Her face was suddenly transfigured—­radiant—­with some great and glorious thought.  I was glad at heart to see that the shadow had passed entirely away.  Only for a moment could any presage of personal fear cloud the sweet serenity of the Maid’s nature.  And yet I went from her something troubled myself; for had I not reason to know what strange power she possessed of reading the future, and what did it mean, that confusion of battle, that intermingling of victory and defeat, that darkness of smoke and blaze of fire, and the white dove flying forth unscathed?  I had heard too often the shouts of the infuriated English—­“We will take you and burn you, you White Witch!  You shall perish in the flames from whence the devil, your father, has sent you forth!”—­not to hear with a shudder any vision of smoke and of fire.  But again, had not the Maid ever prevailed in battle over her foes?  Might she not laugh to scorn all such threats?

Ah me!  It is well that we may not read the future, else how could we bear the burden of life?

Joyous and triumphant was the day upon which, after some inevitable delays, we started forth—­a goodly company in sooth—­an army at our back, swelling with pride and triumph—­to take our young King to the appointed place, and see the crown of France there set upon his head.  From all quarters news was pouring in of the hopeless disruption of the power of the English after the Chasse de Patay.  Towns and villages which had submitted in sullen acquiescence before, now sent messages of loyalty and love to the King.  Men flocked daily to join our standard as we marched.  It was a sight to see the villagers come forth, clad in their holiday dress, eager to see and pay homage to the King, but yet more eager to look upon the white mailed figure at his side and shout aloud the name of the maid of Orleans!

For the place of honour at the King’s right hand was reserved for the Maid, and she rode beside him without fear, without protest, without shame.  Gentle, humble, and simple as she always was, she knew herself the Messenger of a greater King than that of France, and the honour done to her she accepted as done to her Lord, and never faltered beneath it, as she was never puffed up or made haughty or arrogant thereby.  Nor did she ever lose her tenderness of heart, nor her quick observation of trivial detail in the absorbing interests of her greatness.

She was the first to note signs of distress upon the part of the soldiers, during this march in the midsummer heat.  It was she who would suggest a halt in the noontide, in some wooded spot, that “her children” might rest and refresh themselves, and it was she who, never tired herself, would go amongst them, asking them of their well being, and bringing with her own hands some luscious fruit or some cooling draught to any soldier who might be suffering from the effects of the sun.

She who rode beside a King, who was the greatest and most renowned of that great company, would minister with her own hands to the humblest of her followers; and if ever King or Duke or courtier jested or remonstrated with her on the matter, her answer was always something like this: