 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 undercover, 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 spirit's 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 something 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 archangel, 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 for 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. Today 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 humiliation. There was not 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 bugle sounded the charge, and learned 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 Boudrecourt, Governor of Vauculaire, 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 has appointed me to strike it. That is all I know. And I follow it with others, sharp and swift, undoing, in ten weeks, England's long years of costly labour, and setting the crown upon the dophine'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 impossibilities to my reason, but to my heart they rang true. And so, while my reason doubted, my heart believed, believed and held fast to the 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 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 ostentation or bravado. This calm consciousness of command, 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 words 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 Okula as commanded, who will despise me and treat me rudely, and perhaps refuse my prayer at this time. I go first to Bure to persuade my Uncle Laxar to go with me, it not being meat that I go alone. I may need you in Voculaire, for if the Governor will not receive me, I will dictate a letter to him, and so must have someone 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 Voculaire 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 audience. 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 unsmirched to the end. I knew what I must do now if I would have her approval. Go to Voculaire, 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, grey-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 quirasson, 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 marvellous 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 halbed ears, in morion and breastplate. As for talk, there was but one topic, of course, the desperate situation of France. There was a rumour, some one said, that Salisbury was making preparations to march against Orléans. 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 investment before fall. Others that the siege would be long, and bravely contested. But upon one thing all voices agreed, that Orléans must eventually fall, and with it France. With that the prolonged discussion 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. Hmm. A strange idea, certainly. Bring them in. It was Joan and her uncle Laxart. At the spectacle 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, Bunget God's grace it is a beautiful creature. He inspected her critically a moment or two, and then said, Well, what is your errand, my child? My message is to you, Robert de Baudicro, Governor Avocouleur, 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 demented. 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 appointed 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 messages? 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 laxat and said, Harky, 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 I must 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. Dom Rémy was already buzzing with it when we got back. CHAPTER VIII. Why the scorners relented. Human nature is the same everywhere. It defies 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 billious and bitter as they were busy. In so much 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 wittesisms and jeerings and laughter. Homette and Little Manget 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 pretend 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 a tool to answer for her perversity, 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 presence of the practised doctors of the law and surrounded by the cold solemnities of the court. Yet all these people were mistaken. They flocked to tool 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 prosecution. When they had testified she rose and reviewed 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 closed 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 marvellous 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, nevertheless, 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 war tediously along. But at last there was a change. END OF CHAPTER VIII. END OF BOOK ONE. PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF Joan of Arc. BOOK II. CHAPTER I. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Personal recollections of Joan of Arc by Mark Twain. BOOK II. IN COURT AND CAMP. CHAPTER I. Joan says good-bye. The 5th of January, 1429, Joan came to me with her uncle Lagsart, and said, The time has 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 marshal. 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 Lagsart. If she had told me before that she was commanded of God to rescue France, I should not have believed it. 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 Vaucoleur 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 Sir Jean de Novelompon de Metz, the other Sir Bertrand de Poulanger. 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? No, not now. I was remembering that it was a year ago and that they did not belong here, but only chance 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 Manget. Bring her outside the village at dawn. She must go with me a little of the way. And Homet? She broke down and began to cry, saying, No, no, 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 Manget, 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 Laxar took Joan to Voculeur, and found lodging and guardianship for her with Catherine Royer, a wheelwright's wife, an honest and good woman. Joan went to Mass regularly, she helped to 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 nearby, and witnessed the effects which followed. At once the tidings spread that a young girl was come who was appointed of God to save France. The common people 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 transparent sincerity won the other half. The well-to-do remained away and scoffed, but that is their way. Next a prophecy of Merlins, 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, Isabelle 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 powerful impulse. The excitement rose higher and higher, and hope and faith along with it. And so from voculure wave after wave of this inspiring enthusiasm flowed out over the land, far and wide, invading all the villages, and refreshing and reviving 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, ins 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. Don Remy was dazed, amazed, stupefied, and said to itself, Is 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 unfortunate of the earth, and their progress to voculure was like a triumph. All the countryside flocking to sea, 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 disappointed, 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 disobey. 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 Sir 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 Baudicourt take or send me to the King, but he does not heed my words. 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 tranquil he is 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 a matter of choice. The gentleman's playful mood began to disappear. One could see that by his face. Joan's earnestness 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 manifest 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. This year the 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 Midlent, even though I wear away my legs to the knees. She said it with that sort of repressed fireiness that means so much when a person's heart is in a thing. You could see the response in that nobleman'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 sier 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 sier de Trandepoulanger, and he also pledged his oath, and nightly honor, to abide with her and follow with her so ever she might lead. This day, too, toward evening a great rumour 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 morning 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 exercise 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 Dauphins' 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, Today, child! Today! How can you know what has happened in that region today? 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 today, and you are in fault to delay me so." The governor walked the floor a while, talking with himself, but letting a great oath fall outside now and then, and finally he said, Harkie! 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 fervour, Now God be thanked! These waiting days are almost done. In nine days you will fetch me the letter. Already the people of Voculure 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 twentieth 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 she would be sent off with a grand demonstration which would advertise 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 twenty-third, at eleven o'clock at night. Then we were dismissed. The two knights were startled, yes, and troubled, and Cyr Bétron 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 twenty-third 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 twenty-third, but prudence forbade that they be told why this limit was named. All day the twenty-third she glanced up wistfully whenever new bodies of strangers entered the house, but her parents did not appear. Still she was not discouraged, but hoped on. But when night fell at last her hopes perished and the tears came. However 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. Demets 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, saying, To what good end? We start at eleven to-night. And it was so. At ten the Governor came with his guard and 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 Sire Bertrand at its extreme rear. 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 beginning 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 continue 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 lamentations. Toward dawn we rode deep into a forest, and soon all but the centuries 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 happening. Then my sense is 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 prophecies had failed. For where were Noel and the Paladin who were to join us at the eleventh hour? By this time, you see, I had gotten used to expecting 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, looking 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 away 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 Dom Lamy 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 Jones 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 am 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 conspicuous." 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 performances 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 Laïr, or Saint Ray, or the Bastard of Orleans, well, I say nothing. I am not of the talking kind, like Nole Régisson and his sword, 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 affirmament 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 waved the compliment aside with his hand and said with complacency, �It is nothing. I have them often, things 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 can't his morion over his right ear, which gave him a very self-satisfied air. I do not need to borrow my ideas like Nol Regasson. Speaking of Nol, 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 up leap in my heart and said to myself, �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 not 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 suppose he volunteered, of course. Didn't he? Oh, yes! He volunteered the way people do to the headsmen. Why, when he found I was coming up from Domremi 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 of 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 Noel 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 pygmy 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 myself 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? Poo! 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 odour 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 Noel Régisson, who had nurtured it, and fostered it, built it up and perfected it, for the entertainment he got out of it. His careless, light heart had to have somebody to nag and chafe and make fun of. The paladin had only needed development in order to meet its requirements. 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 result was an unqualified success. Noel prized the society of the paladin above everybody else's. The paladin preferred anybody's to Noel's. The big fellow was often seen with a 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 Noel. I welcomed him to our expedition and said, It was fine and brave of you to volunteer, Noel. 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 Dom Rémy 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 of 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 you 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'd had the chance, for I do not think he would. I am not charging him with that. In the same place 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, because 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 a fire, 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 had 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. 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 complimented us. She did not take any instruction herself or go through the evolution and maneuvers, 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 practised it. We now made three night marches of twelve or thirteen leagues each, riding in peace and undisturbed, being taken for a roving band of free companions. Country folk were glad to have that sort of people go by without stopping. Still they were very wearying 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 Jones did not. Her step kept its spring and firmness, 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 knights that now followed, for the marches were as fatiguing, the baths as cold, and we were ambuscated 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 Voculeur was making for the king with an escort, and all the roads were being watched now. These five knights disheartened the command a good deal. This was aggravated by a discovery which Noel made, and which he promptly made known at headquarters. Some of the men had been trying to understand why Jones 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 gross and irritable. There it shows you how men can have eyes and yet not see. All their lives those men had seen their own women folks 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 purpose, 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 peace with their ignorance. They argued and discussed among themselves with no 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 to 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 anyone could doubt it after she had given her word that it was true. The men were evidently amazed and impressed 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 ring-leader, 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 ambush-skades, 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 closed 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 impatient to get underway and have it over, although there was promise of more and harder fighting than any of the previous nights had furnished. Moreover, 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 depth 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 nights 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, everything 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 seventeen. 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 nights with her. They might force her to march, particularly if the weather should improve. I was scared. An 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 probably knew better than I want 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 dismount, 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 counter-sign somewhere along that line if we came flying by at speed. But now we seem 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 standing, 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 Captain Raymond would arrive and suggest that perhaps the troops that had been mistaken for his belong to the Virgin of Voculeur. 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 compliments intended for Captain Raymond, and that he would find nothing of a crop left but a dry stubble of reprimands when he got back, and a commander just in the humour to superintend the gathering of it in. Joan said, It will be, as you say, no doubt, for the commander took a troop for granted in the night and unchallenged, and would have camped without sending 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 Sir Bertrand was amused at Joan's naive 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 truth 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 enemies 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 honourable ways first. Jean said, Joan, you told us yourself that you were going to Uncle Luxard's to nurse his wife, but you didn't say you were going further, yet you did go on to vocular. 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 overnight 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 identical 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 purchase of our lives, or any mere military advantage small or great, by deception. Her saying seemed a commonplace at the time, the essence of its meaning 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 threatened us could keep us awake. The 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 previous 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 Jean, and knew we were in a friendly land, with the hostels 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. End of Chapter 4. This is Book 2, Chapter 5 of Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by John Greenman. Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc by Mark Twain. Book 2, Chapter 5. We Pierced the Last Ambiscades. We rested, and otherwise refreshed ourselves, two or three hours at Jean, but by that time the news was abroad that the young girl commissioned of God to deliver France was come. Wherefore, such oppressive people flocked to our quarters to get sight of her, that it seemed best to seek a quiet 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 delivering 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 troops slept all the afternoon, and after supper we felt pretty fresh and fine, especially our little group of young donremiens. We had the comfortable tap-room of the village into ourselves, and for the first time in ten unspeakably long days were exempt from boatings and terrors and hardships and fatiguing labors. The Paladin was suddenly become his ancient self again, and was swaggering up and down a very monument of self-complacency. Noel Régisson 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, as Pierre Dark? Everything! It was nothing but Joan's confidence in his discretion that enabled her to keep up her heart. She could depend on us and on herself or Valar, 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, Noel Régisson, 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 obstruction 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, because 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, muttered the Paladin, whereas it being purely a quality of the heart and proceeding by feeling, not reason, its reach is correspondingly wider and sublimer, enabling 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 you give credence to the malicious inventions of this ramshackle 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, and 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 John. 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 me to refuse to believe a person when he makes so direct a statement, 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, Nole Régisson? How many do you believe I climb, 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, Nole 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. In gratitude 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 forced 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. Ha! He strode off with a lofty ear, 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 her 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 Jean, the news had spread to Orleans that the peasant maid of Vaut Couleur 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, an inconsiderable 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 trembled 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 Tremue. 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 ambassador commissioned of God, commanded us to sit. Then the Sire 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 George de la Trimouie, and that plotting fox the Archbishop of Reims. 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 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 commissioners from Orléans. 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 upholstery and crippled furniture for use, a very house of desolation, in his treasure forty francs, and not a farthing more God be witness, no army, nor any shadow of one. And by contrast, with his hungry poverty, you behold, this crownless pauper and his shoals of fools and favourites, tricked out in the glorious 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, except succor comes 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 a 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 Archbishop and his Confederate have for backer that veteran soldier, Raoul de Cochure, grandmaster of the palace, a worthy man, but simply a soldier, with no head for any great 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 castle of Chineau who favors us? Yes, the king's mother-in-law Yolande, queen of Sicily, who is wise and good. She spoke with the sire 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 seventeen, a girl, country bread, 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 fear, and comes, she to whom a king must be a dread and awful presence, and will stand up before such and one, and say, Be not afraid, God has sent me to save you. Ah, wence 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, and 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 today. For in her is that mysterious something that puts her 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 wence 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 night 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 throwing 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 Yolanda got one victory over the king's keepers, for in spite of their protestations 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 counsel about it. This began to look encouraging. Two hours later there was a great stir below, and the innkeeper 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 hostility, and he was so overcome with the glory of it that he could hardly find breath enough in his excited body to put the facts into words. They were come from the king to speak with the maid of oculeurs. Then he flew downstairs, and presently 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 commanded 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 exaltation 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, at 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 favourable impression here, where it would be so valuable and so important. Ah, dear, how little we were expecting what happened 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 consecrated 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 say 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 me to receive it, and another's commandment may not take precedence of that. I pray you let me have speech for 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 reverent 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 Reims, 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 want, you will pardon me for reminding you again, but I have no message to send to anyone. 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 conduct. She who had been so wise until this fatal hour. At last this year 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 and none came, for we began to see what was in her mind. So she answered herself. The dauphin's council moved him to it. Are they enemies to me and to the dauphin's wheel or are they friends? Enemies answered this year Bertrand. If one would have a message go sound and ungarbled, 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 unseen 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 persuasions of gesture and supplicating tone and beseeching 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 sir de Mets nodded his head several times and muttered us 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 myself, and indeed it was the thought of all their 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 advisors and defeat them. Marvelling 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, indeed, that make a good and trusty soldier and perfect 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 Cordray, personally confiding her to the care of Madame de Belie, wife of old Raul de Gokur, 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 capableest among them recognized 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 indifferent. Well, anything to make delay, the king's council advised him against arriving at a decision in our matter too precipitately. He arrived at a decision too precipitately? So they sent a committee of priests, always priests, into Lorraine, to inquire into Joan's character and history. A matter of fact, the king's council advised him against arriving at a decision in our matter too precipitately. Lorraine, 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 county 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 prodigious spectacle to see and to treasure in our memories all our lives. So we were on the lookout, and all was 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 pumps, and ceremonies, the great concourse of renowned personages, the brilliant costumes, and the other splendors of the court that she, a simple countrymaid, 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-duklets, 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 Yolanda 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 described 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 me. 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 a variety of colour and the magnificence of the costumes. Light streamed upon these masses of colour 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 thrown royally canopied, and upon it sat a crowned and septored figure, nobly closed 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 honours granted to only the greatest personages. At the entrance door stood four heralds in a row, in splendid 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 nights proud and happy, and they held themselves erect, and stiffened their stride, and looked fine and soldierly. They were not expecting this beautiful and honourable tribute to our little country made. 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 forget 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 inclination of her head, but stood looking toward the throne in silence. That was all there was to see at present. I glanced up at Demet's, and was shocked at the paleness of his face. I whispered and said, 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 courtears, 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 melodious voice which was her birthright, and was now charged with deep and tender feeling. God of his grace give you long life, oh dear and gentle dauphin! In his astonishment and exultation Demet's cried out, By the shadow of God it is an amazing thing! Then he mashed all the bones of my hand and his grateful 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 sir Bertrand 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 Lige, you are he, and none other. Demet'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 content 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 Reims, and be there after 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 I will 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 this 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 pumps 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 to 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 in 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 know 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 throwing 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 pesterous counsel 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 honours which had so distinguished Joan's entrance into that place, honours restricted to personages of very high rank and worth. But that pride was as nothing compared with the pride we had in the honour done her upon leaving it. For whereas those first honours 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 honour and esteem than when she came. And the king did another handsome thing by Joan, for he sent us back to Cordray Castle, torchlighted, and in state, under escort of his own troop, his guard of honour, the only soldiers he had, and finally equipped and bedisoned they were too, though they hadn't seen the colour 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 hazzas that broke out all along as we passed, and kept abreast of us like a wave the whole way.