on Sunday, May 8, for the entire disappearance of the besieging force.  On the 29th of June, she fought and gained over the English the decisive battle of Patay; on the 9th of July, she took Troyes by a coup-de-main from a mixed garrison of English and Burgundians; on the 15th of that month, she carried the Dauphin into Rheims; on Sunday the 17th, she crowned him; and there she rested from her labor of triumph.  What remained was—­to suffer.

All this forward movement was her own:  excepting one man, the whole council was against her.  Her enemies were all that drew power from earth.  Her supporters were her own strong enthusiasm, and the headlong contagion by which she carried this sublime frenzy into the hearts of women, of soldiers, and of all who lived by labor.  Henceforwards she was thwarted; and the worst error, that she committed, was to lend the sanction of her presence to counsels which she disapproved.  But she had accomplished the capital objects which her own visions had dictated.  These involved all the rest.  Errors were now less important; and doubtless it had now become more difficult for herself to pronounce authentically what were errors.  The noble girl had achieved, as by a rapture of motion, the capital end of clearing out a free space around her sovereign, giving him the power to move his arms with effect; and, secondly, the inappreciable end of winning for that sovereign what seemed to all France the heavenly ratification of his rights, by crowning him with the ancient solemnities.  She had made it impossible for the English now to step before her.  They were caught in an irretrievable blunder, owing partly to discord amongst the uncles of Henry VI., partly to a want of funds, but partly to the very impossibility which they believed to press with tenfold force upon any French attempt to forestall theirs.  They laughed at such a thought; and whilst they laughed, she did it.  Henceforth the single redress for the English of this capital oversight, but which never could have redressed it effectually, was—­to vitiate and taint the coronation of Charles VII. as the work of a witch.  That policy, and not malice, (as M. Michelet is so happy to believe,) was the moving principle in the subsequent prosecution of Joanna.  Unless they unhinged the force of the first coronation in the popular mind, by associating it with power given from hell, they felt that the sceptre of the invader was broken.

But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought wonders so great for France, was she not elated?  Did she not lose, as men so often have lost, all sobriety of mind when standing upon the pinnacle of successes so giddy?  Let her enemies declare.  During the progress of her movement, and in the centre of ferocious struggles, she had manifested the temper of her feelings by the pity which she had every where expressed for the suffering enemy.  She forwarded to the English leaders a touching invitation to unite