But the face of the Maid was troubled, as she looked into the dark water which had closed over the head of Glasdale and his men.  She had seized upon a coil of rope; she stood ready to fling it towards them when they rose; but encased as they were in their heavy mail, there was no rising for them.  Long did she gaze into the black, bloodstained water; but she gazed in vain; and when she raised her eyes, I saw that they were swimming in tears.

“I would we might have saved them,” she spoke, with a little catch in her voice, “I have such great pity for their souls!”

These were the first words I heard the Maid speak after her wonderful victory had been won; and whilst others went hither and thither, mad or drunk with joy, she busied herself about the wounded, making no distinction betwixt friend or foe, sending urgent message into the city for priests to come forth and bring the last Sacraments with them, and so long as there were any dying to be confessed or consoled, or wounded to be cared for and transported into the city, she seemed to have no thought for aught beside.  Thankful joy was indeed in her heart, but her tender woman’s pity was so stirred by sights of suffering and death that for the moment she could think of nothing else.

Thus the daylight faded, and we began to think of return.  How shall I describe the sight which greeted our eyes in the gathering dusk, as we looked towards the city?  One might have thought that the English had fired it, so bright was the glare in which it was enveloped; but we knew better.  Bonfires were blazing in every square, in every open place.  Nay, more, from the very roofs of tower and church great pillars of flame were ascending to the heavens.

Joy bells had rung before this, but never with such a wild jubilation, such a clamour of palpitating triumph.  The city had gone mad in its joy—­and it was no marvel—­and all were awaiting the return of the Maid, to whom this miraculous deliverance was due.  Eight days—­eight days of the Maid—­and the seven-months’ siege was raised!  Was it wonderful they should hunger for her presence amongst them?  Was it wonderful that every house should seek to hang out a white banner in honour of the Angelic Maid, and her pure whiteness of soul and body?

“I will come to you by the bridge,” had been her own word; and now, behold, the bridge was there!  Like Trojans had the men worked beneath the eagle eyes of La Hire.  An army had already crossed from the city; now that their task was done, the Maid’s white charger had been led across, and the cry was all for her, for her; that she should let the people see her alive and well, now that her task was accomplished and Orleans was free!

She let us mount her upon her horse, and D’Aulon marched in front with the great white standard.  Weary and white and wan was she, with the stress of the fight, with the pain and loss of blood from her wound, above all, with her deep, unfailing pity for the sufferings she had been forced to witness, for the souls gone to their last account without the sacred offices of the Church.