin and lead a pious life, he would knock
his head off. That started Joan off again; she was
really having a good time, you see. But she would
not consent to that form of conversions. She said
they must be voluntary.

La Hire said that that was all right, he wasn't
going to kill the voluntary ones, but only the others.

No matter, none of them must be killed—Joan
couldn't have it. She said that to give a man a
chance to volunteer, on pain of death if he didn't,
left him more or less trammeled, and she wanted
him to be entirely free.

So the soldier sighed and said he would advertise
the mass, but said he doubted if there was a man in
camp that was any more likely to go to it than

---

he was himself. Then there was another surprise
for him, for Joan said:

"But, dear man, you are going!"

"I? Impossible! Oh, this is lunacy!"

"Oh, no, it isn't. You are going to the service
—twice a day."

"Oh, am I dreaming? Am I drunk—or is my
hearing playing me false? Why, I would rather go
to—"

"Never mind where. In the morning you are
going to begin, and after that it will come easy.
Now don't look down-hearted like that. Soon you
won't mind it."

La Hire tried to cheer up, but he was not able to
do it. He sighed like a zephyr, and presently said:

"Well, I'll do it for you, but before I would do
it for another, I swear I—"

"But don't swear. Break it off."

"Break it off? It is impossible. I beg you to—
to— Why—oh, my General, it is my native
speech!"

He begged so hard for grace for his impediment,
that Joan left him one fragment of it; she said he
might swear by his bâton, the symbol of his general-
ship.

He promised that he would swear only by his
bâton when in her presence, and would try to modify
himself elsewhere, but doubted if he could manage
it, now that it was so old and stubborn a habit, and
such a solace and support to his declining years.

---

That tough old lion went away from there a good
deal tamed and civilized—not to say softened and
sweetened, for perhaps those expressions would
hardly fit him. Noël and I believed that when he
was away from Joan's influence his old aversions
would come up so strong in him that he could not
master them, and so wouldn't go to mass. But we
got up early in the morning to see.

Well, he really went. It was hardly believable,
but there he was, striding along, holding himself
grimly to his duty, and looking as pious as he could,
but growling and cursing like a fiend. It was an-
other instance of the same old thing; whoever
listened to the voice and looked into the eyes of
Joan of Arc fell under a spell, and was not his own
man any more.

Satan was converted, you see. Well, the rest fol-
lowed. Joan rode up and down that camp, and
wherever that fair young form appeared in its shining
armor, with that sweet face to grace the vision and
perfect it, the rude host seemed to think they saw
the god of war in person, descended out of the
clouds; and first they wondered, then they wor-
shiped. After that, she could do with them what
she would.

In three days it was a clean camp and orderly,
and those barbarians were herding to divine service
twice a day like good children. The women were
gone. La Hire was stunned by these marvels; he
could not understand them. He went outside the

---

camp when he wanted to swear. He was that sort
of a man—sinful by nature and habit, but full of
superstitious respect for holy places.

The enthusiasm of the reformed army for Joan,
its devotion to her, and the hot desire she had
aroused in it to be led against the enemy, exceeded
any manifestations of this sort which La Hire had
ever seen before in his long career. His admiration
of it all, and his wonder over the mystery and
miracle of it, were beyond his power to put into
words. He had held this army cheap before, but
his pride and confidence in it knew no limits now.
He said:

"Two or three days ago it was afraid of a hen-
roost; one could storm the gates of hell with it
now."

Joan and he were inseparable, and a quaint and
pleasant contrast they made. He was so big, she
so little; he was so gray and so far along in his
pilgrimage of life, she so youthful; his face was so
bronzed and scarred, hers so fair and pink, so
fresh and smooth; she was so gracious, and he so
stern; she was so pure, so innocent, he such a
cyclopædia of sin. In her eye was stored all
charity and compassion, in his lightnings; when her
glance fell upon you it seemed to bring benediction
and the peace of God, but with his it was different,
generally.

They rode through the camp a dozen times a day,
visiting every corner of it, observing, inspecting,

---

perfecting; and wherever they appeared the enthu-
siasm broke forth. They rode side by side, he a
great figure of brawn and muscle, she a little master-
work of roundness and grace; he a fortress of rusty
iron, she a shining statuette of silver; and when the
reformed raiders and bandits caught sight of them
they spoke out, with affection and welcome in their
voices, and said:

"There they come—Satan and the Page of
Christ!"

All the three days that we were in Blois, Joan
worked earnestly and tirelessly to bring La Hire to
God—to rescue him from the bondage of sin—to
breathe into his stormy heart the serenity and peace
of religion. She urged, she begged, she implored
him to pray. He stood out, the three days of our
stay, begging almost piteously to be let off—to be
let off from just that one thing, that impossible
thing; he would do anything else—anything—
command, and he would obey—he would go
through the fire for her if she said the word—but
spare him this, only this, for he couldn't pray, had
never prayed, he was ignorant of how to frame a
prayer, he had no words to put it in.

And yet—can any believe it?—she carried even
that point, she won that incredible victory. She
made La Hire pray. It shows, I think, that nothing
was impossible to Joan of Arc. Yes, he stood there
before her and put up his mailed hands and made a
prayer. And it was not borrowed, but was his very

---

own; he had none to help him frame it, he made it
out of his own head—saying:

"Fair Sir God, I pray you to do by La Hire as
he would do by you if you were La Hire and he
were God."*

This prayer has been stolen many times and by many nations in the
past four hundred and sixty years, but it originated with La Hire, and
the fact is of official record in the National Archives of France. We
have the authority of Michelet for this.—Translator.

Then he put on his helmet and marched out of
Joan's tent as satisfied with himself as any one might
be who had arranged a perplexed and difficult
business to the content and admiration of all the
parties concerned in the matter.

If I had known that he had been praying, I could
have understood why he was feeling so superior,
but of course I could not know that.

I was coming to the tent at that moment, and saw
him come out, and saw him march away in that
large fashion, and indeed it was fine and beautiful
to see. But when I got to the tent door I stopped
and stepped back, grieved and shocked, for I
heard Joan crying, as I mistakenly thought—crying
as if she could not contain nor endure the anguish
of her soul, crying as if she would die. But it
was not so, she was laughing—laughing at La
Hire's prayer.

It was not until six-and-thirty years afterwards
that I found that out, and then—oh, then I only
cried when that picture of young care-free mirth

---

rose before me out of the blur and mists of that
long-vanished time; for there had come a day be-
tween, when God's good gift of laughter had gone
out from me to come again no more in this life.

---

CHAPTER XIII.

We marched out in great strength and splendor,
and took the road toward Orleans. The
initial part of Joan's great dream was realizing itself
at last. It was the first time that any of us young-
sters had ever seen an army, and it was a most
stately and imposing spectacle to us. It was in-
deed an inspiring sight, that interminable column,
stretching away into the fading distances, and curv-
ing itself in and out of the crookedness of the road
like a mighty serpent. Joan rode at the head of it
with her personal staff; then came a body of priests
singing the Veni Creator, the banner of the Cross
rising out of their midst; after these the glinting
forest of spears. The several divisions were com-
manded by the great Armagnac generals, La Hire,
the Marshal de Boussac, the Sire de Retz, Florent
d'Illiers, and Poton de Saintrailles.

Each in his degree was tough, and there were
three degrees—tough, tougher, toughest—and La
Hire was the last by a shade, but only a shade.
They were just illustrious official brigands, the whole
party; and by long habits of lawlessness they had

---

lost all acquaintanceship with obedience, if they had
ever had any.

The King's strict orders to them had been,
"Obey the General-in-Chief in everything; attempt
nothing without her knowledge, do nothing without
her command."

But what was the good of saying that? These
independent birds knew no law. They seldom
obeyed the King; they never obeyed him when it
didn't suit them to do it. Would they obey the
Maid? In the first place they wouldn't know how
to obey her or anybody else, and in the second
place it was of course not possible for them to take
her military character seriously—that country girl of
seventeen who had been trained for the complex
and terrible business of war—how? By tending
sheep.

They had no idea of obeying her except in cases
where their veteran military knowledge and experi-
ence showed them that the thing she required was
sound and right when gauged by the regular military
standards. Were they to blame for this attitude?
I should think not. Old war-worn captains are
hard-headed, practical men. They do not easily
believe in the ability of ignorant children to plan
campaigns and command armies. No general that
ever lived could have taken Joan seriously (militarily)
before she raised the siege of Orleans and followed
it with the great campaign of the Loire.

Did they consider Joan valueless? Far from it.

---

They valued her as the fruitful earth values the
sun—they fully believed she could produce the
crop, but that it was in their line of business, not
hers, to take it off. They had a deep and supersti-
tious reverence for her as being endowed with a
mysterious supernatural something that was able to
do a mighty thing which they were powerless to
do—blow the breath of life and valor into the dead
corpses of cowed armies and turn them into heroes.

To their minds they were everything with her,
but nothing without her. She could inspire the
soldiers and fit them for battle—but fight the battle
herself? Oh, nonsense—that was their function.
They, the generals, would fight the battles, Joan
would give the victory. That was their idea—an
unconscious paraphrase of Joan's reply to the
Dominican.

So they began by playing a deception upon her.
She had a clear idea of how she meant to proceed.
It was her purpose to march boldly upon Orleans
by the north bank of the Loire. She gave that
order to her generals. They said to themselves,
"The idea is insane—it is blunder No. 1; it is
what might have been expected of this child who is
ignorant of war." They privately sent the word to
the Bastard of Orleans. He also recognized the
insanity of it—at least he thought he did—and
privately advised the generals to get around the
order in some way.

They did it by deceiving Joan. She trusted those

---

people, she was not expecting this sort of treat-
ment, and was not on the lookout for it. It was a
lesson to her; she saw to it that the game was not
played a second time.

Why was Joan's idea insane, from the generals'
point of view, but not from hers? Because her
plan was to raise the siege immediately, by fighting,
while theirs was to besiege the besiegers and starve
them out by closing their communications—a plan
which would require months in the consummation.

The English had built a fence of strong fortresses
called bastilles around Orleans—fortresses which
closed all the gates of the city but one. To the
French generals the idea of trying to fight their way
past those fortresses and lead the army into Orleans
was preposterous; they believed that the result
would be the army's destruction. One may not
doubt that their opinion was militarily sound—no,
would have been, but for one circumstance which
they overlooked. That was this: the English soldiers
were in a demoralized condition of superstitious
terror; they had become satisfied that the Maid was
in league with Satan. By reason of this a good deal
of their courage had oozed out and vanished. On
the other hand, the Maid's soldiers were full of
courage, enthusiasm, and zeal.

Joan could have marched by the English forts.
However, it was not to be. She had been cheated
out of her first chance to strike a heavy blow for her
country.

---

In camp that night she slept in her armor on the
ground. It was a cold night, and she was nearly as
stiff as her armor itself when we resumed the march
in the morning, for iron is not good material for a
blanket. However, her joy in being now so far on
her way to the theater of her mission was fire enough
to warm her, and it soon did it.

Her enthusiasm and impatience rose higher and
higher with every mile of progress; but at last we
reached Olivet, and down it went, and indignation
took its place. For she saw the trick that had been
played upon her—the river lay between us and
Orleans.

She was for attacking one of the three bastilles
that were on our side of the river and forcing access
to the bridge which it guarded (a project which, if
successful, would raise the siege instantly), but the
long-ingrained fear of the English came upon her
generals and they implored her not to make the
attempt. The soldiers wanted to attack, but had to
suffer disappointment. So we moved on and came
to a halt at a point opposite Chécy, six miles above
Orleans.

Dunois, Bastard of Orleans, with a body of knights
and citizens, came up from the city to welcome
Joan. Joan was still burning with resentment over
the trick that had been put upon her, and was not
in the mood for soft speeches, even to revered mili-
tary idols of her childhood. She said:

"Are you the Bastard of Orleans?"

---

"Yes, I am he, and am right glad of your
coming."

"And did you advise that I be brought by this
side of the river instead of straight to Talbot and
the English?"

Her high manner abashed him, and he was not
able to answer with anything like a confident prompt-
ness, but with many hesitations and partial excuses
he managed to get out the confession that for what
he and the council had regarded as imperative mili-
tary reasons they had so advised.

"In God's name," said Joan, "my Lord's coun-
sel is safer and wiser than yours. You thought to
deceive me, but you have deceived yourselves, for I
bring you the best help that ever knight or city had;
for it is God's help, not sent for love of me, but by
God's pleasure. At the prayer of St. Louis and St.
Charlemagne He has had pity on Orleans, and will
not suffer the enemy to have both the Duke of
Orleans and his city. The provisions to save the
starving people are here, the boats are below the
city, the wind is contrary, they cannot come up
hither. Now then tell me, in God's name, you
who are so wise, what that council of yours was
thinking about, to invent this foolish difficulty."

Dunois and the rest fumbled around the matter a
moment, then gave in and conceded that a blunder
had been made.

"Yes, a blunder has been made," said Joan,
"and except God take your proper work upon

---

Himself and change the wind and correct your
blunder for you, there is none else that can devise a
remedy."

Some of those people began to perceive that with
all her technical ignorance she had practical good
sense, and that with all her native sweetness and
charm she was not the right kind of a person to
play with.

Presently God did take the blunder in hand, and
by His grace the wind did change. So the fleet of
boats came up and went away loaded with provisions
and cattle, and conveyed that welcome succor to the
hungry city, managing the matter successfully under
protection of a sortie from the walls against the
bastille of St. Loup. Then Joan began on the Bas-
tard again:

"You see here the army?"

"Yes."

"It is here on this side by advice of your
council?"

"Yes."

"Now, in God's name, can that wise council ex-
plain why it is better to have it here than it would
be to have it in the bottom of the sea?"

Dunois made some wandering attempts to explain
the inexplicable and excuse the inexcusable, but
Joan cut him short and said:

"Answer me this, good sir—has the army any
value on this side of the river?"

The Bastard confessed that it hadn't—that is, in

---

view of the plan of campaign which she had devised
and decreed.

"And yet, knowing this, you had the hardihood
to disobey my orders. Since the army's place is on
the other side, will you explain to me how it is to
get there?"

The whole size of the needless muddle was ap-
parent. Evasions were of no use; therefore Dunois
admitted that there was no way to correct the blun-
der but to send the army all the way back to Blois,
and let it begin over again and come up on the other
side this time, according to Joan's original plan.

Any other girl, after winning such a triumph as
this over a veteran soldier of old renown, might have
exulted a little and been excusable for it, but Joan
showed no disposition of this sort. She dropped a
word or two of grief over the precious time that
must be lost, then began at once to issue commands
for the march back. She sorrowed to see her army
go; for she said its heart was great and its enthu-
siasm high, and that with it at her back she did not
fear to face all the might of England.

All arrangements having been completed for the
return of the main body of the army, she took the
Bastard and La Hire and a thousand men and went
down to Orleans, where all the town was in a fever
of impatience to have sight of her face. It was
eight in the evening when she and the troops rode
in at the Burgundy gate, with the Paladin preceding
her with her standard. She was riding a white

---

horse, and she carried in her hand the sacred sword
of Fierbois. You should have seen Orleans then.
What a picture it was! Such black seas of people,
such a starry firmament of torches, such roaring
whirlwinds of welcome, such booming of bells and
thundering of cannon! It was as if the world was
come to an end. Everywhere in the glare of the
torches one saw rank upon rank of upturned white
faces, the mouths wide open, shouting, and the
unchecked tears running down; Joan forged her
slow way through the solid masses, her mailed form
projecting above the pavement of heads like a silver
statue. The people about her struggled along,
gazing up at her through their tears with the rapt
look of men and women who believe they are seeing
one who is divine; and always her feet were being
kissed by grateful folk, and such as failed of that
privilege touched her horse and then kissed their
fingers.

Nothing that Joan did escaped notice; everything
she did was commented upon and applauded. You
could hear the remarks going all the time.

"There—she's smiling—see!"

"Now she's taking her little plumed cap off to
somebody—ah, it's fine and graceful!"

"She's patting that woman on the head with her
gauntlet."

"Oh, she was born on a horse—see her turn in
her saddle, and kiss the hilt of her sword to the
ladies in the window that threw the flowers down."

---

"Now there's a poor woman lifting up a child—
she's kissed it—oh, she's divine!"

"What a dainty little figure it is, and what a
lovely face—and such color and animation!"

Joan's slender long banner streaming backward
had an accident—the fringe caught fire from a
torch. She leaned forward and crushed the flame
in her hand.

"She's not afraid of fire nor anything!" they
shouted, and delivered a storm of admiring applause
that made everything quake.

She rode to the cathedral and gave thanks to
God, and the people crammed the place and added
their devotions to hers; then she took up her march
again and picked her slow way through the crowds
and the wilderness of torches to the house of Jacques
Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, where
she was to be the guest of his wife as long as she
stayed in the city, and have his young daughter for
comrade and room-mate. The delirium of the peo-
ple went on the rest of the night, and with it the
clamor of the joy-bells and the welcoming cannon.

Joan of Arc had stepped upon her stage at last,
and was ready to begin.

---

CHAPTER XIV.

She was ready, but must sit down and wait until
there was an army to work with.

Next morning, Saturday, April 30, 1429, she set
about inquiring after the messenger who carried her
proclamation to the English from Blois—the one
which she had dictated at Poitiers. Here is a copy
of it. It is a remarkable document, for several
reasons: for its matter-of-fact directness, for its
high spirit and forcible diction, and for its naïve
confidence in her ability to achieve the prodigious
task which she had laid upon herself, or which had
been laid upon her—which you please. All through
it you seem to see the pomps of war and hear the
rumbling of the drums. In it Joan's warrior soul is
revealed, and for the moment the soft little shep-
herdess has disappeared from your view. This un-
taught country damsel, unused to dictating anything
at all to anybody, much less documents of state to
kings and generals, poured out this procession of
vigorous sentences as fluently as if this sort of work
had been her trade from childhood:

---

"JESUS MARIA

"King of England, and you Duke of Bedford who call yourself
Regent of France; William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk; and you Thomas
Lord Scales, who style yourselves lieutenants of the said Bedford—do
right to the King of Heaven. Render to the Maid who is sent by God
the keys of all the good towns you have taken and violated in France.
She is sent hither by God to restore the blood royal. She is very ready
to make peace if you will do her right by giving up France and paying
for what you have held. And you archers, companions of war, noble
and otherwise, who are before the good city of Orleans, begone into your
own land in God's name, or expect news from the Maid who will shortly
go to see you to your very great hurt. King of England, if you do not
so, I am chief of war, and wherever I shall find your people in France I
will drive them out, willing or not willing; and if they do not obey I
will slay them all, but if they obey, I will have them to mercy. I am
come hither by God, the King of Heaven, body for body, to put you out
of France, in spite of those who would work treason and mischief
against the kingdom. Think not you shall ever hold the kingdom from
the King of Heaven, the Son of the blessed Mary; King Charles shall
hold it, for God wills it so, and has revealed it to him by the Maid. If
you believe not the news sent by God through the Maid, wherever we
shall meet you we will strike boldly and make such a noise as has not
been in France these thousand years. Be sure that God can send more
strength to the Maid than you can bring to any assault against her and
her good men-at-arms; and then we shall see who has the better right,
the King of Heaven, or you. Duke of Bedford, the Maid prays you not
to bring about your own destruction. If you do her right, you may yet
go in her company where the French shall do the finest deed that has
been done in Christendom, and if you do not, you shall be reminded
shortly of your great wrongs."

In that closing sentence she invites them to go on
crusade with her to rescue the Holy Sepulchre. No
answer had been returned to this proclamation, and
the messenger himself had not come back.

So now she sent her two heralds with a new letter
warning the English to raise the siege and requiring

---

them to restore that missing messenger. The heralds
came back without him. All they brought was
notice from the English to Joan that they would
presently catch her and burn her if she did not clear
out now while she had a chance, and "go back to
her proper trade of minding cows."

She held her peace, only saying it was a pity that
the English would persist in inviting present disaster
and eventual destruction when she was "doing all
she could to get them out of the country with their
lives still in their bodies."

Presently she thought of an arrangement that
might be acceptable, and said to the heralds, "Go
back and say to Lord Talbot this, from me: 'Come
out of your bastilles with your host, and I will come
with mine; if I beat you, go in peace out of France;
if you beat me, burn me, according to your desire.'"

I did not hear this, but Dunois did, and spoke of
it. The challenge was refused.

Sunday morning her Voices or some instinct gave
her a warning, and she sent Dunois to Blois to take
command of the army and hurry it to Orleans. It
was a wise move, for he found Regnault de Chartres
and some more of the King's pet rascals there trying
their best to disperse the army, and crippling all
the efforts of Joan's generals to head it for Orleans.
They were a fine lot, those miscreants. They turned
their attention to Dunois now, but he had balked
Joan once, with unpleasant results to himself, and
was not minded to meddle in that way again. He
soon had the army moving.

---

CHAPTER XV.

We of the personal staff were in fairy-land now,
during the few days that we waited for the re-
turn of the army. We went into society. To our
two knights this was not a novelty, but to us young
villagers it was a new and wonderful life. Any posi-
tion of any sort near the person of the Maid of
Vaucouleurs conferred high distinction upon the
holder and caused his society to be courted; and so
the D'Arc brothers, and Noël, and the Paladin,
humble peasants at home, were gentlemen here,
personages of weight and influence. It was fine to
see how soon their country diffidences and awkward-
nesses melted away under this pleasant sun of defer-
ence and disappeared, and how lightly and easily
they took to their new atmosphere. The Paladin
was as happy as it was possible for any one in this
earth to be. His tongue went all the time, and daily
he got new delight out of hearing himself talk. He
began to enlarge his ancestry and spread it out all
around, and ennoble it right and left, and it was not
long until it consisted almost entirely of dukes. He
worked up his old battles and tricked them out with

---

fresh splendors; also with new terrors, for he added
artillery now. We had seen cannon for the first
time at Blois—a few pieces—here there was plenty
of it, and now and then we had the impressive spec-
tacle of a huge English bastille hidden from sight in
a mountain of smoke from its own guns, with lances
of red flame darting through it; and this grand
picture, along with the quaking thunders pounding
away in the heart of it, inflamed the Paladin's imagi-
nation and enabled him to dress out those ambuscade-
skirmishes of ours with a sublimity which made it
impossible for any to recognize them at all except
people who had not been there.

You may suspect that there was a special inspira-
tion for these great efforts of the Paladin's, and
there was. It was the daughter of the house,
Catherine Boucher, who was eighteen, and gentle
and lovely in her ways, and very beautiful. I think
she might have been as beautiful as Joan herself, if
she had had Joan's eyes. But that could never be.
There was never but that one pair, there will never
be another. Joan's eyes were deep and rich and
wonderful beyond anything merely earthly. They
spoke all the languages—they had no need of
words. They produced all effects—and just by a
glance, just a single glance; a glance that could con-
vict a liar of his lie and make him confess it; that
could bring down a proud man's pride and make
him humble; that could put courage into a coward
and strike dead the courage of the bravest; that

---

could appease resentments and real hatreds; that
could speak peace to storms of passion and be
obeyed; that could make the doubter believe and
the hopeless hope again; that could purify the im-
pure mind; that could persuade—ah, there it is—
persuasion! that is the word; what or who is it that
it couldn't persuade? The maniac of Domremy—
the fairy-banishing priest—the reverend tribunal of
Toul—the doubting and superstitious Laxart—the
obstinate veteran of Vaucouleurs—the characterless
heir of France—the sages and scholars of the Par-
liament and University of Poitiers—the darling of
Satan, La Hire—the masterless Bastard of Orleans,
accustomed to acknowledge no way as right and
rational but his own—these were the trophies of
that great gift that made her the wonder and mys-
tery that she was.

We mingled companionably with the great folk
who flocked to the big house to make Joan's ac-
quaintance, and they made much of us and we lived
in the clouds, so to speak. But what we preferred
even to this happiness was the quieter occasions,
when the formal guests were gone and the family
and a few dozen of its familiar friends were gathered
together for a social good time. It was then that
we did our best, we five youngsters, with such fasci-
nations as we had, and the chief object of them was
Catherine. None of us had ever been in love before,
and now we had the misfortune to all fall in love
with the same person at the same time—which was

---

the first moment we saw her. She was a merry
heart, and full of life, and I still remember tenderly
those few evenings that I was permitted to have my
share of her dear society and of comradeship with
that little company of charming people.

The Paladin made us all jealous the first night, for
when he got fairly started on those battles of his he
had everything to himself, and there was no use in
anybody else's trying to get any attention. Those
people had been living in the midst of real war for
seven months; and to hear this windy giant lay out
his imaginary campaigns and fairly swim in blood
and spatter it all around, entertained them to the
verge of the grave. Catherine was like to die, for
pure enjoyment. She didn't laugh loud—we, of
course, wished she would—but kept in the shelter
of a fan, and shook until there was danger that she
would unhitch her ribs from her spine. Then when
the Paladin had got done with a battle and we began
to feel thankful and hope for a change, she would
speak up in a way that was so sweet and persuasive
that it rankled in me, and ask him about some detail
or other in the early part of his battle which she said
had greatly interested her, and would he be so good
as to describe that part again and with a little more
particularity?—which of course precipitated the
whole battle on us again, with a hundred lies added
that had been overlooked before.

I do not know how to make you realize the pain
I suffered. I had never been jealous before, and it

---

seemed intolerable that this creature should have
this good fortune which he was so ill entitled to, and
I have to sit and see myself neglected when I was so
longing for the least little attention out of the thou-
sand that this beloved girl was lavishing upon him.
I was near her, and tried two or three times to get
started on some of the things that I had done in
those battles—and I felt ashamed of myself, too,
for stooping to such a business—but she cared for
nothing but his battles, and could not be got to
listen; and presently when one of my attempts caused
her to lose some precious rag or other of his men-
dacities and she asked him to repeat, thus bringing
on a new engagement, of course, and increasing the
havoc and carnage tenfold, I felt so humiliated by
this pitiful miscarriage of mine that I gave up and
tried no more.

The others were as outraged by the Paladin's
selfish conduct as I was—and by his grand luck,
too, of course—perhaps, indeed, that was the main
hurt. We talked our trouble over together, which
was but natural, for rivals become brothers when a
common affliction assails them and a common enemy
bears off the victory.

Each of us could do things that would please and
get notice if it were not for this person, who occu-
pied all the time and gave others no chance. I had
made a poem, taking a whole night to it—a poem
in which I most happily and delicately celebrated
that sweet girl's charms, without mentioning her

---

name, but any one could see who was meant; for
the bare title—"The Rose of Orleans"—would
reveal that, as it seemed to me. It pictured this pure
and dainty white rose as growing up out of the rude
soil of war and looking abroad out of its tender eyes
upon the horrid machinery of death, and then—
note this conceit—it blushes for the sinful nature of
man, and turns red in a single night. Becomes a
red rose, you see—a rose that was white before.
The idea was my own, and quite new. Then it
sent its sweet perfume out over the embattled city,
and when the beleaguering forces smelt it they laid
down their arms and wept. This was also my own
idea, and new. That closed that part of the poem;
then I put her into the similitude of the firmament—
not the whole of it, but only part. That is to say,
she was the moon, and all the constellations were
following her about, their hearts in flames for love
of her, but she would not halt, she would not listen,
for 'twas thought she loved another. 'Twas thought
she loved a poor unworthy suppliant who was upon
the earth, facing danger, death, and possible mutila-
tion in the bloody field, waging relentless war against
a heartless foe to save her from an all too early
grave, and her city from destruction. And when
the sad pursuing constellations came to know and
realize the bitter sorrow that was come upon them—
note this idea—their hearts broke and their tears
gushed forth, filling the vault of heaven with a fiery
splendor, for those tears were falling stars. It was

---

a rash idea, but beautiful; beautiful and pathetic;
wonderfully pathetic, the way I had it, with the
rhyme and all to help. At the end of each verse
there was a two-line refrain pitying the poor earthly
lover separated so far, and perhaps forever, from
her he loved so well, and growing always paler and
weaker and thinner in his agony as he neared the
cruel grave—the most touching thing—even the
boys themselves could hardly keep back their tears,
the way Noël said those lines. There were eight
four-line stanzas in the first end of the poem—the
end about the rose, the horticultural end, as you
may say, if that is not too large a name for such a
little poem—and eight in the astronomical end—
sixteen stanzas altogether, and I could have made it
a hundred and fifty if I had wanted to, I was so
inspired and so all swelled up with beautiful thoughts
and fancies; but that would have been too many to
sing or recite before a company that way, whereas
sixteen was just right, and could be done over again
if desired.

The boys were amazed that I could make such a
poem as that out of my own head, and so was I, of
course, it being as much a surprise to me as it could
be to anybody, for I did not know that it was in
me. If any had asked me a single day before if it
was in me, I should have told them frankly no, it
was not.

That is the way with us; we may go on half of
our life not knowing such a thing is in us, when in

---

reality it was there all the time, and all we needed
was something to turn up that would call for it.
Indeed, it was always so with our family. My
grandfather had a cancer, and they never knew what
was the matter with him till he died, and he didn't
himself. It is wonderful how gifts and diseases can
be concealed that way. All that was necessary in
my case was for this lovely and inspiring girl to
cross my path, and out came the poem, and no
more trouble to me to word it and rhyme it and
perfect it than it is to stone a dog. No, I should
have said it was not in me; but it was.

The boys couldn't say enough about it, they were
so charmed and astonished. The thing that pleased
them the most was the way it would do the Paladin's
business for him. They forgot everything in their
anxiety to get him shelved and silenced. Noël
Rainguesson was clear beside himself with admiration
of the poem, and wished he could do such a thing,
but it was out of his line and he couldn't, of course.
He had it by heart in half an hour, and there was
never anything so pathetic and beautiful as the way
he recited it. For that was just his gift—that and
mimicry. He could recite anything better than any-
body in the world, and he could take off La Hire to
the very life—or anybody else, for that matter.
Now I never could recite worth a farthing; and
when I tried with this poem the boys wouldn't let
me finish; they would have nobody but Noël. So
then, as I wanted the poem to make the best possi-

---

ble impression on Catherine and the company, I told
Noël he might do the reciting. Never was anybody
so delighted. He could hardly believe that I was in
earnest, but I was. I said that to have them know
that I was the author of it would be enough for me.
The boys were full of exultation, and Noël said if
he could just get one chance at those people it
would be all he would ask; he would make them
realize that there was something higher and finer
than war-lies to be had here.

But how to get the opportunity—that was the
difficulty. We invented several schemes that prom-
ised fairly, and at last we hit upon one that was
sure. That was, to let the Paladin get a good start
in a manufactured battle, and then send in a false
call for him, and as soon as he was out of the room,
have Noël take his place and finish the battle him-
self in the Paladin's own style, imitated to a shade.
That would get great applause, and win the house's
favor and put it in the right mood to hear the poem.
The two triumphs together would finish the Standard-
Bearer—modify him, anyway, to a certainty, and
give the rest of us a chance for the future.

So the next night I kept out of the way until the
Paladin had got his start and was sweeping down
upon the enemy like a whirlwind at the head of his
corps, then I stepped within the door in my official
uniform and announced that a messenger from Gen-
eral La Hire's quarters desired speech with the
Standard-Bearer. He left the room, and Noël took

---

his place and said that the interruption was to be
deplored, but that fortunately he was personally ac-
quainted with the details of the battle himself, and if
permitted would be glad to state them to the com-
pany. Then without waiting for the permission he
turned himself into the Paladin—a dwarfed Paladin,
of course—with manner, tones, gestures, attitudes,
everything exact, and went right on with the battle,
and it would be impossible to imagine a more per-
fectly and minutely ridiculous imitation than he
furnished to those shrieking people. They went
into spasms, convulsions, frenzies of laughter, and
the tears flowed down their cheeks in rivulets. The
more they laughed, the more inspired Noël grew with
his theme and the greater the marvels he worked, till
really the laughter was not properly laughing any
more, but screaming. Blessedest feature of all,
Catherine Boucher was dying with ecstasies, and
presently there was little left of her but gasps and
suffocations. Victory? It was a perfect Agincourt.

The Paladin was gone only a couple of minutes;
he found out at once that a trick had been played
on him, so he came back. When he approached
the door he heard Noël ranting in there and recog-
nized the state of the case; so he remained near the
door but out of sight, and heard the performance
through to the end. The applause Noël got when
he finished was wonderful; and they kept it up and
kept it up, clapping their hands like mad, and
shouting to him to do it over again.

---

But Noël was clever. He knew the very best
background for a poem of deep and refined senti-
ment and pathetic melancholy was one where great
and satisfying merriment has prepared the spirit for
the powerful contrast.

So he paused until all was quiet, then his face
grew grave and assumed an impressive aspect, and
at once all faces sobered in sympathy and took on a
look of wondering and expectant interest. Now he
began in a low but distinct voice the opening verses
of The Rose. As he breathed the rhythmic meas-
ures forth, and one gracious line after another fell
upon those enchanted ears in that deep hush, one
could catch, on every hand, half-audible ejaculations
of "How lovely—how beautiful—how exquisite."

By this time the Paladin, who had gone away for
a moment with the opening of the poem, was back
again, and had stepped within the door. He stood
there now, resting his great frame against the wall
and gazing toward the reciter like one entranced.
When Noël got to the second part, and that heart-
breaking refrain began to melt and move all listeners,
the Paladin began to wipe away tears with the back
of first one hand and then the other. The next
time the refrain was repeated he got to snuffling,
and sort of half sobbing, and went to wiping his
eyes with the sleeves of his doublet. He was so
conspicuous that he embarrassed Noël a little, and
also had an ill effect upon the audience. With the
next repetition he broke quite down and began to

---

cry like a calf, which ruined all the effect and started
many in the audience to laughing. Then he went
on from bad to worse, until I never saw such a
spectacle; for he fetched out a towel from under his
doublet and began to swab his eyes with it and let
go the most infernal bellowings mixed up with sob-
bings and groanings and retchings and barkings
and coughings and snortings and screamings and
howlings—and he twisted himself about on his
heels and squirmed this way and that, still pouring
out that brutal clamor and flourishing his towel in
the air and swabbing again and wringing it out.
Hear? You couldn't hear yourself think. Noël
was wholly drowned out and silenced, and those
people were laughing the very lungs out of them-
selves. It was the most degrading sight that ever
was. Now I heard the clankety-clank that plate-
armor makes when the man that is in it is running,
and then alongside my head there burst out the most
inhuman explosion of laughter that ever rent the
drum of a person's ear, and I looked, and it was La
Hire; and he stood there with his gauntlets on his
hips and his head tilted back and his jaws spread to
that degree to let out his hurricanes and his thunders
that it amounted to indecent exposure, for you could
see everything that was in him. Only one thing
more and worse could happen, and it happened: at
the other door I saw the flurry and bustle and bow-
ings and scrapings of officials and flunkeys which
means that some great personage is coming—then

---

Joan of Arc stepped in, and the house rose! Yes,
and tried to shut its indecorous mouth and make
itself grave and proper; but when it saw the Maid
herself go to laughing, it thanked God for this mercy
and the earthquake followed.

Such things make life a bitterness, and I do not
wish to dwell upon them. The effect of the poem
was spoiled.

---

CHAPTER XVI.

This episode disagreed with me and I was not
able to leave my bed the next day. The
others were in the same condition. But for this,
one or another of us might have had the good luck
that fell to the Paladin's share that day; but it is
observable that God in His compassion sends the
good luck to such as are ill equipped with gifts, as
compensation for their defect, but requires such as
are more fortunately endowed to get by labor and
talent what those others get by chance. It was
Noël who said this, and it seemed to me to be well
and justly thought.

The Paladin, going about the town all the day in
order to be followed and admired and overhear the
people say in an awed voice, "Ssh!—look, it is
the Standard-Bearer of Joan of Arc!" had speech
with all sorts and conditions of folk, and he learned
from some boatmen that there was a stir of some
kind going on in the bastilles on the other side of
the river; and in the evening, seeking further, he
found a deserter from the fortress called the
"Augustins," who said that the English were going

---

to send men over to strengthen the garrisons on our
side during the darkness of the night, and were
exulting greatly, for they meant to spring upon
Dunois and the army when it was passing the bas-
tilles and destroy it; a thing quite easy to do, since
the "Witch" would not be there, and without her
presence the army would do like the French armies
of these many years past—drop their weapons and
run when they saw an English face.

It was ten at night when the Paladin brought this
news and asked leave to speak to Joan, and I was
up and on duty then. It was a bitter stroke to me
to see what a chance I had lost. Joan made search-
ing inquiries, and satisfied herself that the word was
true, then she made this annoying remark:

"You have done well, and you have my thanks.
It may be that you have prevented a disaster. Your
name and service shall receive official mention."

Then he bowed low, and when he rose he was
eleven feet high. As he swelled out past me he
covertly pulled down the corner of his eye with his
finger and muttered part of that defiled refrain, "Oh,
tears, ah, tears, oh, sad sweet tears!—name in Gen-
eral Orders—personal mention to the King, you
see!"

I wished Joan could have seen his conduct, but she
was busy thinking what she would do. Then she
had me fetch the knight Jean de Metz, and in a
minute he was off for La Hire's quarters with orders
for him and the Lord de Villars and Florent d'Iliers

---

to report to her at five o'clock next morning with
five hundred picked men well mounted. The his-
tories say half-past four, but it is not true, I heard
the order given.

We were on our way at five to the minute, and
encountered the head of the arriving column between
six and seven, a couple of leagues from the city.
Dunois was pleased, for the army had begun to get
restive and show uneasiness now that it was getting
so near to the dreaded bastilles. But that all disap-
peared now, as the word ran down the line, with a
huzza that swept along the length of it like a wave,
that the Maid was come. Dunois asked her to halt
and let the column pass in review, so that the men
could be sure that the report of her presence was
not a ruse to revive their courage. So she took
position at the side of the road with her staff, and
the battalions swung by with a martial stride, huz-
zaing. Joan was armed, except her head. She
was wearing the cunning little velvet cap with the
mass of curved white ostrich plumes tumbling over
its edges which the city of Orleans had given her the
night she arrived—the one that is in the picture
that hangs in the Hôtel de Ville at Rouen. She
was looking about fifteen. The sight of soldiers
always set her blood to leaping, and lit the fires in
her eyes and brought the warm rich color to her
cheeks; it was then that you saw that she was too
beautiful to be of the earth, or at any rate that
there was a subtle something somewhere about her

---

beauty that differed it from the human types of your
experience and exalted it above them.

In the train of wains laden with supplies a man
lay on top of the goods. He was stretched out on
his back, and his hands were tied together with
ropes, and also his ankles. Joan signed to the
officer in charge of that division of the train to come
to her, and he rode up and saluted.

"What is he that is bound there?" she asked.

"A prisoner, General."

"What is his offense?"

"He is a deserter."

"What is to be done with him?"

"He will be hanged, but it was not convenient on
the march, and there was no hurry."

"Tell me about him."

"He is a good soldier, but he asked leave to go
and see his wife who was dying, he said, but it could
not be granted; so he went without leave. Mean-
while the march began, and he only overtook us
yesterday evening."

"Overtook you? Did he come of his own will?"

"Yes, it was of his own will."

"He a deserter! Name of God! Bring him to
me."

The officer rode forward and loosed the man's
feet and brought him back with his hands still tied.
What a figure he was—a good seven feet high, and
built for business! He had a strong face; he had
an unkempt shock of black hair which showed up in

---

a striking way when the officer removed his morion
for him; for weapon he had a big axe in his broad
leathern belt. Standing by Joan's horse, he made
Joan look littler than ever, for his head was about
on a level with her own. His face was profoundly
melancholy; all interest in life seemed to be dead in
the man. Joan said:

"Hold up your hands."

The man's head was down. He lifted it when he
heard that soft friendly voice, and there was a wistful
something in his face which made one think that
there had been music in it for him and that he would
like to hear it again. When he raised his hands
Joan laid her sword to his bonds, but the officer
said with apprehension:

"Ah, madam—my General!"

"What is it?" she said.

"He is under sentence!"

"Yes, I know. I am responsible for him;" and
she cut the bonds. They had lacerated his wrists,
and they were bleeding. "Ah, pitiful!" she said;
"blood—I do not like it;" and she shrank from
the sight. But only for a moment. "Give me
something, somebody, to bandage his wrists with."

The officer said:

"Ah, my General! it is not fitting. Let me bring
another to do it."

"Another? De par le Dieu! You would seek far
to find one that can do it better than I, for I learned
it long ago among both men and beasts. And I

---

can tie better than those that did this; if I had tied
him the ropes had not cut his flesh."

The man looked on silent, while he was being
bandaged, stealing a furtive glance at Joan's face
occasionally, such as an animal might that is receiv-
ing a kindness from an unexpected quarter and is
gropingly trying to reconcile the act with its source.
All the staff had forgotten the huzzaing army drift-
ing by in its rolling clouds of dust, to crane their
necks and watch the bandaging as if it was the most
interesting and absorbing novelty that ever was. I
have often seen people do like that—get entirely
lost in the simplest trifle, when it is something that
is out of their line. Now there in Poitiers, once, I
saw two bishops and a dozen of those grave and
famous scholars grouped together watching a man
paint a sign on a shop; they didn't breathe, they
were as good as dead; and when it began to sprinkle
they didn't know it at first; then they noticed it,
and each man hove a deep sigh, and glanced up
with a surprised look as wondering to see the others
there, and how he came to be there himself—but
that is the way with people, as I have said. There
is no way of accounting for people. You have to
take them as they are.

"There," said Joan at last, pleased with her suc-
cess; "another could have done it no better—not
as well, I think. Tell me—what is it you did?
Tell me all."

The giant said:

---

JOAN AND THE "DWARF"

---

---

"It was this way, my angel. My mother died,
then my three little children, one after the other, all
in two years. It was the famine; others fared so—
it was God's will. I saw them die; I had that grace;
and I buried them. Then when my poor wife's
fate was come, I begged for leave to go to her—
she who was so dear to me—she who was all I had;
I begged on my knees. But they would not let me.
Could I let her die, friendless and alone? Could I
let her die believing I would not come? Would
she let me die and she not come—with her feet free
to do it if she would, and no cost upon it but only
her life? Ah, she would come—she would come
through the fire! So I went. I saw her. She
died in my arms. I buried her. Then the army
was gone. I had trouble to overtake it, but my
legs are long and there are many hours in a day; I
overtook it last night."

Joan said, musingly, and as if she were thinking
aloud:

"It sounds true. If true, it were no great harm
to suspend the law this one time—any would say
that. It may not be true, but if it is true—" She
turned suddenly to the man and said, "I would see
your eyes—look up!" The eyes of the two met,
and Joan said to the officer, "The man is pardoned.
Give you good-day; you may go." Then she said
to the man, "Did you know it was death to come
back to the army?"

"Yes," he said, "I knew it."

---

"Then why did you do it?"

The man said, quite simply:

"Because it was death. She was all I had.
There was nothing left to love."

"Ah, yes, there was—France! The children of
France have always their mother—they cannot be
left with nothing to love. You shall live—and you
shall serve France—"

"I will serve you!"

"—you shall fight for France—"

"I will fight for you!"

"You shall be France's soldier—"

"I will be your soldier!"

"—you shall give all your heart to France—"

"I will give all my heart to you—and all my
soul, if I have one—and all my strength, which is
great—for I was dead and am alive again; I had
nothing to live for, but now I have! You are
France for me. You are my France, and I will
have no other."

Joan smiled, and was touched and pleased at the
man's grave enthusiasm—solemn enthusiasm, one
may call it, for the manner of it was deeper than
mere gravity—and she said:

"Well, it shall be as you will. What are you
called?"

The man answered with unsmiling simplicity:

"They call me the Dwarf, but I think it is more
in jest than otherwise."

It made Joan laugh, and she said:

---

"It has something of that look truly! What is
the office of that vast axe?"

The soldier replied with the same gravity—which
must have been born to him, it sat upon him so
naturally:

"It is to persuade persons to respect France."

Joan laughed again, and said:

"Have you given many lessons?"

"Ah, indeed yes—many."

"The pupils behaved to suit you afterward?"

"Yes; it made them quiet—quite pleasant and
quiet."

"I should think it would happen so. Would you
like to be my man-at-arms?—orderly, sentinel, or
something like that?"

"If I may!"

"Then you shall. You shall have proper armor,
and shall go on teaching your art. Take one of
those led horses there, and follow the staff when we
move."

That is how we came by the Dwarf; and a good
fellow he was. Joan picked him out on sight, but it
wasn't a mistake; no one could be faithfuller than
he was, and he was a devil and the son of a devil
when he turned himself loose with his axe. He was
so big that he made the Paladin look like an ordinary
man. He liked to like people, therefore people
liked him. He liked us boys from the start; and
he liked the knights, and liked pretty much every-
body he came across; but he thought more of a

---

paring of Joan's finger-nail than he did of all the
rest of the world put together.

Yes, that is where we got him—stretched on the
wain, going to his death, poor chap, and nobody to
say a good word for him. He was a good find.
Why, the knights treated him almost like an equal—
it is the honest truth; that is the sort of a man he
was. They called him the Bastille sometimes, and
sometimes they called him Hellfire, which was on
account of his warm and sumptuous style in battle,
and you know they wouldn't have given him pet
names if they hadn't had a good deal of affection
for him.

To the Dwarf, Joan was France, the spirit of
France made flesh—he never got away from that
idea that he had started with; and God knows it was
the true one. That was a humble eye to see so great
a truth where some others failed. To me that seems
quite remarkable. And yet, after all, it was, in a
way, just what nations do. When they love a great
and noble thing, they embody it—they want it so
that they can see it with their eyes; like Liberty, for
instance. They are not content with the cloudy
abstract idea, they make a beautiful statue of it, and
then their beloved idea is substantial and they can
look at it and worship it. And so it is as I say; to
the Dwarf, Joan was our country embodied, our
country made visible flesh cast in a gracious form.
When she stood before others, they saw Joan of
Arc, but he saw France.

---

Sometimes he would speak of her by that name.
It shows you how the idea was imbedded in his
mind, and how real it was to him. The world has
called our kings by it, but I know of none of them
who has had so good a right as she to that sublime
title.

When the march past was finished, Joan returned
to the front and rode at the head of the column.
When we began to file past those grim bastilles and
could glimpse the men within, standing to their guns
and ready to empty death into our ranks, such a
faintness came over me and such a sickness that all
things seemed to turn dim and swim before my eyes;
and the other boys looked droopy, too, I thought—
including the Paladin, although I do not know this
for certain, because he was ahead of me and I had to
keep my eyes out toward the bastille side, because I
could wince better when I saw what to wince at.

But Joan was at home—in Paradise, I might say.
She sat up straight, and I could see that she was
feeling different from me. The awfulest thing was
the silence; there wasn't a sound but the screaking
of the saddles, the measured tramplings, and the
sneezing of the horses, afflicted by the smothering
dust-clouds which they kicked up. I wanted to
sneeze myself, but it seemed to me that I would
rather go unsneezed, or suffer even a bitterer
torture, if there is one, than attract attention to
myself.

I was not of a rank to make suggestions, or I

---

would have suggested that if we went faster we
should get by sooner. It seemed to me that it was
an ill-judged time to be taking a walk. Just as we
were drifting in that suffocating stillness past a great
cannon that stood just within a raised portcullis,
with nothing between me and it but the moat, a
most uncommon jackass in there split the world with
his bray, and I fell out of the saddle. Sir Bertrand
grabbed me as I went, which was well, for if I had
gone to the ground in my armor I could not have
gotten up again by myself. The English warders
on the battlements laughed a coarse laugh, forget-
ting that every one must begin, and that there had
been a time when they themselves would have fared
no better when shot by a jackass.

The English never uttered a challenge nor fired a
shot. It was said afterward that when their men
saw the Maid riding at the front and saw how lovely
she was, their eager courage cooled down in many
cases and vanished in the rest, they feeling certain
that that creature was not mortal, but the very child
of Satan, and so the officers were prudent and did
not try to make them fight. It was said also that
some of the officers were affected by the same super-
stitious fears. Well, in any case, they never offered
to molest us, and we poked by all the grisly fort-
resses in peace. During the march I caught up on
my devotions, which were in arrears; so it was not
all loss and no profit for me after all.

It was on this march that the histories say Dunois

---

told Joan that the English were expecting reinforce-
ments under the command of Sir John Fastolfe, and
that she turned upon him and said:

"Bastard, Bastard, in God's name I warn you to
let me know of his coming as soon as you hear of
it; for if he passes without my knowledge you shall
lose your head!"

It may be so; I don't deny it; but I didn't hear
it. If she really said it I think she only meant she
would take off his official head—degrade him from
his command. It was not like her to threaten a
comrade's life. She did have her doubts of her
generals, and was entitled to them, for she was all
for storm and assault, and they were for holding
still and tiring the English out. Since they did not
believe in her way and were experienced old soldiers,
it would be natural for them to prefer their own and
try to get around carrying hers out.

But I did hear something that the histories didn't
mention and don't know about. I heard Joan say
that now that the garrisons on the other side had
been weakened to strengthen those on our side, the
most effective point of operations had shifted to the
south shore; so she meant to go over there and
storm the forts which held the bridge end, and that
would open up communication with our own domin-
ions and raise the siege. The generals began to balk,
privately, right away, but they only baffled and de-
layed her, and that for only four days.

All Orleans met the army at the gate and huz-

---

zaed it through the bannered streets to its various
quarters, but nobody had to rock it to sleep; it
slumped down dog-tired, for Dunois had rushed it
without mercy, and for the next twenty-four hours
it would be quiet, all but the snoring.

---

CHAPTER XVII.

When we got home, breakfast for us minor fry
was waiting in our mess-room and the family
honored us by coming in to eat it with us. The
nice old treasurer, and in fact all three were flatter-
ingly eager to hear about our adventures. Nobody
asked the Paladin to begin, but he did begin, be-
cause now that his specially ordained and peculiar
military rank set him above everybody on the per-
sonal staff but old D'Aulon, who didn't eat with us,
he didn't care a farthing for the knights' nobility
nor mine, but took precedence in the talk whenever
it suited him, which was all the time, because he was
born that way. He said:

"God be thanked, we found the army in admi-
rable condition. I think I have never seen a finer
body of animals."

"Animals!" said Miss Catherine.

"I will explain to you what he means," said
Noël. "He—"

"I will trouble you not to trouble yourself to ex-
plain anything for me," said the Paladin, loftily.
"I have reason to think—"

"That is his way," said Noël; "always when he

---

thinks he has reason to think, he thinks he does
think, but this is an error. He didn't see the army.
I noticed him, and he didn't see it. He was
troubled by his old complaint."

"What is his old complaint?" Catherine asked.

"Prudence," I said, seeing my chance to help.

But it was not a fortunate remark, for the Paladin
said:

"It probably isn't your turn to criticise people's
prudence—you who fall out of the saddle when a
donkey brays."

They all laughed, and I was ashamed of myself
for my hasty smartness. I said:

"It isn't quite fair for you to say I fell out on
account of the donkey's braying. It was emotion,
just ordinary emotion."

"Very well, if you want to call it that, I am not
objecting. What would you call it, Sir Bertrand?"

"Well, it—well, whatever it was, it was excusa-
ble, I think. All of you have learned how to be-
have in hot hand-to-hand engagements, and you
don't need to be ashamed of your record in that
matter; but to walk along in front of death, with
one's hands idle, and no noise, no music, and noth-
ing going on, is a very trying situation. If I were
you, De Conte, I would name the emotion; it's
nothing to be ashamed of."

It was as straight and sensible a speech as ever I
heard, and I was grateful for the opening it gave
me; so I came out and said:

---

"It was fear—and thank you for the honest
idea, too."

"It was the cleanest and best way out," said the
old treasurer; "you've done well, my lad."

That made me comfortable, and when Miss Cath-
erine said, "It's what I think, too," I was grateful
to myself for getting into that scrape.

Sir Jean de Metz said:

"We were all in a body together when the
donkey brayed, and it was dismally still at the time.
I don't see how any young campaigner could escape
some little touch of that emotion."

He looked about him with a pleasant expression
of inquiry on his good face, and as each pair of
eyes in turn met his the head they were in nodded a
confession. Even the Paladin delivered his nod.
That surprised everybody, and saved the Standard-
Bearer's credit. It was clever of him; nobody be-
lieved he could tell the truth that way without
practice, or would tell that particular sort of a truth
either with or without practice. I suppose he
judged it would favorably impress the family.
Then the old treasurer said:

"Passing the forts in that trying way required
the same sort of nerve that a person must have when
ghosts are about him in the dark, I should think.
What does the Standard-Bearer think?"

"Well, I don't quite know about that, sir. I've
often thought I would like to see a ghost if I—"

"Would you?" exclaimed the young lady.

---

"We've got one! Would you try that one? Will
you?"

She was so eager and pretty that the Paladin said
straight out that he would; and then as none of the
rest had bravery enough to expose the fear that was
in him, one volunteered after the other with a
prompt mouth and a sick heart till all were shipped
for the voyage; then the girl clapped her hands in
glee, and the parents were gratified, too, saying that
the ghosts of their house had been a dread and a
misery to them and their forebears for generations,
and nobody had ever been found yet who was will-
ing to confront them and find out what their trouble
was, so that the family could heal it and content the
poor specters and beguile them to tranquillity and
peace.

---

CHAPTER XVIII.

>About noon I was chatting with Madame Boucher;
nothing was going on, all was quiet, when Cathe-
rine Boucher suddenly entered in great excitement,
and said:

"Fly, sir, fly! The Maid was dozing in her chair
in my room, when she sprang up and cried out,
'French blood is flowing!—my arms, give me my
arms!' Her giant was on guard at the door, and he
brought D'Aulon, who began to arm her, and I and
the giant have been warning the staff. Fly!—and
stay by her; and if there really is a battle, keep her
out of it—don't let her risk herself—there is no
need—if the men know she is near and looking on,
it is all that is necessary. Keep her out of the fight
—don't fail of this!"

I started on a run, saying, sarcastically—for I
was always fond of sarcasm, and it was said that I
had a most neat gift that way:

"Oh, yes, nothing easier than that—I'll attend
to it!"

At the furthest end of the house I met Joan,
fully armed, hurrying toward the door, and she said:

---

"Ah, French blood is being spilt, and you did not
tell me."

"Indeed I did not know it," I said; "there are
no sounds of war; everything is quiet, your
Excellency."

"You will hear war-sounds enough in a moment,"
she said, and was gone.

It was true. Before one could count five there
broke upon the stillness the swelling rush and tramp
of an approaching multitude of men and horses, with
hoarse cries of command; and then out of the
distance came the muffled deep boom!—boom-boom!
—boom! of cannon, and straightway that rushing
multitude was roaring by the house like a hurricane.

Our knights and all our staff came flying, armed,
but with no horses ready, and we burst out after
Joan in a body, the Paladin in the lead with the
banner. The surging crowd was made up half of
citizens and half of soldiers, and had no recognized
leader. When Joan was seen a huzza went up, and
she shouted:

"A horse—a horse!"

A dozen saddles were at her disposal in a moment.
She mounted, a hundred people shouting:

"Way, there—way for the Maid of Orleans!"
The first time that that immortal name was ever
uttered—and I, praise God, was there to hear it!
The mass divided itself like the waters of the Red
Sea, and down this lane Joan went skimming like a
bird, crying, "Forward, French hearts—follow

---

me!" and we came winging in her wake on the rest
of the borrowed horses, the holy standard streaming
above us, and the lane closing together in our rear.

This was a different thing from the ghastly march
past the dismal bastilles. No, we felt fine, now, and
all awhirl with enthusiasm. The explanation of this
sudden uprising was this. The city and the little
garrison, so long hopeless and afraid, had gone wild
over Joan's coming, and could no longer restrain
their desire to get at the enemy; so, without orders
from anybody, a few hundred soldiers and citizens
had plunged out at the Burgundy gate on a sudden
impulse and made a charge on one of Lord Talbot's
most formidable fortresses—St. Loup—and were
getting the worst of it. The news of this had swept
through the city and started this new crowd that we
were with.

As we poured out at the gate we met a force bring-
ing in the wounded from the front. The sight
moved Joan, and she said:

"Ah, French blood; it makes my hair rise to see
it!"

We were soon on the field, soon in the midst of
the turmoil. Joan was seeing her first real battle,
and so were we.

It was a battle in the open field; for the garrison
of St. Loup had sallied confidently out to meet the
attack, being used to victories when "witches" were
not around. The sally had been re-enforced by
troops from the "Paris" bastille, and when we ap-

---

proached the French were getting whipped and were
falling back. But when Joan came charging through
the disorder with her banner displayed, crying "For-
ward, men—follow me!" there was a change; the
French turned about and surged forward like a solid
wave of the sea, and swept the English before them,
hacking and slashing, and being hacked and slashed,
in a way that was terrible to see.

In the field the Dwarf had no assignment; that is
to say, he was not under orders to occupy any par-
ticular place, therefore he chose his place for him-
self, and went ahead of Joan and made a road for
her. It was horrible to see the iron helmets fly into
fragments under his dreadful axe. He called it
cracking nuts, and it looked like that. He made a
good road, and paved it well with flesh and iron.
Joan and the rest of us followed it so briskly that we
outspeeded our forces and had the English behind
us as well as before. The knights commanded us to
face outwards around Joan, which we did, and then
there was work done that was fine to see. One was
obliged to respect the Paladin, now. Being right
under Joan's exalting and transforming eye, he for-
got his native prudence, he forgot his diffidence in
the presence of danger, he forgot what fear was, and
he never laid about him in his imaginary battles in a
more tremendous way than he did in this real one;
and wherever he struck there was an enemy the
less.

We were in that close place only a few minutes;

---

then our forces to the rear broke through with a
great shout and joined us, and then the English
fought a retreating fight, but in a fine and gallant
way, and we drove them to their fortress foot by
foot, they facing us all the time, and their reserves
on the walls raining showers of arrows, cross-bow
bolts, and stone cannon-balls upon us.

The bulk of the enemy got safely within the works
and left us outside with piles of French and English
dead and wounded for company—a sickening sight,
an awful sight to us youngsters, for our little ambush
fights in February had been in the night, and the
blood and the mutilations and the dead faces were
mercifully dim, whereas we saw these things now for
the first time in all their naked ghastliness.

Now arrived Dunois from the city, and plunged
through the battle on his foam-flecked horse and gal-
loped up to Joan, saluting, and uttering handsome
compliments as he came. He waved his hand
toward the distant walls of the city, where a multi-
tude of flags were flaunting gayly in the wind, and
said the populace were up there observing her for-
tunate performance and rejoicing over it, and added
that she and the forces would have a great reception
now.

"Now? Hardly now, Bastard. Not yet!"

"Why not yet? Is there more to be done?"

"More, Bastard? We have but begun! We will
take this fortress."

"Ah, you can't be serious! We can't take this

---

place; let me urge you not to make the attempt; it
is too desperate. Let me order the forces back."

Joan's heart was overflowing with the joys and en-
thusiasms of war, and it made her impatient to hear
such talk. She cried out:

"Bastard, Bastard, will ye play always with these
English? Now verily I tell you we will not budge
until this place is ours. We will carry it by storm.
Sound the charge!"

"Ah, my General—"

"Waste no more time, man—let the bugles
sound the assault!" and we saw that strange deep
light in her eye which we named the battle-light, and
learned to know so well in later fields.

The martial notes pealed out, the troops answered
with a yell, and down they came against that formid-
able work, whose outlines were lost in its own can-
non smoke, and whose sides were spouting flame and
thunder.

We suffered repulse after repulse, but Joan was
here and there and everywhere encouraging the men,
and she kept them to their work. During three
hours the tide ebbed and flowed, flowed and ebbed;
but at last La Hire, who was now come, made a final
and resistless charge, and the bastille St. Loup was
ours. We gutted it, taking all its stores and artil-
lery, and then destroyed it.

When all our host was shouting itself hoarse with
rejoicings, and there went up a cry for the General,
for they wanted to praise her and glorify her and do

---

her homage for her victory, we had trouble to find
her; and when we did find her, she was off by her-
self, sitting among a ruck of corpses, with her face
in her hands, crying—for she was a young girl, you
know, and her hero-heart was a young girl's heart
too, with the pity and the tenderness that are natural
to it. She was thinking of the mothers of those
dead friends and enemies.

Among the prisoners were a number of priests,
and Joan took these under her protection and saved
their lives. It was urged that they were most prob-
ably combatants in disguise, but she said:

"As to that, how can any tell? They wear the
livery of God, and if even one of these wears it
rightfully, surely it were better that all the guilty
should escape than that we have upon our hands the
blood of that innocent man. I will lodge them
where I lodge, and feed them, and send them away
in safety."

We marched back to the city with our crop of
cannon and prisoners on view and our banners dis-
played. Here was the first substantial bit of war-
work the imprisoned people had seen in the seven
months that the siege had endured, the first chance
they had had to rejoice over a French exploit. You
may guess that they made good use of it. They
and the bells went mad. Joan was their darling
now, and the press of people struggling and shoul-
dering each other to get a glimpse of her was so
great that we could hardly push our way through the

---

streets at all. Her new name had gone all about,
and was on everybody's lips. The Holy Maid of
Vaucouleurs was a forgotten title; the city had
claimed her for its own, and she was the Maid of
Orleans now. It is a happiness to me to remem-
ber that I heard that name the first time it was ever
uttered. Between that first utterance and the last
time it will be uttered on this earth—ah, think how
many mouldering ages will lie in that gap!

The Boucher family welcomed her back as if she
had been a child of the house, and saved from death
against all hope or probability. They chided her
for going into the battle and exposing herself to
danger during all those hours. They could not
realize that she had meant to carry her warriorship
so far, and asked her if it had really been her pur-
pose to go right into the turmoil of the fight, or
hadn't she got swept into it by accident and the rush
of the troops? They begged her to be more careful
another time. It was good advice, maybe, but it fell
upon pretty unfruitful soil.

---

CHAPTER XIX.

Being worn out with the long fight, we all slept
the rest of the afternoon away and two or three
hours into the night. Then we got up refreshed,
and had supper. As for me, I could have been
willing to let the matter of the ghost drop; and the
others were of a like mind, no doubt, for they talked
diligently of the battle and said nothing of that other
thing. And indeed it was fine and stirring to hear
the Paladin rehearse his deeds and see him pile his
dead, fifteen here, eighteen there, and thirty-five
yonder; but this only postponed the trouble; it
could not do more. He could not go on forever;
when he had carried the bastille by assault and eaten
up the garrison there was nothing for it but to stop,
unless Catherine Boucher would give him a new start
and have it all done over again—as we hoped she
would, this time—but she was otherwise minded.
As soon as there was a good opening and a fair
chance, she brought up her unwelcome subject, and
we faced it the best we could.

We followed her and her parents to the haunted
room at eleven o'clock, with candles, and also with

---

torches to place in the sockets on the walls. It was
a big house, with very thick walls, and this room
was in a remote part of it which had been left unoc-
cupied for nobody knew how many years, because
of its evil repute.

This was a large room, like a salon, and had a big
table in it of enduring oak and well preserved; but
the chairs were worm-eaten and the tapestry on the
walls was rotten and discolored by age. The dusty
cobwebs under the ceiling had the look of not having
had any business for a century.

Catherine said:

"Tradition says that these ghosts have never been
seen—they have merely been heard. It is plain
that this room was once larger than it is now, and
that the wall at this end was built in some bygone
time to make and fence off a narrow room there.
There is no communication anywhere with that nar-
row room, and if it exists—and of that there is no
reasonable doubt—it has no light and no air, but is
an absolute dungeon. Wait where you are, and take
note of what happens."

That was all. Then she and her parents left us.
When their footfalls had died out in the distance
down the empty stone corridors an uncanny silence
and solemnity ensued which was dismaler to me
than the mute march past the bastilles. We sat
looking vacantly at each other, and it was easy to
see that no one there was comfortable. The longer
we sat so, the more deadly still that stillness got to

---

be; and when the wind began to moan around the
house presently, it made me sick and miserable, and
I wished I had been brave enough to be a coward this
time, for indeed it is no proper shame to be afraid
of ghosts, seeing how helpless the living are in their
hands. And then these ghosts were invisible, which
made the matter the worse, as it seemed to me.
They might be in the room with us at that moment
—we could not know. I felt airy touches on my
shoulders and my hair, and I shrank from them and
cringed, and was not ashamed to show this fear, for
I saw the others doing the like, and knew that they
were feeling those faint contacts too. As this went
on—oh, eternities it seemed, the time dragged so
drearily—all those faces became as wax, and I
seemed sitting with a congress of the dead.

At last, faint and far and weird and slow, came a
"boom!—boom!—boom!"—a distant bell tolling
midnight. When the last stroke died, that depress-
ing stillness followed again, and as before I was
staring at those waxen faces and feeling those airy
touches on my hair and my shoulders once more.

One minute—two minutes—three minutes of
this, then we heard a long deep groan, and everybody
sprang up and stood, with his legs quaking. It
came from that little dungeon. There was a pause,
then we heard muffled sobbings, mixed with pitiful
ejaculations. Then there was a second voice, low
and not distinct, and the one seemed trying to com-
fort the other; and so the two voices went on, with

---

moanings, and soft sobbings, and, ah, the tones were
so full of compassion and sorrow and despair! In-
deed, it made one's heart sore to hear it.

But those sounds were so real and so human and
so moving that the idea of ghosts passed straight out
of our minds, and Sir Jean de Metz spoke out and
said:

"Come! we will smash that wall and set those
poor captives free. Here, with your axe!"

The Dwarf jumped forward, swinging his great
axe with both hands, and others sprang for the
torches and brought them. Bang!—whang!—
slam!—smash went the ancient bricks, and there
was a hole an ox could pass through. We plunged
within and held up the torches.

Nothing there but vacancy! On the floor lay a
rusty sword and a rotten fan.

Now you know all that I know. Take the pathetic
relics, and weave about them the romance of the
dungeon's long-vanished inmates as best you can.

---

CHAPTER XX.

The next day Joan wanted to go against the
enemy again, but it was the feast of the
Ascension, and the holy council of bandit generals
were too pious to be willing to profane it with blood-
shed. But privately they profaned it with plottings,
a sort of industry just in their line. They decided
to do the only thing proper to do now in the new cir-
cumstances of the case—feign an attack on the most
important bastille on the Orleans side, and then, if
the English weakened the far more important fort-
resses on the other side of the river to come to its
help, cross in force and capture those works. This
would give them the bridge and free communication
with the Sologne, which was French territory. They
decided to keep this latter part of the programme
secret from Joan.

Joan intruded and took them by surprise. She
asked them what they were about and what they had
resolved upon. They said they had resolved to
attack the most important of the English bastilles on
the Orleans side next morning—and there the
spokesman stopped. Joan said:

---

"Well, go on."

"There is nothing more. That is all."

"Am I to believe this? That is to say, am I to
believe that you have lost your wits?" She turned
to Dunois, and said, "Bastard, you have sense,
answer me this: if this attack is made and the bas-
tille taken, how much better off would we be than
we are now?"

The Bastard hesitated, and then began some
rambling talk not quite germane to the question.
Joan interrupted him and said:

"That will do, good Bastard, you have answered.
Since the Bastard is not able to mention any advan-
tage to be gained by taking that bastille and stop-
ping there, it is not likely that any of you could
better the matter. You waste much time here in
inventing plans that lead to nothing, and making de-
lays that are a damage. Are you concealing some-
thing from me? Bastard, this council has a general
plan, I take it; without going into details, what is
it?"

"It is the same it was in the beginning, seven
months ago—to get provisions in for a long siege,
and then sit down and tire the English out."

"In the name of God! As if seven months was
not enough, you want to provide for a year of it.
Now ye shall drop these pusillanimous dreams—
the English shall go in three days!"

Several exclaimed:

"Ah, General, General, be prudent!"

---

"Be prudent and starve? Do ye call that war?
I tell you this, if you do not already know it: The
new circumstances have changed the face of matters.
The true point of attack has shifted; it is on the
other side of the river now. One must take the
fortifications that command the bridge. The Eng-
lish know that if we are not fools and cowards we
will try to do that. They are grateful for your
piety in wasting this day. They will re-enforce the
bridge forts from this side to-night, knowing what
ought to happen to-morrow. You have but lost a
day and made our task harder, for we will cross
and take the bridge forts. Bastard, tell me the
truth—does not this council know that there is no
other course for us than the one I am speaking of?"

Dunois conceded that the council did know it
to be the most desirable, but considered it imprac-
ticable; and he excused the council as well as he
could by saying that inasmuch as nothing was really
and rationally to be hoped for but a long continu-
ance of the siege and wearying out of the English,
they were naturally a little afraid of Joan's impetu-
ous notions. He said:

"You see, we are sure that the waiting game is
the best, whereas you would carry everything by
storm."

"That I would!—and moreover that I will!
You have my orders—here and now. We will
move upon the forts of the south bank to-morrow
at dawn."

---

"And carry them by storm?"

"Yes, carry them by storm!"

La Hire came clanking in, and heard the last
remark. He cried out:

"By my baton, that is the music I love to hear!
Yes, that is the right tune and the beautiful words,
my General—we will carry them by storm!"

He saluted in his large way and came up and
shook Joan by the hand.

Some member of the council was heard to say:

"It follows, then, that we must begin with the
bastille St. John, and that will give the English time
to—"

Joan turned and said:

"Give yourselves no uneasiness about the bastille
St. John. The English will know enough to retire
from it and fall back on the bridge bastilles when
they see us coming." She added, with a touch of
sarcasm, "Even a war-council would know enough
to do that itself."

Then she took her leave. La Hire made this
general remark to the council:

"She is a child, and that is all ye seem to see.
Keep to that superstition if you must, but you per-
ceive that this child understands this complex game
of war as well as any of you; and if you want my
opinion without the trouble of asking for it, here
you have it without ruffles or embroidery—by
God, I think she can teach the best of you how to
play it!"

---

Joan had spoken truly; the sagacious English
saw that the policy of the French had undergone a
revolution; that the policy of paltering and dawd-
ling was ended; that in place of taking blows, blows
were to be struck now; therefore they made ready
for the new state of things by transferring heavy re-
enforcements to the bastilles of the south bank from
those of the north.

The city learned the great news that once more in
French history, after all these humiliating years,
France was going to take the offensive; that France,
so used to retreating, was going to advance; that
France, so long accustomed to skulking, was going
to face about and strike. The joy of the people
passed all bounds. The city walls were black with
them to see the army march out in the morning in
that strange new position—its front, not its tail,
toward an English camp. You shall imagine for
yourselves what the excitement was like and how it
expressed itself, when Joan rode out at the head of
the host with her banner floating above her.

We crossed the river in strong force, and a tedi-
ous long job it was, for the boats were small and
not numerous. Our landing on the island of St.
Aignan was not disputed. We threw a bridge of a
few boats across the narrow channel thence to the
south shore and took up our march in good order
and unmolested; for although there was a fortress
there—St. John—the English vacated and de-
stroyed it and fell back on the bridge forts below

---

as soon as our first boats were seen to leave the
Orleans shore; which was what Joan had said would
happen, when she was disputing with the council.

We moved down the shore and Joan planted her
standard before the bastille of the Augustins, the
first of the formidable works that protected the end
of the bridge. The trumpets sounded the assault,
and two charges followed in handsome style; but
we were too weak, as yet, for our main body was
still lagging behind. Before we could gather for
a third assault the garrison of St. Privé were seen
coming up to re-enforce the big bastille. They came
on a run, and the Augustins sallied out, and both
forces came against us with a rush, and sent our
small army flying in a panic, and followed us, slash-
ing and slaying, and shouting jeers and insults at us.

Joan was doing her best to rally the men, but
their wits were gone, their hearts were dominated for
the moment by the old-time dread of the English.
Joan's temper flamed up, and she halted and com-
manded the trumpets to sound the advance. Then
she wheeled about and cried out:

"If there is but a dozen of you that are not
cowards, it is enough—follow me!"

Away she went, and after her a few dozen who
had heard her words and been inspired by them.
The pursuing force was astonished to see her sweep-
ing down upon them with this handful of men, and
it was their turn now to experience a grisly fright—
surely this is a witch, this is a child of Satan!

---

That was their thought—and without stopping to
analyze the matter they turned and fled in a
panic.

Our flying squadrons heard the bugle and turned
to look; and when they saw the Maid's banner
speeding in the other direction and the enemy
scrambling ahead of it in disorder, their courage
returned and they came scouring after us.

La Hire heard it and hurried his force forward
and caught up with us just as we were planting our
banner again before the ramparts of the Augustins.
We were strong enough now. We had a long and
tough piece of work before us, but we carried it
through before night, Joan keeping us hard at it,
and she and La Hire saying we were able to take
that big bastille, and must. The English fought
like—well, they fought like the English; when that
is said, there is no more to say. We made assault
after assault, through the smoke and flame and the
deafening cannon-blasts, and at last as the sun was
sinking we carried the place with a rush, and planted
our standard on its walls.

The Augustins was ours. The Tourelles must be
ours, too, if we would free the bridge and raise the
siege. We had achieved one great undertaking,
Joan was determined to accomplish the other. We
must lie on our arms where we were, hold fast to
what we had got, and be ready for business in the
morning. So Joan was not minded to let the men
be demoralized by pillage and riot and carousings;

---

she had the Augustins burned, with all its stores in
it, excepting the artillery and ammunition.

Everybody was tired out with this long day's hard
work, and of course this was the case with Joan;
still, she wanted to stay with the army before the
Tourelles, to be ready for the assault in the morn-
ing. The chiefs argued with her, and at last per-
suaded her to go home and prepare for the great
work by taking proper rest, and also by having a
leech look to a wound which she had received in
her foot. So we crossed with them and went home.

Just as usual, we found the town in a fury of joy,
all the bells clanging, everybody shouting, and
several people drunk. We never went out or came
in without furnishing good and sufficient reasons for
one of these pleasant tempests, and so the tempest
was always on hand. There had been a blank ab-
sence of reasons for this sort of upheavals for the
past seven months, therefore the people took to the
upheavals with all the more relish on that account.

---

CHAPTER XXI.

To get away from the usual crowd of visitors and
have a rest, Joan went with Catherine straight
to the apartment which the two occupied together,
and there they took their supper and there the
wound was dressed. But then, instead of going to
bed, Joan, weary as she was, sent the Dwarf for me,
in spite of Catherine's protests and persuasions.
She said she had something on her mind, and must
send a courier to Domremy with a letter for our old
Père Fronte to read to her mother. I came, and
she began to dictate. After some loving words and
greetings to her mother and the family, came this:

"But the thing which moves me to write now, is
to say that when you presently hear that I am
wounded, you shall give yourself no concern about
it, and refuse faith to any that shall try to make you
believe it is serious."

She was going on, when Catherine spoke up and
said:

"Ah, but it will fright her so to read these words.
Strike them out, Joan, strike them out, and wait
only one day—two days at most—then write and

---

say your foot was wounded but is well again—for
it will surely be well then, or very near it. Don't
distress her, Joan; do as I say."

A laugh like the laugh of the old days, the im-
pulsive free laugh of an untroubled spirit, a laugh
like a chime of bells, was Joan's answer; then she
said:

"My foot? Why should I write about such a
scratch as that? I was not thinking of it, dear
heart."

"Child, have you another wound and a worse,
and have not spoken of it? What have you been
dreaming about, that you—"

She had jumped up, full of vague fears, to have
the leech called back at once, but Joan laid her hand
upon her arm and made her sit down again, saying:

"There, now, be tranquil, there is no other
wound, as yet; I am writing about one which I
shall get when we storm that bastille to-morrow."

Catherine had the look of one who is trying to
understand a puzzling proposition but cannot quite
do it. She said, in a distraught fashion:

"A wound which you are going to get? But—
but why grieve your mother when it—when it may
not happen?"

"May not? Why, it will."

The puzzle was a puzzle still. Catherine said in
that same abstracted way as before:

"Will. It is a strong word. I cannot seem to
—my mind is not able to take hold of this. Oh,

---

Joan, such a presentiment is a dreadful thing—it
takes one's peace and courage all away. Cast it
from you!—drive it out! It will make your whole
night miserable, and to no good; for we will
hope—"

"But it isn't a presentiment—it is a fact. And
it will not make me miserable. It is uncertainties
that do that, but this is not an uncertainty."

"Joan, do you know it is going to happen?"

"Yes, I know it. My Voices told me."

"Ah," said Catherine, resignedly, "if they told
you— But are you sure it was they?—quite
sure?"

"Yes, quite. It will happen—there is no
doubt."

"It is dreadful! Since when have you known
it?"

"Since—I think it is several weeks." Joan
turned to me. "Louis, you will remember. How
long is it?"

"Your Excellency spoke of it first to the King,
in Chinon," I answered; "that was as much as
seven weeks ago. You spoke of it again the 20th
of April, and also the 22d, two weeks ago, as I see
by my record here."

These marvels disturbed Catherine profoundly,
but I had long ceased to be surprised at them. One
can get used to anything in this world. Catherine
said:

"And it is to happen to-morrow?—always to-

---

morrow? Is it the same date always? There has
been no mistake, and no confusion?"

"No," Joan said, "the 7th of May is the date—
there is no other."

"Then you shall not go a step out of this house
till that awful day is gone by! You will not dream
of it, Joan, will you?—promise that you will stay
with us."

But Joan was not persuaded. She said:

"It would not help the matter, dear good friend.
The wound is to come, and come to-morrow. If
I do not seek it, it will seek me. My duty calls me
to that place to-morrow; I should have to go if my
death were waiting for me there; shall I stay away
for only a wound? Oh, no, we must try to do
better than that."

"Then you are determined to go?"

"Of a certainty, yes. There is only one thing
that I can do for France—hearten her soldiers for
battle and victory." She thought a moment, then
added, "However, one should not be unreasonable,
and I would do much to please you, who are so
good to me. Do you love France?"

I wondered what she might be contriving now,
but I saw no clew. Catherine said, reproachfully:

"Ah, what have I done to deserve this ques-
tion?"

"Then you do love France. I had not doubted
it, dear. Do not be hurt, but answer me—have
you ever told a lie?"

---

"In my life I have not willfully told a lie—fibs,
but no lies."

"That is sufficient. You love France and do not
tell lies; therefore I will trust you. I will go or I
will stay, as you shall decide."

"Oh, I thank you from my heart, Joan! How
good and dear it is of you to do this for me! Oh,
you shall stay, and not go!"

In her delight she flung her arms about Joan's
neck and squandered endearments upon her the least
of which would have made me rich, but, as it was,
they only made me realize how poor I was—how
miserably poor in what I would most have prized in
this world. Joan said:

"Then you will send word to my headquarters
that I am not going?"

"Oh, gladly. Leave that to me."

"It is good of you. And how will you word it?
—for it must have proper official form. Shall I
word it for you?"

"Oh, do—for you know about these solemn
procedures and stately proprieties, and I have had
no experience."

"Then word it like this: 'The chief of staff is
commanded to make known to the King's forces in
garrison and in the field, that the General-in-Chief
of the Armies of France will not face the English
on the morrow, she being afraid she may get hurt.
Signed, Joan of Arc, by the hand of Catherine
Boucher, who loves France.'"

---

There was a pause—a silence of the sort that
tortures one into stealing a glance to see how the
situation looks, and I did that. There was a loving
smile on Joan's face, but the color was mounting in
crimson waves into Catherine's, and her lips were
quivering and the tears gathering; then she said:

"Oh, I am so ashamed of myself!—and you are
so noble and brave and wise, and I am so paltry—
so paltry and such a fool!" and she broke down
and began to cry, and I did so want to take her in
my arms and comfort her, but Joan did it, and of
course I said nothing. Joan did it well, and most
sweetly and tenderly, but I could have done it as
well, though I knew it would be foolish and out of
place to suggest such a thing, and might make an
awkwardness, too, and be embarrassing to us all, so
I did not offer, and I hope I did right and for the
best, though I could not know, and was many times
tortured with doubts afterward as having perhaps let
a chance pass which might have changed all my life
and made it happier and more beautiful than, alas,
it turned out to be. For this reason I grieve yet,
when I think of that scene, and do not like to call it
up out of the deeps of my memory because of the
pangs it brings.

Well, well, a good and wholesome thing is a little
harmless fun in this world; it tones a body up and
keeps him human and prevents him from souring.
To set that little trap for Catherine was as good and
effective a way as any to show her what a grotesque

---

thing she was asking of Joan. It was a funny idea
now, wasn't it, when you look at it all around?
Even Catherine dried up her tears and laughed when
she thought of the English getting hold of the
French Commander-in-Chief's reason for staying
out of a battle. She granted that they could have
a good time over a thing like that.

We got to work on the letter again, and of course
did not have to strike out the passage about the
wound. Joan was in fine spirits; but when she got
to sending messages to this, that, and the other
playmate and friend, it brought our village and the
Fairy Tree and the flowery plain and the browsing
sheep and all the peaceful beauty of our old humble
home-place back, and the familiar names began to
tremble on her lips; and when she got to Haumette
and Little Mengette it was no use, her voice broke
and she couldn't go on. She waited a moment,
then said:

"Give them my love—my warm love—my deep
love—oh, out of my heart of hearts! I shall never
see our home any more."

Now came Pasquerel, Joan's confessor, and intro-
duced a gallant knight, the Sire de Rais, who had
been sent with a message. He said he was in-
structed to say that the council had decided that
enough had been done for the present; that it
would be safest and best to be content with what
God had already done; that the city was now well
victualed and able to stand a long siege; that the

---

wise course must necessarily be to withdraw the
troops from the other side of the river and resume
the defensive—therefore they had decided accord-
ingly.

"The incurable cowards!" exclaimed Joan. "So
it was to get me away from my men that they pre-
tended so much solicitude about my fatigue. Take
this message back, not to the council—I have no
speeches for those disguised ladies'maids—but to
the Bastard and La Hire, who are men. Tell them
the army is to remain where it is, and I hold them
responsible if this command miscarries. And say
the offensive will be resumed in the morning. You
may go, good sir."

Then she said to her priest:

"Rise early, and be by me all the day. There
will be much work on my hands, and I shall be hurt
between my neck and my shoulder."

---

CHAPTER XXII.

We were up at dawn, and after mass we started.
In the hall we met the master of the house,
who was grieved, good man, to see Joan going
breakfastless to such a day's work, and begged her
to wait and eat, but she couldn't afford the time—
that is to say, she couldn't afford the patience, she
being in such a blaze of anxiety to get at that last
remaining bastille which stood between her and the
completion of the first great step in the rescue and
redemption of France. Boucher put in another plea:

"But think—we poor beleaguered citizens who
have hardly known the flavor of fish for these many
months, have spoil of that sort again, and we owe it
to you. There's a noble shad for breakfast; wait—
be persuaded."

Joan said:

"Oh, there's going to be fish in plenty; when
this day's work is done the whole river-front will be
yours to do as you please with."

"Ah, your Excellency will do well, that I know;
but we don't require quite that much, even of you;
you shall have a month for it in place of a day.
Now be beguiled—wait and eat. There's a saying

---

that he that would cross a river twice in the same
day in a boat, will do well to eat fish for luck, lest
he have an accident."

"That doesn't fit my case, for to-day I cross but
once in a boat."

"Oh, don't say that. Aren't you coming back
to us?"

"Yes, but not in a boat."

"How, then?"

"By the bridge."

"Listen to that—by the bridge! Now stop this
jesting, dear General, and do as I would have you.
It's a noble fish."

"Be good, then, and save me some for supper;
and I will bring one of those Englishmen with me
and he shall have his share."

"Ah, well, have your way if you must. But he
that fasts must attempt but little and stop early.
When shall you be back?"

"When I've raised the siege of Orleans. For-
ward!"

We were off. The streets were full of citizens
and of groups and squads of soldiers, but the spec-
tacle was melancholy. There was not a smile any-
where, but only universal gloom. It was as if some
vast calamity had smitten all hope and cheer dead.
We were not used to this, and were astonished.
But when they saw the Maid, there was an imme-
diate stir, and the eager question flew from mouth
to mouth:

---

"Where is she going? Whither is she bound?"

Joan heard it, and called out:

"Whither would ye suppose? I am going to take
the Tourelles."

It would not be possible for any to describe how
those few words turned that mourning into joy—
into exaltation—into frenzy; and how a storm of
huzzas burst out and swept down the streets in
every direction and woke those corpse-like multi-
tudes to vivid life and action and turmoil in a mo-
ment. The soldiers broke from the crowd and came
flocking to our standard, and many of the citizens
ran and got pikes and halberds and joined us. As
we moved on, our numbers increased steadily, and
the hurrahing continued—yes, we moved through a
solid cloud of noise, as you may say, and all the
windows on both sides contributed to it, for they
were filled with excited people.

You see, the council had closed the Burgundy
gate and placed a strong force there, under that
stout soldier Raoul de Gaucourt, Bailly of Orleans,
with orders to prevent Joan from getting out and
resuming the attack on the Tourelles, and this
shameful thing had plunged the city into sorrow and
despair. But that feeling was gone now. They
believed the Maid was a match for the council, and
they were right.

When we reached the gate, Joan told Gaucourt to
open it and let her pass.

He said it would be impossible to do this, for his

---

orders were from the council and were strict. Joan
said:

"There is no authority above mine but the
King's. If you have an order from the King, pro-
duce it."

"I cannot claim to have an order from him,
General."

"Then make way, or take the consequences!"

He began to argue the case, for he was like the
rest of the tribe, always ready to fight with words,
not acts; but in the midst of his gabble Joan inter-
rupted with the terse order:

"Charge!"

We came with a rush, and brief work we made of
that small job. It was good to see the Bailly's sur-
prise. He was not used to this unsentimental
promptness. He said afterward that he was cut off
in the midst of what he was saying—in the midst
of an argument by which he could have proved that
he could not let Joan pass—an argument which
Joan could not have answered.

"Still, it appears she did answer it," said the
person he was talking to.

We swung through the gate in great style, with a
vast accession of noise, the most of which was
laughter, and soon our van was over the river and
moving down against the Tourelles.

First we must take a supporting work called a
boulevard, and which was otherwise nameless, be-
fore we could assault the great bastille. Its rear

---

communicated with the bastille by a drawbridge,
under which ran a swift and deep strip of the Loire.
The boulevard was strong, and Dunois doubted our
ability to take it, but Joan had no such doubt. She
pounded it with artillery all the forenoon, then
about noon she ordered an assault and led it her-
self. We poured into the fosse through the smoke
and a tempest of missiles, and Joan, shouting en-
couragements to her men, started to climb a scaling-
ladder, when that misfortune happened which we
knew was to happen—the iron bolt from an arbalest
struck between her neck and her shoulder, and tore
its way down through her armor. When she felt
the sharp pain and saw her blood gushing over her
breast, she was frightened, poor girl, and as she
sank to the ground she began to cry bitterly.

The English sent up a glad shout and came surg-
ing down in strong force to take her, and then for
a few minutes the might of both adversaries was
concentrated upon that spot. Over her and about
her, English and French fought with desperation—
for she stood for France, indeed she was France to
both sides—whichever won her won France, and
could keep it forever. Right there in that small spot,
and in ten minutes by the clock, the fate of France,
for all time, was to be decided, and was decided.

If the English had captured Joan then, Charles
VII. would have flown the country, the Treaty of
Troyes would have held good, and France, already
English property, would have become, without fur-

---

ther dispute, an English province, to so remain until
the Judgment Day. A nationality and a kingdom
were at stake there, and no more time to decide it
in than it takes to hard-boil an egg. It was the
most momentous ten minutes that the clock has
ever ticked in France, or ever will. Whenever you
read in histories about hours or days or weeks in
which the fate of one or another nation hung in the
balance, do not you fail to remember, nor your
French hearts to beat the quicker for the remem-
brance, the ten minutes that France, called other-
wise Joan of Arc, lay bleeding in the fosse that day,
with two nations struggling over her for her pos-
session.

And you will not forget the Dwarf. For he stood
over her, and did the work of any six of the others.
He swung his axe with both hands; whenever it
came down, he said those two words, "For
France!" and a splintered helmet flew like egg-
shells, and the skull that carried it had learned its
manners and would offend the French no more. He
piled a bulwark of iron-clad dead in front of him
and fought from behind it; and at last when the
victory was ours we closed about him, shielding
him, and he ran up a ladder with Joan as easily as
another man would carry a child, and bore her out
of the battle, a great crowd following and anxious,
for she was drenched with blood to her feet, half of
it her own and the other half English, for bodies
had fallen across her as she lay and had poured their

---

red life-streams over her. One couldn't see the
white armor now, with that awful dressing over it.

The iron bolt was still in the wound—some say
it projected out behind the shoulder. It may be—
I did not wish to see, and did not try to. It was
pulled out, and the pain made Joan cry again, poor
thing. Some say she pulled it out herself because
others refused, saying they could not bear to hurt
her. As to this I do not know; I only know it was
pulled out, and that the wound was treated with oil
and properly dressed.

Joan lay on the grass, weak and suffering, hour
after hour, but still insisting that the fight go on.
Which it did, but not to much purpose, for it was
only under her eye that men were heroes and not
afraid. They were like the Paladin; I think he was
afraid of his shadow—I mean in the afternoon,
when it was very big and long; but when he was
under Joan's eye and the inspiration of her great
spirit, what was he afraid of? Nothing in this
world—and that is just the truth.

Toward night Dunois gave it up. Joan heard the
bugles.

"What!" she cried. "Sounding the retreat!"

Her wound was forgotten in a moment. She
countermanded the order, and sent another, to the
officer in command of a battery, to stand ready to
fire five shots in quick succession. This was a sig-
nal to a force on the Orleans side of the river under
La Hire, who was not, as some of the histories say

---

with us. It was to be given whenever Joan should
feel sure the boulevard was about to fall into her
hands—then that force must make a counter-attack
on the Tourelles by way of the bridge.

Joan mounted her horse now, with her staff about
her, and when our people saw us coming they raised
a great shout, and were at once eager for another
assault on the boulevard. Joan rode straight to the
fosse where she had received her wound, and stand-
ing there in the rain of bolts and arrows, she ordered
the Paladin to let her long standard blow free, and
to note when its fringes should touch the fortress.
Presently he said:

"It touches."

"Now, then," said Joan to the waiting battalions,
"the place is yours—enter in! Bugles, sound the
assault! Now, then—all together—go!"

And go it was. You never saw anything like it.
We swarmed up the ladders and over the battle-
ments like a wave—and the place was our prop-
erty. Why, one might live a thousand years and
never see so gorgeous a thing as that again. There,
hand to hand, we fought like wild beasts, for there
was no give-up to those English—there was no way
to convince one of those people but to kill him, and
even then he doubted. At least so it was thought,
in those days, and maintained by many.

We were busy and never heard the five cannon-
shots fired, but they were fired a moment after Joan
had ordered the assault; and so, while we were

---

hammering and being hammered in the smaller fort-
ress, the reserve on the Orleans side poured across
the bridge and attacked the Tourelles from that side.
A fire-boat was brought down and moored under
the drawbridge which connected the Tourelles with
our boulevard; wherefore, when at last we drove
our English ahead of us and they tried to cross that
drawbridge and join their friends in the Tourelles,
the burning timbers gave way under them and
emptied them in a mass into the river in their heavy
armor—and a pitiful sight it was to see brave men
die such a death as that.

"Ah, God pity them!" said Joan, and wept to
see that sorrowful spectacle. She said those gentle
words and wept those compassionate tears although
one of those perishing men had grossly insulted her
with a coarse name three days before, when she had
sent him a message asking him to surrender. That
was their leader, Sir William Glasdale, a most valor-
ous knight. He was clothed all in steel; so he
plunged under the water like a lance, and of course
came up no more.

We soon patched a sort of bridge together and
threw ourselves against the last stronghold of the
English power that barred Orleans from friends and
supplies. Before the sun was quite down, Joan's
forever memorable day's work was finished, her
banner floated from the fortress of the Tourelles,
her promise was fulfilled, she had raised the siege of
Orleans!

---

The seven months' beleaguerment was ended, the
thing which the first generals of France had called
impossible was accomplished; in spite of all that
the King's ministers and war-councils could do to
prevent it, this little country maid of seventeen had
carried her immortal task through, and had done it
in four days!

Good news travels fast, sometimes, as well as bad.
By the time we were ready to start homeward by
the bridge the whole city of Orleans was one red
flame of bonfires, and the heavens blushed with
satisfaction to see it; and the booming and bellow-
ing of cannon and the banging of bells surpassed by
great odds anything that even Orleans had attempted
before in the way of noise.

When we arrived—well, there is no describing
that. Why, those acres of people that we plowed
through shed tears enough to raise the river; there
was not a face in the glare of those fires that hadn't
tears streaming down it; and if Joan's feet had not
been protected by iron they would have kissed them
off of her. "Welcome! welcome to the Maid of
Orleans!" That was the cry; I heard it a hundred
thousand times. "Welcome to our Maid!" some
of them worded it.

No other girl in all history has ever reached such
a summit of glory as Joan of Arc reached that day.
And do you think it turned her head, and that she
sat up to enjoy that delicious music of homage and
applause? No; another girl would have done that,

---

but not this one. That was the greatest heart and
the simplest that ever beat. She went straight to
bed and to sleep, like any tired child; and when the
people found she was wounded and would rest, they
shut off all passage and traffic in that region and
stood guard themselves the whole night through, to
see that her slumbers were not disturbed. They
said, "She has given us peace, she shall have peace
herself."

All knew that that region would be empty of
English next day, and all said that neither the
present citizens nor their posterity would ever cease
to hold that day sacred to the memory of Joan of
Arc. That word has been true for more than sixty
years; it will continue so always. Orleans will
never forget the 8th of May, nor ever fail to cele-
brate it. It is Joan of Arc's day—and holy.*

It is still celebrated every year with civic and military pomps and
solemnities.—Translator.

---

CHAPTER XXIII.

In the earliest dawn of the morning, Talbot and
his English forces evacuated their bastilles and
marched away, not stopping to burn, destroy, or
carry off anything, but leaving their fortresses just
as they were, provisioned, armed, and equipped for
a long siege. It was difficult for the people to be-
lieve that this great thing had really happened; that
they were actually free once more, and might go
and come through any gate they pleased, with none
to molest or forbid; that the terrible Talbot, that
scourge of the French, that man whose mere name
had been able to annul the effectiveness of French
armies, was gone, vanquished, retreating—driven
away by a girl.

The city emptied itself. Out of every gate the
crowds poured. They swarmed about the English
bastilles like an invasion of ants, but noisier than
those creatures, and carried off the artillery and
stores, then turned all those dozen fortresses into
monster bonfires, imitation volcanoes whose lofty
columns of thick smoke seemed supporting the arch
of the sky.

---

The delight of the children took another form.
To some of the younger ones seven months was a
sort of lifetime. They had forgotten what grass
was like, and the velvety green meadows seemed
paradise to their surprised and happy eyes after the
long habit of seeing nothing but dirty lanes and
streets. It was a wonder to them—those spacious
reaches of open country to run and dance and
tumble and frolic in, after their dull and joyless
captivity; so they scampered far and wide over the
fair regions on both sides of the river, and came
back at eventide weary, but laden with flowers and
flushed with new health drawn from the fresh
country air and the vigorous exercise.

After the burnings, the grown folk followed Joan
from church to church and put in the day in thanks-
givings for the city's deliverance, and at night they
fêted her and her generals and illuminated the town,
and high and low gave themselves up to festivities
and rejoicings. By the time the populace were
fairly in bed, toward dawn, we were in the saddle
and away toward Tours to report to the King.

That was a march which would have turned any
one's head but Joan's. We moved between emo-
tional ranks of grateful country people all the way.
They crowded about Joan to touch her feet, her
horse, her armor, and they even knelt in the road
and kissed her horse's hoof-prints.

The land was full of her praises. The most illus-
trious chiefs of the church wrote to the King ex-

---

tolling the Maid, comparing her to the saints and
heroes of the Bible, and warning him not to let
"unbelief, ingratitude, or other injustice" hinder
or impair the divine help sent through her. One
might think there was a touch of prophecy in that,
and we will let it go at that; but to my mind it had
its inspiration in those great men's accurate knowl-
edge of the King's trivial and treacherous character.

The King had come to Tours to meet Joan. At
the present day this poor thing is called Charles the
Victorious, on account of victories which other peo-
ple won for him, but in our time we had a private
name for him which described him better, and was
sanctified to him by personal deserving—Charles
the Base. When we entered the presence he sat
throned, with his tinseled snobs and dandies around
him. He looked like a forked carrot, so tightly did
his clothing fit him from his waist down; he wore
shoes with a rope-like pliant toe a foot long that
had to be hitched up to the knee to keep it out of
the way; he had on a crimson velvet cape that came
no lower than his elbows; on his head he had a tall
felt thing like a thimble, with a feather in its jeweled
band that stuck up like a pen from an inkhorn, and
from under that thimble his bush of stiff hair stuck
down to his shoulders, curving outwards at the
bottom, so that the cap and the hair together made
the head like a shuttlecock. All the materials of his
dress were rich, and all the colors brilliant. In his
lap he cuddled a miniature greyhound that snarled,

---

lifting its lip and showing its white teeth whenever
any slight movement disturbed it. The King's
dandies were dressed in about the same fashion as
himself, and when I remembered that Joan had
called the war-council of Orleans "disguised ladies'
maids," it reminded me of people who squander all
their money on a trifle and then haven't anything to
invest when they come across a better chance; that
name ought to have been saved for these creatures.

Joan fell on her knees before the majesty of
France, and the other frivolous animal in his lap—
a sight which it pained me to see. What had that
man done for his country or for anybody in it, that
she or any other person should kneel to him? But
she—she had just done the only great deed that
had been done for France in fifty years, and had
consecrated it with the libation of her blood. The
positions should have been reversed.

However, to be fair, one must grant that Charles
acquitted himself very well for the most part, on
that occasion—very much better than he was in the
habit of doing. He passed his pup to a courtier,
and took off his cap to Joan as if she had been a
queen. Then he stepped from his throne and raised
her, and showed quite a spirited and manly joy and
gratitude in welcoming her and thanking her for
her extraordinary achievement in his service. My
prejudices are of a later date than that. If he had
continued as he was at that moment, I should not
have acquired them.

---

He acted handsomely. He said:

"You shall not kneel to me, my matchless Gen-
eral; you have wrought royally, and royal courtesies
are your due." Noticing that she was pale, he said,
"But you must not stand; you have lost blood for
France, and your wound is yet green—come." He
led her to a seat and sat down by her. "Now, then,
speak out frankly, as to one who owes you much
and freely confesses it before all this courtly assem-
blage. What shall be your reward? Name it."

I was ashamed of him. And yet that was not
fair, for how could he be expected to know this
marvelous child in these few weeks, when we who
thought we had known her all her life were daily
seeing the clouds uncover some new altitudes of her
character whose existence was not suspected by us
before? But we are all that way: when we know a
thing we have only scorn for other people who
don't happen to know it. And I was ashamed of
these courtiers, too, for the way they licked their
chops, so to speak, as envying Joan her great
chance, they not knowing her any better than the
King did. A blush began to rise in Joan's cheeks
at the thought that she was working for her country
for pay, and she dropped her head and tried to hide
her face, as girls always do when they find them-
selves blushing; no one knows why they do, but
they do, and the more they blush the more they fail
to get reconciled to it, and the more they can't bear
to have people look at them when they are doing it.

---

The King made it a great deal worse by calling
attention to it, which is the unkindest thing a person
can do when a girl is blushing; sometimes, when
there is a big crowd of strangers, it is even likely to
make her cry if she is as young as Joan was. God
knows the reason for this, it is hidden from men.
As for me, I would as soon blush as sneeze; in
fact, I would rather. However, these meditations
are not of consequence: I will go on with what I
was saying. The King rallied her for blushing, and
this brought up the rest of the blood and turned her
face to fire. Then he was sorry, seeing what he
had done, and tried to make her comfortable by
saying the blush was exceedingly becoming to her
and not to mind it—which caused even the dog to
notice it now, so of course the red in Joan's face
turned to purple, and the tears overflowed and ran
down—I could have told anybody that that would
happen. The King was distressed, and saw that the
best thing to do would be to get away from this
subject, so he began to say the finest kind of things
about Joan's capture of the Tourelles, and presently
when she was more composed he mentioned the re-
ward again and pressed her to name it. Everybody
listened with anxious interest to hear what her claim
was going to be, but when her answer came their
faces showed that the thing she asked for was not
what they had been expecting.

"Oh, dear and gracious Dauphin, I have but one
desire—only one. If—"

---

"Do not be afraid, my child—name it."

"That you will not delay a day. My army is
strong and valiant, and eager to finish its work—
march with me to Rheims and receive your crown."

You could see the indolent King shrink, in his
butterfly clothes.

"To Rheims—oh, impossible, my General! We
march through the heart of England's power?"

Could those be French faces there? Not one of
them lighted in response to the girl's brave propo-
sition, but all promptly showed satisfaction in the
King's objection. Leave this silken idleness for the
rude contact of war? None of these butterflies de-
sired that. They passed their jeweled comfit-boxes
one to another and whispered their content in the
head butterfly's practical prudence. Joan pleaded
with the King, saying:

"Ah, I pray you do not throw away this perfect
opportunity. Everything is favorable—everything.
It is as if the circumstances were specially made for
it. The spirits of our army are exalted with vic-
tory, those of the English forces depressed by de-
feat. Delay will change this. Seeing us hesitate
to follow up our advantage, our men will wonder,
doubt, lose confidence, and the English will wonder,
gather courage, and be bold again. Now is the
time—prithee let us march!"

The King shook his head, and La Tremouille,
being asked for an opinion, eagerly furnished it:

"Sire, all prudence is against it. Think of the

---

English strongholds along the Loire; think of those
that lie between us and Rheims!"

He was going on, but Joan cut him short, and
said, turning to him:

"If we wait, they will all be strengthened, re-
enforced. Will that advantage us?"

"Why—no."

"Then what is your suggestion?—what is it that
you would propose to do?"

"My judgment is to wait."

"Wait for what?"

The minister was obliged to hesitate, for he knew
of no explanation that would sound well. More-
over, he was not used to being catechised in this
fashion, with the eyes of a crowd of people on him,
so he was irritated, and said:

"Matters of state are not proper matters for
public discussion."

Joan said placidly:

"I have to beg your pardon. My trespass came
of ignorance. I did not know that matters con-
nected with your department of the government
were matters of state."

The minister lifted his brows in amused surprise,
and said, with a touch of sarcasm:

"I am the King's chief minister, and yet you had
the impression that matters connected with my
department are not matters of state? Pray how is
that?"

Joan replied, indifferently:

---

"Because there is no state."

"No state!"

"No, sir, there is no state, and no use for a
minister. France is shrunk to a couple of acres of
ground; a sheriff's constable could take care of it;
its affairs are not matters of state. The term is too
large."

The King did not blush, but burst into a hearty,
careless laugh, and the court laughed too, but pru-
dently turned its head and did it silently. La
Tremouille was angry, and opened his mouth to
speak, but the King put up his hand, and said:

"There—I take her under the royal protection.
She has spoken the truth, the ungilded truth—
how seldom I hear it! With all this tinsel on me
and all this tinsel about me, I am but a sheriff after
all—a poor shabby two-acre sheriff—and you are
but a constable," and he laughed his cordial laugh
again. "Joan, my frank, honest General, will you
name your reward? I would ennoble you. You
shall quarter the crown and the lilies of France for
blazon, and with them your victorious sword to
defend them—speak the word."

It made an eager buzz of surprise and envy in the
assemblage, but Joan shook her head and said:

"Ah, I cannot, dear and noble Dauphin. To be
allowed to work for France, to spend one's self for
France, is itself so supreme a reward that nothing
can add to it—nothing. Give me the one reward I
ask, the dearest of all rewards, the highest in your

---

gift—march with me to Rheims and receive your
crown. I will beg it on my knees."

But the King put his hand on her arm, and there
was a really brave awakening in his voice and a
manly fire in his eye when he said:

"No; sit. You have conquered me—it shall be
as you—"

But a warning sign from his minister halted him,
and he added, to the relief of the Court:

"Well, well, we will think of it, we will think it
over and see. Does that content you, impulsive
little soldier?"

The first part of the speech sent a glow of delight
to Joan's face, but the end of it quenched it and she
looked sad, and the tears gathered in her eyes.
After a moment she spoke out with what seemed a
sort of terrified impulse, and said:

"Oh, use me; I beseech you, use me—there is
but little time!"

"But little time?"

"Only a year—I shall last only a year."

"Why, child, there are fifty good years in that
compact little body yet."

"Oh, you err, indeed you do. In one little
year the end will come. Ah, the time is so short,
so short; the moments are flying, and so much to
be done. Oh, use me, and quickly—it is life or
death for France."

Even those insects were sobered by her impas-
sioned words. The King looked very grave—

---

grave, and strongly impressed. His eyes lit sud-
denly with an eloquent fire, and he rose and drew
his sword and raised it aloft; then he brought it
slowly down upon Joan's shoulder and said:

"Ah, thou art so simple, so true, so great, so
noble—and by this accolade I join thee to the
nobility of France, thy fitting place! And for thy
sake I do hereby ennoble all thy family and all
thy kin; and all their descendants born in wedlock,
not only in the male but also in the female line.
And more!—more! To distinguish thy house and
honor it above all others, we add a privilege never
accorded to any before in the history of these
dominions: the females of thy line shall have and
hold the right to ennoble their husbands when these
shall be of inferior degree." [Astonishment and
envy flared up in every countenance when the words
were uttered which conferred this extraordinary
grace. The King paused and looked around upon
these signs with quite evident satisfaction.] "Rise,
Joan of Arc, now and henceforth surnamed Du
Lis, in grateful acknowledgment of the good blow
which you have struck for the lilies of France; and
they, and the royal crown, and your own victorious
sword, fit and fair company for each other, shall be
grouped in your escutcheon and be and remain the
symbol of your high nobility forever."

As my Lady Du Lis rose, the gilded children of
privilege pressed forward to welcome her to their
sacred ranks and call her by her new name; but she

---

was troubled, and said these honors were not meet
for one of her lowly birth and station, and by their
kind grace she would remain simple Joan of Arc,
nothing more—and so be called.

Nothing more! As if there could be anything
more, anything higher, anything greater. My Lady
Du Lis—why, it was tinsel, petty, perishable. But
—Joan of Arc! The mere sound of it sets one's
pulses leaping.

---

CHAPTER XXIV.

It was vexatious to see what a to-do the whole
town, and next the whole country, made over
the news. Joan of Arc ennobled by the King!
People went dizzy with wonder and delight over it.
You cannot imagine how she was gaped at, stared
at, envied. Why, one would have supposed that
some great and fortunate thing had happened to
her. But we did not think any great things of it.
To our minds no mere human hand could add a
glory to Joan of Arc. To us she was the sun soar-
ing in the heavens, and her new nobility a candle
atop of it; to us it was swallowed up and lost in her
own light. And she was as indifferent to it and as
unconscious of it as the other sun would have been.

But it was different with her brothers. They were
proud and happy in their new dignity, which was
quite natural. And Joan was glad it had been con-
ferred, when she saw how pleased they were. It
was a clever thought in the King to outflank her
scruples by marching on them under shelter of her
love for her family and her kin.

Jean and Pierre sported their coat-of-arms right
away; and their society was courted by everybody,

---

the nobles and commons alike. The Standard-
Bearer said, with some touch of bitterness, that he
could see that they just felt good to be alive, they
were so soaked with the comfort of their glory; and
didn't like to sleep at all, because when they were
asleep they didn't know they were noble, and so
sleep was a clean loss of time. And then he said:

"They can't take precedence of me in military
functions and state ceremonies, but when it comes
to civil ones and society affairs I judge they'll cuddle
coolly in behind you and the knights, and Noël and
I will have to walk behind them—hey?"

"Yes," I said, "I think you are right."

"I was just afraid of it—just afraid of it," said
the Standard-Bearer, with a sigh. "Afraid of it?
I'm talking like a fool; of course I knew it. Yes, I
was talking like a fool."

Noël Rainguesson said, musingly:

"Yes, I noticed something natural about the tone
of it."

We others laughed.

"Oh, you did, did you? You think you are very
clever, don't you? I'll take and wring your neck
for you one of these days, Noël Rainguesson."

The Sieur de Metz said:

"Paladin, your fears haven't reached the top
notch. They are away below the grand possibilities.
Didn't it occur to you that in civil and society func-
tions they will take precedence of all the rest of the
personal staff—every individual of us?"

---

"Oh, come!"

"You'll find it's so. Look at their escutcheon.
Its chiefest feature is the lilies of France. It's
royal, man, royal—do you understand the size of
that? The lilies are there by authority of the King
—do you understand the size of that? Though
not in detail and in entirety, they do nevertheless
substantially quarter the arms of France in their
coat. Imagine it! consider it! measure the magni-
tude of it! We walk in front of those boys? Bless
you, we've done that for the last time. In my
opinion there isn't a lay lord in this whole region
that can walk in front of them, except the Duke
d'Alençon, prince of the blood."

You could have knocked the Paladin down with a
feather. He seemed to actually turn pale. He
worked his lips a moment without getting anything
out; then it came:

"I didn't know that, nor the half of it; how
could I? I've been an idiot. I see it now—I've
been an idiot. I met them this morning, and sung
out hello to them just as I would to anybody. I
didn't mean to be ill-mannered, but I didn't know
the half of this that you've been telling. I've been
an ass. Yes, that is all there is to it—I've been
an ass."

Noël Rainguesson said, in a kind of weary way:

"Yes, that is likely enough; but I don't see why
you should seem surprised at it."

"You don't don't you? Well, why don't you?"

---

"Because I don't see any novelty about it. With
some people it is a condition which is present all the
time. Now you take a condition which is present
all the time, and the results of that condition will be
uniform; this uniformity of result will in time be-
come monotonous; monotonousness, by the law of
its being, is fatiguing. If you had manifested
fatigue upon noticing that you had been an ass,
that would have been logical, that would have been
rational; whereas it seems to me that to manifest
surprise was to be again an ass, because the condi-
tion of intellect that can enable a person to be sur-
prised and stirred by inert monotonousness is a—"

"Now that is enough, Noël Rainguesson; stop
where you are, before you get yourself into trouble.
And don't bother me any more for some days or a
week an it please you, for I cannot abide your
clack."

"Come, I like that! I didn't want to talk. I
tried to get out of talking. If you didn't want to
hear my clack, what did you keep intruding your
conversation on me for?"

"I? I never dreamed of such a thing."

"Well, you did it, anyway. And I have a right
to feel hurt, and I do feel hurt, to have you treat
me so. It seems to me that when a person goads,
and crowds, and in a manner forces another person
to talk, it is neither very fair nor very good-
mannered to call what he says clack."

"Oh, snuffle—do! and break your heart, you

---

poor thing. Somebody fetch this sick doll a sugar-
rag. Look you, Sir Jean de Metz, do you feel
absolutely certain about that thing?"

"What thing?"

"Why that Jean and Pierre are going to take
precedence of all the lay noblesse hereabouts except
the Duke d'Alençon?"

"I think there is not a doubt of it."

The Standard-Bearer was deep in thoughts and
dreams a few moments, then the silk-and-velvet ex-
panse of his vast breast rose and fell with a sigh,
and he said:

"Dear, dear, what a lift it is! It just shows
what luck can do. Well, I don't care. I shouldn't
care to be a painted accident—I shouldn't value it.
I am prouder to have climbed up to where I am just
by sheer natural merit than I would be to ride the
very sun in the zenith and have to reflect that I was
nothing but a poor little accident, and got shot up
there out of somebody else's catapult. To me,
merit is everything—in fact, the only thing. All
else is dross."

Just then the bugles blew the assembly, and that
cut our talk short.

---

CHAPTER XXV.

The days began to waste away—and nothing
decided, nothing done. The army was full of
zeal, but it was also hungry. It got no pay, the
treasury was getting empty, it was becoming impos-
sible to feed it; under pressure of privation it began
to fall apart and disperse—which pleased the trifling
court exceedingly. Joan's distress was pitiful to
see. She was obliged to stand helpless while her
victorious army dissolved away until hardly the
skeleton of it was left.

At last one day she went to the Castle of Loches,
where the King was idling. She found him consult-
ing with three of his councilors, Robert le Maçon,
a former Chancellor of France, Christophe d'Har-
court, and Gerard Machet. The Bastard of Orleans
was present also, and it is through him that we
know what happened. Joan threw herself at the
King's feet and embraced his knees, saying:

"Noble Dauphin, prithee hold no more of these
long and numerous councils, but come, and come
quickly, to Rheims and receive your crown."

Christophe d'Harcourt asked:

---

"Is it your Voices that command you to say that
to the King?"

"Yes, and urgently."

"Then will you not tell us in the King's presence
in what way the Voices communicate with you?"

It was another sly attempt to trap Joan into indis-
creet admissions and dangerous pretensions. But
nothing came of it. Joan's answer was simple and
straightforward, and the smooth Bishop was not able
to find any fault with it. She said that when she
met with people who doubted the truth of her
mission she went aside and prayed, complaining of
the distrust of these, and then the comforting Voices
were heard at her ear saying, soft and low, "Go
forward, Daughter of God, and I will help thee."
Then she added, "When I hear that, the joy in my
heart, oh, it is insupportable!"

The Bastard said that when she said these words
her face lit up as with a flame, and she was like one
in an ecstasy.

Joan pleaded, persuaded, reasoned; gaining
ground little by little, but opposed step by step by
the council. She begged, she implored, leave to
march. When they could answer nothing further,
they granted that perhaps it had been a mistake to
let the army waste away, but how could we help it
now? how could we march without an army?

"Raise one!" said Joan.

"But it will take six weeks."

"No matter—begin! let us begin!"

---

"It is too late. Without doubt the Duke of
Bedford has been gathering troops to push to the
succor of his strongholds on the Loire."

"Yes, while we have been disbanding ours—and
pity 'tis. But we must throw away no more time;
we must bestir ourselves."

The King objected that he could not venture
toward Rheims with those strong places on the Loire
in his path. But Joan said:

"We will break them up. Then you can march."

With that plan the King was willing to venture
assent. He could sit around out of danger while
the road was being cleared.

Joan came back in great spirits. Straightway
everything was stirring. Proclamations were issued
calling for men, a recruiting camp was established at
Selles in Berry, and the commons and the nobles
began to flock to it with enthusiasm.

A deal of the month of May had been wasted;
and yet by the 6th of June Joan had swept together
a new army and was ready to march. She had
eight thousand men. Think of that. Think of
gathering together such a body as that in that little
region. And these were veteran soldiers, too. In
fact, most of the men in France were soldiers, when
you came to that; for the wars had lasted genera-
tions now. Yes, most Frenchmen were soldiers;
and admirable runners, too, both by practice and
inheritance; they had done next to nothing but run
for near a century. But that was not their fault.

---

They had had no fair and proper leadership—at
least leaders with a fair and proper chance. Away
back, King and Court got the habit of being treacher-
ous to the leaders; then the leaders easily got the
habit of disobeying the King and going their own
way, each for himself and nobody for the lot.
Nobody could win victories that way. Hence, run-
ning became the habit of the French troops, and no
wonder. Yet all that those troops needed in order
to be good fighters was a leader who would attend
strictly to business—a leader with all authority in
his hands in place of a tenth of it along with nine
other generals equipped with an equal tenth apiece.
They had a leader rightly clothed with authority
now, and with a head and heart bent on war of the
most intensely business-like and earnest sort—and
there would be results. No doubt of that. They
had Joan of Arc; and under that leadership their
legs would lose the art and mystery of running.

Yes, Joan was in great spirits. She was here and
there and everywhere, all over the camp, by day
and by night, pushing things. And wherever she
came charging down the lines, reviewing the troops,
it was good to hear them break out and cheer. And
nobody could help cheering, she was such a vision
of young bloom and beauty and grace, and such an
incarnation of pluck and life and go! She was
growing more and more ideally beautiful every day,
as was plain to be seen—and these were days of
development; for she was well past seventeen now

---

—in fact, she was getting close upon seventeen and
a half—indeed, just a little woman, as you may say.

The two young Counts de Laval arrived one day
—fine young fellows allied to the greatest and most
illustrious houses of France; and they could not rest
till they had seen Joan of Arc. So the King sent
for them and presented them to her, and you may
believe she filled the bill of their expectations.
When they heard that rich voice of hers they must
have thought it was a flute; and when they saw her
deep eyes and her face, and the soul that looked
out of that face, you could see that the sight of her
stirred them like a poem, like lofty eloquence, like
martial music. One of them wrote home to his
people, and in his letter he said, "It seemed some-
thing divine to see her and hear her." Ah, yes,
and it was a true word. Truer word was never
spoken.

He saw her when she was ready to begin her
march and open the campaign, and this is what he
said about it:

"She was clothed all in white armor save her
head, and in her hand she carried a little battle-axe;
and when she was ready to mount her great black
horse he reared and plunged and would not let her.
Then she said, 'Lead him to the cross.' This cross
was in front of the church close by. So they led
him there. Then she mounted, and he never
budged, any more than if he had been tied. Then
she turned toward the door of the church and said,

---

in her soft womanly voice, 'You, priests and people
of the Church, make processions and pray to God
for us!' Then she spurred away, under her standard,
with her little axe in her hand, crying 'Forward—
march!' One of her brothers, who came eight days
ago, departed with her; and he also was clad all in
white armor."

I was there, and I saw it, too; saw it all, just as
he pictures it. And I see it yet—the little battle-
axe, the dainty plumed cap, the white armor—all
in the soft June afternoon; I see it just as if it were
yesterday. And I rode with the staff—the personal
staff—the staff of Joan of Arc.

That young count was dying to go, too, but the
King held him back for the present. But Joan had
made him a promise. In his letter he said:

"She told me that when the King starts for
Rheims I shall go with him. But God grant I may
not have to wait till then, but may have a part in
the battles!"

She made him that promise when she was taking
leave of my lady the Duchess d'Alençon. The
duchess was exacting a promise, so it seemed a
proper time for others to do the like. The duchess
was troubled for her husband, for she foresaw des-
perate fighting; and she held Joan to her breast,
and stroked her hair lovingly, and said:

"You must watch over him, dear, and take care
of him, and send him back to me safe. I require it
of you; I will not let you go till you promise."

---

Joan said:

"I give you the promise with all my heart; and
it is not just words, it is a promise; you shall have
him back without a hurt. Do you believe? And
are you satisfied with me now?"

The duchess could not speak, but she kissed Joan
on the forehead; and so they parted.

We left on the 6th and stopped over at Romoran-
tin; then on the 9th Joan entered Orleans in state,
under triumphal arches, with the welcoming cannon
thundering and seas of welcoming flags fluttering in
the breeze. The Grand Staff rode with her, clothed
in shining splendors of costume and decorations:
the Duke d'Alençon; the Bastard of Orleans; the
Sire de Boussac, Marshal of France; the Lord de
Graville, Master of the Crossbowmen; the Sire de
Culan, Admiral of France; Ambroise de Loré;
Étienne de Vignoles, called La Hire; Gautier de
Brusac, and other illustrious captains.

It was grand times; the usual shoutings and
packed multitudes, the usual crush to get sight of
Joan; but at last we crowded through to our old
lodgings, and I saw old Boucher and the wife and
that dear Catherine gather Joan to their hearts and
smother her with kisses—and my heart ached so!
for I could have kissed Catherine better than any-
body, and more and longer; yet was not thought of
for that office, and I so famished for it. Ah, she
was so beautiful, and oh, so sweet! I had loved
her the first day I ever saw her, and from that day

---

forth she was sacred to me. I have carried her
image in my heart for sixty-three years—all lonely
there, yes, solitary, for it never has had company—
and I am grown so old, so old; but it, oh, it is as
fresh and young and merry and mischievous and
lovely and sweet and pure and witching and divine
as it was when it crept in there, bringing benediction
and peace to its habitation so long ago, so long ago
—for it has not aged a day!

---

CHAPTER XXVI.

This time, as before, the King's last command to
the generals was this: "See to it that you do
nothing without the sanction of the Maid." And
this time the command was obeyed; and would con-
tinue to be obeyed all through the coming great
days of the Loire campaign.

That was a change! That was new! It broke
the traditions. It shows you what sort of a reputa-
tion as a commander-in-chief the child had made for
herself in ten days in the field. It was a conquer-
ing of men's doubts and suspicions and a capturing
and solidifying of men's belief and confidence such
as the grayest veteran on the Grand Staff had not
been able to achieve in thirty years. Don't you
remember that when at sixteen Joan conducted her
own case in a grim court of law and won it, the old
judge spoke of her as "this marvelous child"? It
was the right name, you see.

These veterans were not going to branch out and
do things without the sanction of the Maid—that is
true; and it was a great gain. But at the same time
there were some among them who still trembled at
her new and dashing war-tactics and earnestly desired

---

to modify them. And so, during the 10th, while
Joan was slaving away at her plans and issuing order
after order with tireless industry, the old-time con-
sultations and arguings and speechifyings were going
on among certain of the generals.

In the afternoon of that day they came in a body
to hold one of these councils of war; and while
they waited for Joan to join them they discussed the
situation. Now this discussion is not set down in
the histories; but I was there, and I will speak of it,
as knowing you will trust me, I not being given to
beguiling you with lies.

Gautier de Brusac was spokesman for the timid
ones; Joan's side was resolutely upheld by D'Alen-
çon, the Bastard, La Hire, the Admiral of France,
the Marshal de Boussac, and all the other really im-
portant chiefs.

De Brusac argued that the situation was very
grave; that Jargeau, the first point of attack, was
formidably strong; its imposing walls bristling with
artillery; with 7,000 picked English veterans behind
them, and at their head the great Earl of Suffolk
and his two redoubtable brothers, the De la Poles.
It seemed to him that the proposal of Joan of Arc
to try to take such a place by storm was a most
rash and over-daring idea, and she ought to be per-
suaded to relinquish it in favor of the soberer and
safer procedure of investment by regular siege. It
seemed to him that this fiery and furious new fashion
of hurling masses of men against impregnable walls

---

of stone, in defiance of the established laws and
usages of war, was—

But he got no further. La Hire gave his plumed
helm an impatient toss and burst out with:

"By God, she knows her trade, and none can
teach it her!"

And before he could get out anything more,
D'Alençon was on his feet, and the Bastard of
Orleans, and half a dozen others, all thundering at
once, and pouring out their indignant displeasure
upon any and all that might hold, secretly or pub-
licly, distrust of the wisdom of the Commander-in-
Chief. And when they had said their say, La Hire
took a chance again, and said:

"There are some that never know how to change,
Circumstances may change, but those people are
never able to see that they have got to change too,
to meet those circumstances. All that they know is
the one beaten track that their fathers and grand-
fathers have followed and that they themselves have
followed in their turn. If an earthquake come and
rip the land to chaos, and that beaten track now
lead over precipices and into morasses, those people
can't learn that they must strike out a new road—
no; they will march stupidly along and follow the
old one to death and perdition. Men, there's a new
state of things; and a surpassing military genius has
perceived it with her clear eye. And a new road is
required, and that same clear eye has noted where it
must go, and has marked it out for us. The man

---

does not live, never has lived, never will live, that
can improve upon it! The old state of things was
defeat, defeat, defeat—and by consequence we had
troops with no dash, no heart, no hope. Would
you assault stone walls with such? No—there was
but one way with that kind: sit down before a place
and wait, wait—starve it out, if you could. The
new case is the very opposite; it is this: men all on
fire with pluck and dash and vim and fury and
energy—a restrained conflagration! What would
you do with it? Hold it down and let it smoulder
and perish and go out? What would Joan of Arc
do with it? Turn it loose, by the Lord God of
heaven and earth, and let it swallow up the foe in
the whirlwind of its fires! Nothing shows the
splendor and wisdom of her military genius like her
instant comprehension of the size of the change
which has come about, and her instant perception
of the right and only right way to take advantage of
it. With her is no sitting down and starving out;
no dilly-dallying and fooling around; no lazying,
loafing, and going to sleep; no, it is storm! storm!
storm! and still storm! storm! storm! and forever
storm! storm! storm! hunt the enemy to his hole,
then turn her French hurricanes loose and carry him
by storm! And that is my sort! Jargeau? What
of Jargeau, with its battlements and towers, its de-
vastating artillery, its seven thousand picked veter-
ans? Joan of Arc is to the fore, and by the splendor
of God its fate is sealed!"

---

Oh, he carried them. There was not another
word said about persuading Joan to change her
tactics. They sat talking comfortably enough after
that.

By and by Joan entered, and they rose and saluted
with their swords, and she asked what their pleasure
might be. La Hire said:

"It is settled, my General. The matter con-
cerned Jargeau. There were some who thought we
could not take the place."

Joan laughed her pleasant laugh; her merry, care-
free laugh; the laugh that rippled so buoyantly
from her lips and made old people feel young again
to hear it; and she said to the company:

"Have no fears—indeed, there is no need nor
any occasion for them. We will strike the English
boldly by assault, and you will see." Then a far-
away look came into her eyes, and I think that a
picture of her home drifted across the vision of her
mind; for she said very gently, and as one who
muses, "But that I know God guides us and will
give us success, I had liefer keep sheep than endure
these perils."

We had a homelike farewell supper that evening
—just the personal staff and the family. Joan had
to miss it; for the city had given a banquet in her
honor, and she had gone there in state with the
Grand Staff, through a riot of joy-bells and a spark-
ling Milky Way of illuminations.

After supper some lively young folk whom we

---

knew came in, and we presently forgot that we were
soldiers, and only remembered that we were boys
and girls and full of animal spirits and long-pent
fun; and so there was dancing, and games, and
romps, and screams of laughter—just as extrava-
gant and innocent and noisy a good time as ever I
had in my life. Dear, dear, how long ago it was!—
and I was young then. And outside, all the while,
was the measured tramp of marching battalions, be-
lated odds and ends of the French power gathering
for the morrow's tragedy on the grim stage of war.
Yes, in those days we had those contrasts side by
side. And as I passed along to bed there was
another one: the big Dwarf, in brave new armor,
sat sentry at Joan's door—the stern Spirit of War
made flesh, as it were—and on his ample shoulder
was curled a kitten asleep.

---

CHAPTER XXVII.

We made a gallant show next day when we filed
out through the frowning gates of Orleans,
with banners flying and Joan and the Grand Staff in
the van of the long column. Those two young De
Lavals were come now, and were joined to the
Grand Staff. Which was well; war being their
proper trade, for they were grandsons of that illus-
trious fighter Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of
France in earlier days. Louis de Bourbon, the
Marshal de Rais, and the Vidame de Chartres were
added also. We had a right to feel a little uneasy,
for we knew that a force of five thousand men was
on its way under Sir John Fastolfe to re-enforce
Jargeau, but I think we were not uneasy, neverthe-
less. In truth, that force was not yet in our
neighborhood. Sir John was loitering; for some
reason or other he was not hurrying. He was
losing precious time—four days at Ètampes, and
four more at Janville.

We reached Jargeau and began business at once.
Joan sent forward a heavy force which hurled itself
against the outworks in handsome style, and gained

---

a footing and fought hard to keep it; but it pres-
ently began to fall back before a sortie from the
city. Seeing this, Joan raised her battle-cry and
led a new assault herself under a furious artillery
fire. The Paladin was struck down at her side
wounded, but she snatched her standard from his
failing hand and plunged on through the ruck of
flying missiles, cheering her men with encouraging
cries; and then for a good time one had turmoil, and
clash of steel, and collision and confusion of strug-
gling multitudes, and the hoarse bellowing of the
guns; and then the hiding of it all under a rolling
firmament of smoke—a firmament through which
veiled vacancies appeared for a moment now and
then, giving fitful dim glimpses of the wild tragedy
enacting beyond; and always at these times one
caught sight of that slight figure in white mail which
was the center and soul of our hope and trust, and
whenever we saw that, with its back to us and its
face to the fight, we knew that all was well. At
last a great shout went up—a joyous roar of shout-
ings, in fact—and that was sign sufficient that the
faubourgs were ours.

Yes, they were ours; the enemy had been driven
back within the walls. On the ground which Joan
had won we camped; for night was coming on.

Joan sent a summons to the English, promising
that if they surrendered she would allow them to go
in peace and take their horses with them. Nobody
knew that she could take that strong place, but she

---

knew it—knew it well; yet she offered that grace—
offered it in a time when such a thing was unknown
in war; in a time when it was custom and usage to
massacre the garrison and the inhabitants of cap-
tured cities without pity or compunction—yes,
even to the harmless women and children some-
times. There are neighbors all about you who well
remember the unspeakable atrocities which Charles
the Bold inflicted upon the men and women and
children of Dinant when he took that place some
years ago: It was a unique and kindly grace which
Joan offered that garrison; but that was her way,
that was her loving and merciful nature—she always
did her best to save her enemy's life and his soldierly
pride when she had the mastery of him.

The English asked fifteen days' armistice to con-
sider the proposal in. And Fastolfe coming with
five thousand men! Joan said no. But she offered
another grace: they might take both their horses and
their side-arms—but they must go within the hour.

Well, those bronzed English veterans were pretty
hard-headed folk. They declined again. Then Joan
gave command that her army be made ready to
move to the assault at nine in the morning. Con-
sidering the deal of marching and fighting which the
men had done that day, D'Alençon thought the
hour rather early; but Joan said it was best so, and
so must be obeyed. Then she burst out with one
of those enthusiasms which were always burning in
her when battle was imminent, and said:

---

"Work! work! and God will work with us!"

Yes, one might say that her motto was "Work!
stick to it; keep on working!" for in war she never
knew what indolence was. And whoever will take
that motto and live by it will be likely to succeed.
There's many a way to win in this world, but none
of them is worth much without good hard work
back of it.

I think we should have lost our big Standard-
Bearer that day, if our bigger Dwarf had not been
at hand to bring him out of the mêlée when he was
wounded. He was unconscious, and would have
been trampled to death by our own horse, if the
Dwarf had not promptly rescued him and haled him
to the rear and safety. He recovered, and was
himself again after two or three hours; and then he
was happy and proud, and made the most of his
wound, and went swaggering around in his bandages
showing off like an innocent big child—which was
just what he was. He was prouder of being wounded
than a really modest person would be of being killed.
But there was no harm in his vanity, and nobody
minded it. He said he was hit by a stone from a
catapult—a stone the size of a man's head. But
the stone grew, of course. Before he got through
with it he was claiming that the enemy had flung a
building at him.

"Let him alone," said Noël Rainguesson.
"Don't interrupt his processes. To-morrow it will
be a cathedral."

---

He said that privately. And, sure enough, to-
morrow it was a cathedral. I never saw anybody
with such an abandoned imagination.

Joan was abroad at the crack of dawn, galloping
here and there and yonder, examining the situation
minutely, and choosing what she considered the
most effective positions for her artillery; and with
such accurate judgment did she place her guns that
her Lieutenant-General's admiration of it still sur-
vived in his memory when his testimony was taken
at the Rehabilitation, a quarter of a century later.

In this testimony the Duke d'Alençon said that at
Jargeau that morning of the 12th of June she made
her dispositions not like a novice, but "with the
sure and clear judgment of a trained general of
twenty or thirty years' experience."

The veteran captains of the armies of France said
she was great in war in all ways, but greatest of all
in her genius for posting and handling artillery.

Who taught the shepherd girl to do these marvels
—she who could not read, and had had no oppor-
tunity to study the complex arts of war? I do not
know any way to solve such a baffling riddle as that,
there being no precedent for it, nothing in history
to compare it with and examine it by. For in his-
tory there is no great general, however gifted, who
arrived at success otherwise than through able teach-
ing and hard study and some experience. It is a
riddle which will never be guessed. I think these

---

vast powers and capacities were born in her, and that
she applied them by an intuition which could not
err.

At eight o'clock all movement ceased, and with it
all sounds, all noise. A mute expectancy reigned.
The stillness was something awful—because it meant
so much. There was no air stirring. The flags on
the towers and ramparts hung straight down like tas-
sels. Wherever one saw a person, that person had
stopped what he was doing, and was in a waiting
attitude, a listening attitude. We were on a com-
manding spot, clustered around Joan. Not far from
us, on every hand, were the lanes and humble dwell-
ings of these outlying suburbs. Many people were
visible—all were listening, not one was moving. A
man had placed a nail; he was about to fasten
something with it to the doorpost of his shop—
but he had stopped. There was his hand reaching
up holding the nail; and there was his other hand
in the act of striking with the hammer; but he had
forgotten everything—his head was turned aside
listening. Even children unconsciously stopped in
their play; I saw a little boy with his hoop-stick
pointed slanting toward the ground in the act of
steering the hoop around the corner; and so he had
stopped and was listening—the hoop was rolling
away, doing its own steering. I saw a young girl
prettily framed in an open window, a watering-pot
in her hand and window-boxes of red flowers under
its spout—but the water had ceased to flow; the

---

girl was listening. Everywhere were these impres-
sive petrified forms; and everywhere was suspended
movement and that awful stillness.

Joan of Arc raised her sword in the air. At the
signal, the silence was torn to rags; cannon after
cannon vomited flames and smoke and delivered its
quaking thunders; and we saw answering tongues of
fire dart from the towers and walls of the city, ac-
companiedby answering deep thunders, and in a
minute the walls and the towers disappeared, and in
their place stood vast banks and pyramids of snowy
smoke, motionless in the dead air. The startled
girl dropped her watering-pot and clasped her hands
together, and at that moment a stone cannon-ball
crashed through her fair body.

The great artillery duel went on, each side ham-
mering away with all its might; and it was splendid
for smoke and noise, and most exalting to one's
spirits. The poor little town around about us
suffered cruelly. The cannon-balls tore through its
slight buildings, wrecking them as if they had been
built of cards; and every moment or two one would
see a huge rock come curving through the upper air
above the smoke clouds and go plunging down
through the roofs. Fire broke out, and columns of
flame and smoke rose toward the sky.

Presently the artillery concussions changed the
weather. The sky became overcast, and a strong
wind rose and blew away the smoke that hid the
English fortresses.

---

Then the spectacle was fine; turreted gray walls
and towers, and streaming bright flags, and jets of
red fire and gushes of white smoke in long rows, all
standing out with sharp vividness against the deep
leaden background of the sky; and then the whiz-
zing missiles began to knock up the dirt all around
us, and I felt no more interest in the scenery.
There was one English gun that was getting our
position down finer and finer all the time. Presently
Joan pointed to it and said:

"Fair duke, step out of your tracks, or that
machine will kill you."

The Duke d'Alençon did as he was bid; but
Monsieur du Lude rashly took his place, and that
cannon tore his head off in a moment.

Joan was watching all along for the right time to
order the assault. At last, about nine o'clock, she
cried out:

"Now—to the assault!" and the buglers blew
the charge.

Instantly we saw the body of men that had been
appointed to this service move forward toward a
point where the concentrated fire of our guns had
crumbled the upper half of a broad stretch of wall
to ruins; we saw this force descend into the ditch
and begin to plant the scaling-ladders. We were
soon with them. The Lieutenant-General thought
the assault premature. But Joan said:

"Ah, gentle duke, are you afraid? Do you not
know that I have promised to send you home safe?"

---

It was warm work in the ditches. The walls were
crowded with men, and they poured avalanches of
stones down upon us. There was one gigantic
Englishman who did us more hurt than any dozen
of his brethren. He always dominated the places
easiest of assault, and flung down exceedingly
troublesome big stones which smashed men and
ladders both—then he would near burst himself
with laughing over what he had done. But the
duke settled accounts with him. He went and found
the famous cannoneer, Jean le Lorrain, and said:

"Train your gun—kill me this demon."

He did it with the first shot. He hit the English-
man fair in the breast and knocked him backwards
into the city.

The enemy's resistance was so effective and so
stubborn that our people began to show signs of
doubt and dismay. Seeing this, Joan raised her
inspiring battle-cry and descended into the fosse
herself, the Dwarf helping her and the Paladin stick-
ing bravely at her side with the standard. She
started up a scaling-ladder, but a great stone flung
from above came crashing down upon her helmet
and stretched her, wounded and stunned, upon the
ground. But only for a moment. The Dwarf stood
her upon her feet, and straightway she started up
the ladder again, crying:

"To the assault, friends, to the assault—the
English are ours! It is the appointed hour!"

There was a grand rush, and a fierce roar of war-

---

cries, and we swarmed over the ramparts like ants.
The garrison fled, we pursued; Jargeau was ours!

The Earl of Suffolk was hemmed in and sur-
rounded, and the Duke d'Alençon and the Bastard
of Orleans demanded that he surrender himself.
But he was a proud nobleman and came of a proud
race. He refused to yield his sword to subordi-
nates, saying:

"I will die rather. I will surrender to the Maid
of Orleans alone, and to no other."

And so he did; and was courteously and honor-
ably used by her.

His two brothers retreated, fighting step by step,
toward the bridge, we pressing their despairing
forces and cutting them down by scores. Arrived
on the bridge, the slaughter still continued. Alex-
ander de la Pole was pushed overboard or fell over,
and was drowned. Eleven hundred men had fallen;
John de la Pole decided to give up the struggle.
But he was nearly as proud and particular as his
brother of Suffolk as to whom he would surrender
to. The French officer nearest at hand was Guil-
laume Renault, who was pressing him closely. Sir
John said to him:

"Are you a gentleman?"

"Yes."

"And a knight?"

"No."

Then Sir John knighted him himself there on the
bridge, giving him the accolade with English cool-

---

ness and tranquillity in the midst of that storm of
slaughter and mutilation; and then bowing with
high courtesy took the sword by the blade and laid
the hilt of it in the man's hand in token of sur-
render. Ah, yes, a proud tribe, those De la Poles.

It was a grand day, a memorable day, a most
splendid victory. We had a crowd of prisoners, but
Joan would not allow them to be hurt. We took
them with us and marched into Orleans next day
through the usual tempest of welcome and joy.

And this time there was a new tribute to our
leader. From everywhere in the packed streets the
new recruits squeezed their way to her side to touch
the sword of Joan of Arc and draw from it some-
what of that mysterious quality which made it
invincible.