We were on our way at five to the minute, and encountered the head of the arriving column between six and seven, a couple of leagues from the city.  Dunois was pleased, for the army had begun to get restive and show uneasiness now that it was getting so near to the dreaded bastilles.  But that all disappeared now, as the word ran down the line, with a huzza that swept along the length of it like a wave, that the Maid was come.  Dunois asked her to halt and let the column pass in review, so that the men could be sure that the reports of her presence was not a ruse to revive their courage.  So she took position at the side of the road with her staff, and the battalions swung by with a martial stride, huzzaing.  Joan was armed, except her head.  She was wearing the cunning little velvet cap with the mass of curved white ostrich plumes tumbling over its edges which the city of Orleans had given her the night she arrived—­the one that is in the picture that hangs in the H"tel de Ville at Rouen.  She was looking about fifteen.  The sight of soldiers always set her blood to leaping, and lit the fires in her eyes and brought the warm rich color to her cheeks; it was then that you saw that she was too beautiful to be of the earth, or at any rate that there was a subtle something somewhere about her beauty that differed it from the human types of your experience and exalted it above them.

In the train of wains laden with supplies a man lay on top of the goods.  He was stretched out on his back, and his hands were tied together with ropes, and also his ankles.  Joan signed to the officer in charge of that division of the train to come to her, and he rode up and saluted.

“What is he that is bound there?” she asked.

“A prisoner, General.”

“What is his offense?”

“He is a deserter.”

“What is to be done with him?”

“He will be hanged, but it was not convenient on the march, and there was no hurry.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He is a good soldier, but he asked leave to go and see his wife who was dying, he said, but it could not be granted; so he went without leave.  Meanwhile the march began, and he only overtook us yesterday evening.”

“Overtook you?  Did he come of his own will?”

“Yes, it was of his own will.”

“He a deserter!  Name of God!  Bring him to me.”

The officer rode forward and loosed the man’s feet and brought him back with his hands still tied.  What a figure he was—­a good seven feet high, and built for business!  He had a strong face; he had an unkempt shock of black hair which showed up a striking way when the officer removed his morion for him; for weapon he had a big ax in his broad leathern belt.  Standing by Joan’s horse, he made Joan look littler than ever, for his head was about on a level with her own.  His face was profoundly melancholy; all interest in life seemed to be dead in the man.  Joan said: