her mad:  but D’Aulon, who knew better than to contradict his mistress, armed her rapidly, and Luis, the page, brought her horse to the door.  By this time there began to rise a distant rumour and outcry, at which they all pricked their ears.  As Jeanne put her foot in the stirrup she perceived that her standard was wanting, and called to the page, Louis de Contes, above, to hand it to her out of the window.  Then with the heavy flag-staff in her hand she set spurs to her horse, her attendants one by one clattering after her, and dashed onward “so that the fire flashed from the pavement under the horse’s feet.”

Jeanne’s presentiment was well-founded.  There had been a private expedition against the English fort of St. Loup carried out quietly to steal a march upon her—­Gamache, possibly, or other malcontents of his temper, in the hope perhaps of making use of her prestige to gain a victory without her presence.  But it had happened with this sally as with many others which had been made from Orleans; and when Jeanne appeared outside the gate which she and the rest of the followers after her had almost forced—­coming down upon them at full gallop, her standard streaming, her white armour in a blaze of reflection, she met the fugitives flying back towards the shelter of the town.  She does not seem to have paused or to have deigned to address a word to them, though the troop of soldiers and citizens who had snatched arms and flung themselves after her, arrested and turned them back.  Straight to the foot of the tower she went, Dunois startled in his turn, thundering after her.  It is not for a woman to describe, any more than it was for a woman to execute such a feat of war.  It is said that she put herself at the head of the citizens, Dunois at the head of the soldiers.  One moment of pity and horror and heart-sickness Jeanne had felt when she met several wounded men who were being carried towards the town.  She had never seen French blood shed before, and the dreadful thought that they might die unconfessed, overwhelmed her soul; but this was but an incident of her breathless gallop to the encounter.  To isolate the tower which was attacked was the first necessity, and then the conflict was furious—­the English discouraged, but fighting desperately against a mysterious force which overwhelmed them, at the same time that it redoubled the ardour of every Frenchman.  Lord Talbot sent forth parties from the other forts to help their companions, but these were met in the midst by the rest of the army arriving from Orleans, which stopped their course.  It was not till evening, “the hour of Vespers,” that the bastille was finally taken, with great slaughter, the Orleanists giving little quarter.  During these dreadful hours the Maid was everywhere visible with her standard, the most marked figure, shouting to her men, weeping for the others, not fighting herself so far as we hear, but always in the front of the battle.  When she went back to Orleans triumphant, she led a band of prisoners with her, keeping a wary eye upon them that they might not come to harm.