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We proceed in our narrative. On that fateful morn- ing (May 7, 1429) Jeanne rose before dawn, heard mass and received the communion. Still fasting, she was about to leave the house,! when, at the door, she was offered a trout by a fisherman from his nightly catch. Her host, Jacques Boucher, urged her to stay and partake of it with the family. She declined, say- ing, “Keep it until evening, for I will bring back a goddon [Englishman] who will want his share of it, and I shall return by the bridge, after taking the Tourelles.” Several persons present were the more astonished by this speech, as the bridge was then half destroyed and impassable.

At once Jeanne, with a small body of soldiers and a multitude of people, proceeded to the Burgundy gate, which had been closed by order of the military chiefs, in keeping with their decision of the previous night. It was, moreover, guarded by a detachment of men-at-arms commanded by Raoul de Gaucourt, governor of Orleans, who was absolutely charged not to open it. This de Gaucourt, a Burgundian at heart, though of the council of Charles, was hostile to the Maid, as were his congeners La Trémoille and de Chartres, a fact which had not escaped Jeanne’s prescient eye. Halted by the obstacle, a part of the crowd proposed to demolish the gate, while other armed citizens in large numbers, arriving at this junc- ture, threatened Gaucourt and encouraged the Maid to fulfil the mission which God and the king had con- ferred upon her. She, much moved by this proof of their faith in her, replied, “In the name of God I will do so. Who loves me follows me!” Then calm- ing the people, she went straight to Gaucourt, now in some fear for his life, and said to him: “You are a wicked man, but whether you wish it or not the soldiers shall pass, and they will triumph to-day as they did yesterday.”

She then ordered the guards themselves to open the gates and they obeyed her; they also opened a postern near the great tower, affording a direct ap- proach to the Loire. As the sun’s first rays touched its waters, Jeanne crossed the river and went to rejoin the soldiers keeping watch in front of the Tourelles. Thanks to the alertness, presence of mind, and bold action of the Maid, supported by the people, the counsel of the military chiefs had come to naught, and these latter awoke to learn that Jeanne had taken the situation in hand. Unwilling to leave her all the credit of victory, and perhaps regretting their action, they hastened to follow her—La Hire, Dunois, Gilles de Rais, Graville, Xaintrailles, Thibaut d’Armagnac, Louis de Culant, and even Gaucourt himself, who had more need than any of them to save his credit. Jeanne welcomed them graciously; in the minutely scruti- nized record of her life there is not a single instance of malice shown by her to an enemy. Even Cauchon the damned, her unrelenting persecutor and, in the end, murderer, was not exempt from her sweetness and charity.

I pause to remark that many worthy people have an absurd conception of Jeanne’s actual part in a battle, assuming it to have been somewhat of the Red Cross “angel” type, a non-combatant herself, present only to look sweet, wave her banner, and give the young soldiers that erotic incentive which the French are said to find irresistible. Crossing from France lately, I met an American woman on shipboard, in- telligent, even “literary,” who labored to impress this notion upon me, and, what repelled me far more, the old false legend utilized by Voltaire to his eternal dishonor.

Now, with strict regard to truth, Jeanne was one of the most efficient generals ever known. In par- ticular her sudden inspirations in the field are com- parable to those of Napoleon—making full allow- ance for the difficulty of such a comparison. Like him, she thought best during an action, never losing her poise, self-possession, judgment, in the most criti- cal or dangerous moments. She saw and she foresaw with equal surety. The chiefs always referred to her for counsel and direction, even when she was not ostensibly the leader.

It is true, we believe, that Jeanne d’Arc never struck a blow or shed blood in battle, though she carried sword and axe; and it is difficult to see how she could have avoided doing so, since her post was always in the vanguard, at the head of the attacking force, and often she must have been put to her own defense. Her judges in the trial soughf to paint her as a monster thirsting for blood, but nobody seems to have taken stock in that exaggeration except the gullible and prejudiced author of “Henry VI,” Part I. We rest on her simple word, uncontradicted by any credible witness, that she was never guilty of blood- shed, that the sight of blood was horrible to her, causing her hair to rise. But she was wounded in several battles, and it is another miracle that she escaped death in the field from the savage hate of her enemies.

We return to the Tourelles. Although the French rushed to the battle with more fire and resolution than they had previously evinced, the English met them with equal ardor, and the fortune of the day was long alternating and uncertain. Wading the ditches, climbing the ramparts, heedless of the artil- lery, missiles of lead and stone, and arrows playing with deadly precision upon them, the attackers strongly maintained the struggle, although their ef- forts seemed to little purpose against those high and massive walls defended by men of iron. Jeanne in the front rank, a shining target to the enemy, un- daunted and persistent, continued to encourage them. “Hope in God, the English will be beaten, the place is yours!”

The conflict had raged five or six hours, when Jeanne, intending to make a new assault, seized a ladder and placed it against the rampart. Perceiving her action, the English chiefs summoned their best archers to pick her off; a hail of arrows instantly fol- lowed, one of which pierced her shoulder. She fell and rolled into the ditch below, amid the savage shouts of the English and the consternation of the French.

This incident caused a temporary pause in the battle, plainly revealing who was its true leader on the French side. Jeanne was carried to some distance from the rampart and the wound dressed with oil of olives, after she had herself plucked out the arrow and refused a simple form of “charm” or conjuration proposed by her soldiers. “I would rather die,” she said, “than commit the sin.”

Availing themselves of this accident, and thinking Jeanne disabled by a wound so grievous, the army chiefs went into immediate council and resolved with one voice to abandon the assault, return to the city, and await fresh reinforcements. Jeanne begged them to delay a little while, but they turned to her the deaf ear, and Dunois gave the signal of retreat. At that ominous sound the Maid springs to her feet, un- conscious of her wound, and commands in a voice of authority which none dare resist: “In the name of God, you shall enter the Tourelles presently. When you see my standard float toward the bastile, take arms again—it is yours! Now rest a little, drink, and eat to regain your strength.”

The chiefs yielded to this appeal without more ado. Awed and touched by her manner as of one inspired, roused by the challenge of her enthusiasm and faith, rebuked also by the spectacle of such cour- age in a wounded girl, they prepared to give instant obedience. I think the incident does them very little discredit, seeing that they were practising their trade as they knew it; while the conclusion shows them in the true French spirit.

Instead of eating or resting, Jeanne called for her horse and, leaving her standard in the hands of d’Aulon, rode with a chevalier toward a tree which was to be seen at some distance. There she dis- mounted, saying to her companion: “Keep your eyes on my standard; when it touches the rampart give me warning.” Then she knelt in prayer, seeking aid and guidance from her heavenly friends, for the great trial at hand.

During her absence d’Aulon, who seems to have loved fighting for its own sake, like the Irish, in- trusted the banner to a brave soldier of his company called Je Basque, and, shielding himself with his buckler from the stones of the enemy, advanced into the ditch, followed by his companion. A piece of bravado, no doubt, on the part of d’Aulon; we refuse to see in it a device of the Maid’s. Presently the ban- ner floating in the wind touches the rampart, and the watcher cries, “Jeanne, your standard—the tail touches!”

Instantly she leaps upon her horse and rides at full speed toward the Tourelles, crying to her cap- tains and soldiers: “Forward! Forward! All is yours!” Traversing the fosse, she reclaims her banner from the soldier and, planting it in the side of the rampart, again raises her battle-cry: “Forward! Enter here— the English are yours!”

This time the charge of the French was worthy of their leader; as by miracle they scaled walls, ram- parts, parapets, and swarmed upon the besiegers, sur- prised by the sudden attack and, above all, dum- founded by the sight of Jeanne, whom they thought to have killed. A great fear came upon them in pres- ence of this invulnerable warrior, smiting them in the marrow of their strength! They abandoned the outer defense in order to shut themselves up in the interior of the fort, from which they were separated by a wooden bridge crossing the fosse, here formed by an arm of the river. Jeanne, leading the pursuit, sees Glansdale, the foul-mouthed, covering the retreat as best he might, and offers him quarter: “Glansdale! Glansdale! Surrender to the King of Heaven. You and yours have called me prostitute, but I have pity on your souls!”

Unheeding the Maid’s offer of mercy, perhaps from shame, perhaps thinking it had not come to such a pass, the sturdy Englishman, in full armor, starts to cross the bridge with some of his picked warriors, when it gives way beneath them and all are drowned in the Loire. A fire-boat moored under the bridge had done the work, unperceived by the besiegers. Glans- dale had met the fate predicted by Jeanne only three days before; not an inappropriate one, we may ob- serve.

Meantime the Orleans people had rudely and hastily repaired the great bridge between the city and the Tourelles, which we have noted above as being half destroyed, and a body of their militia was thereby enabled to attack the fort from the other side, to the confusion of the enemy and their total defeat. The Tourelles, strongest of the besieging forts, was conquered; many brave men, yet more English than French, lay in their bloody death; and as night fell, the bells of Orleans rang out in glad carillons of triumph, while in all the churches the priests in- toned the Te Deum before joyous and reverent crowds.

But the greatest joy, the wildest enthusiasm, burst forth on Jeanne’s return to the city that night— by the bridge as she had foretold—when the crowds fought madly to get sight of her, threw themselves under her horse’s feet, laughed and wept for mere happiness, performed every unheard-of antic, com- mitted every folly and extravagance, none unbecom- ing withal, in order to give expression to their feel- ings, as if such a thing were possible! If you have known French crowds on any remotely similar occa- sion, you will wish that you had been there! Yes, though it was so far back, in the Middle Ages. Orleans still rejoices with civic pomp and military ceremony in the annual féte of Jeanne d’Arc on May 8. I have seen it and had joy of it, but I don’t pretend to myself that it was anything like the original cele- bration of five centuries ago.

Jeanne’s great victory at Orleans evoked some re- markable expressions: Gerson, most eminent of the French prelates, declared that it was the work of God; the virtuous Christine de Pisan published a congratulatory poem glorying in this achievement of French womanhood; even among the Burgundian allies of the English the voice of praise made itself heard.