“My Captain, I tell you the truth, these men are jealous of the Angelic Maid whom Heaven has sent us.  They say that she will take from them all the honour and glory; that they will fight and risk their lives, but that she alone will have the praise.  So they were full of bitterness and anger; and some, methinks, may have thought to shame her by showing that they could act without her aid, and do the work she has come to do, whilst she takes her rest and holds her councils.  So, gathering a band of soldiers together, these officers have sallied forth to try and storm and take the fortress of St. Loup, which lies some two thousand English yards from the walls along the river banks.  But the soldiers on the walls are shouting out that the English have swarmed forth like angry bees, and are beating back our soldiers and slaying them by the score.”

“They should have known better than to go forth without the knowledge and command of the Maid,” I said sternly, and the young man at my side nodded vehemently, his face alight.

“That is what we said—­we others—­we citizens, who have seen how powerless the soldiers are against the English.  Have they not fought again and again, and what has come of it but loss and defeat?  And now that the good God has sent a Deliverer, it is like flying in His face to seek and do without her.  I said as much again and again.  I knew no good would come of it.  But when we saw the Maid herself flying to the rescue, then did I vow that I, too, would fight under her banner.  For now I know that God will give us the victory!”

We were at the Burgundy Gate by this time and, dashing through, we saw a terrible sight.  The whole open plain between the walls of the town and the fortress of St. Loup was covered with soldiers, strewn with dying and dead.  A horrible sort of fight was going on, horrible to us, because the French were in full retreat before our foe, going down like sheep before the butcher’s knife, rushing panic stricken hither and thither as men demented, whilst the English soldiers, as though ashamed of their recent inaction and paralysis, were fiercely pursuing, shouting “Kill! kill! kill!” as they went about their work of slaughter, driving back their enemies, and striking at them remorselessly.

Here and there a brave officer, with his band of chosen followers, would be presenting a bold face to the foe, making a stand and seeking to rally the flying ranks.  I was certain that I saw De Gamache himself, hewing his way like a very Paladin through the ranks of the English, and dealing death and destruction wherever he went.  But the valour of a few had no power to turn the fortunes of the field; and the rout had already begun, when the Maid and her attendants, closely followed by an enthusiastic band of soldiers and citizens, dashed forth from the Burgundy Gate, and mingled with the flying French hastening towards the city for safety.

“Courage, my children, courage!” cried the Maid, waving her white pennon.  “Be not dismayed.  The Lord has heard your cries.  He has sent me to your aid.  Take courage!  Fear nothing, for the victory shall be ours!”