le Macon, proposed that Joan should be summoned to the council.  It was at her instance that the expedition had been undertaken; she had great influence amongst the army and the populace; the idea ought not to be given up without consulting her.  Whilst he was speaking, Joan came knocking at the door; she was told to come in; and the chancellor, the Archbishop of Rheims, put the question to her.  Joan, turning to the king, asked him if he would believe her.  “Speak,” said the king; “if you say what is reasonable and tends to profit, readily will you be believed.”  “Gentle king of France,” said Joan, “if you be willing to abide here before your town of Troyes, it shall be at your disposal within two days, by love or by force; make no doubt of it.”  “Joan,” replied the chancellor, “whoever could be certain of having it within six days might well wait for it; but say you true?” Joan repeated her assertion; and it was decided to wait.  Joan mounted her horse, and, with her banner in her hand, she went through the camp, giving orders everywhere to prepare for the assault.  She had her own tent pitched close to the ditch, “doing more,” says a contemporary, “than two of the ablest captains would have done.”  On the next day, July 10, all was ready.  Joan had the fascines thrown into the ditches, and was shouting out, “Assault!” when the inhabitants of Troyes, burgesses and men-at-arms, came demanding permission to capitulate.  The conditions were easy.  The inhabitants obtained for themselves and their property such guarantees as they desired; and the strangers were allowed to go out with what belonged to them.  On the morrow, July 11, the king entered Troyes with all his captains, and at his side the Maid carrying her banner.  All the difficulties of the journey were surmounted.  On the 15th of July the Bishop of Chalons brought the keys of his town to the king, who took up his quarters there.  Joan found there four or five of her own villagers, who had hastened up to see the young girl of Domremy in all her glory.  She received them with a satisfaction in which familiarity was blended with gravity.  To one of them, her godfather, she gave a red cap which she had worn; to another, who had been a Burgundian, she said, “I fear but one thing—­treachery.”  In the Duke d’Alencon’s presence she repeated to the king, “Make good use of my time, for I shall hardly last longer than a year.”  On the 16th of July King Charles entered Rheims, and the ceremony of his coronation was fixed for the morrow.

It was solemn and emotional, as are all old national traditions which recur after a forced suspension.  Joan rode between Dunois and the Archbishop of Rheims, chancellor of France.  The air resounded with the Te Deum sung with all their hearts by clergy and crowd.  “In God’s name,” said Joan to Dunois, “here is a good people and a devout when I die, I should much like it to be in these parts.”  “Joan,” inquired Dunois, “know you when you will die, and in