At the furthest end of the house I met Joan, fully armed, hurrying toward the door, and she said: 

“Ah, French blood is being spilt, and you did not tell me.”

“Indeed I did not know it,” I said; “there are no sounds of war; everything is quiet, your Excellency.”

“You will hear war-sounds enough in a moment,” she said, and was gone.

It was true.  Before one could count five there broke upon the stillness the swelling rush and tramp of an approaching multitude of men and horses, with hoarse cries of command; and then out of the distance came the muffled deep boom!—­boom-boom!—­boom! of cannon, and straightway that rushing multitude was roaring by the house like a hurricane.

Our knights and all our staff came flying, armed, but with no horses ready, and we burst out after Joan in a body, the Paladin in the lead with the banner.  The surging crowd was made up half of citizens and half of soldiers, and had no recognized leader.  When Joan was seen a huzza went up, and she shouted: 

“A horse—­a horse!”

A dozen saddles were at her disposal in a moment.  She mounted, a hundred people shouting: 

“Way, there—­way for the maid of Orleans!” The first time that that immortal name was ever uttered—­and I, praise God, was there to hear it!  The mass divided itself like the waters of the Red Sea, and down this lane Joan went skimming like a bird, crying, “Forward, French hearts—­follow me!” and we came winging in her wake on the rest of the borrowed horses, the holy standard streaming above us, and the lane closing together in our rear.

This was a different thing from the ghastly march past the dismal bastilles.  No, we felt fine, now, and all awhirl with enthusiasm.  The explanation of this sudden uprising was this.  The city and the little garrison, so long hopeless and afraid, had gone wild over Joan’s coming, and could no longer restrain their desire to get at the enemy; so, without orders from anybody, a few hundred soldiers and citizens had plunged out at the Burgundy gate on a sudden impulse and made a charge on one of Lord Talbot’s most formidable fortresses—­St. Loup—­and were getting the worst of it.  The news of this had swept through the city and started this new crowd that we were with.

As we poured out at the gate we met a force bringing in the wounded from the front.  The sight moved Joan, and she said: 

“Ah, French blood; it makes my hair rise to see it!”

We were soon on the field, soon in the midst of the turmoil.  Joan was seeing her first real battle, and so were we.

It was a battle in the open field; for the garrison of St. Loup had sallied confidently out to meet the attack, being used to victories when “witches” were not around.  The sally had been reinforced by troops from the “Paris” bastille, and when we approached the French were getting whipped and were falling back.  But when Joan came charging through the disorder with her banner displayed, crying “Forward, men—­follow me!” there was a change; the French turned about and surged forward like a solid wave of the sea, and swept the English before them, hacking and slashing, and being hacked and slashed, in a way that was terrible to see.