“Waste no more time, man—­let the bugles sound the assault!” and we saw that strange deep light in her eye which we named the battle-light, and learned to know so well in later fields.

The martial notes pealed out, the troops answered with a yell, and down they came against that formidable work, whose outlines were lost in its own cannon-smoke, and whose sides were spouting flame and thunder.

We suffered repulse after repulse, but Joan was here and there and everywhere encouraging the men, and she kept them to their work.  During three hours the tide ebbed and flowed, flowed and ebbed; but at last La Hire, who was now come, made a final and resistless charge, and the bastille St. Loup was ours.  We gutted it, taking all its stores and artillery, and then destroyed it.

When all our host was shouting itself hoarse with rejoicings, and there went up a cry for the General, for they wanted to praise her and glorify her and do her homage for her victory, we had trouble to find her; and when we did find her, she was off by herself, sitting among a ruck of corpses, with her face in her hands, crying—­for she was a young girl, you know, and her hero heart was a young girl’s heart too, with the pity and the tenderness that are natural to it.  She was thinking of the mothers of those dead friends and enemies.

Among the prisoners were a number of priests, and Joan took these under her protection and saved their lives.  It was urged that they were most probably combatants in disguise, but she said: 

“As to that, how can any tell?  They wear the livery of God, and if even one of these wears it rightfully, surely it were better that all the guilty should escape than that we have upon our hands the blood of that innocent man.  I will lodge them where I lodge, and feed them, and sent them away in safety.”

We marched back to the city with our crop of cannon and prisoners on view and our banners displayed.  Here was the first substantial bit of war-work the imprisoned people had seen in the seven months that the siege had endured, the first chance they had had to rejoice over a French exploit.  You may guess that they made good use of it.  They and the bells went mad.  Joan was their darling now, and the press of people struggling and shouldering each other to get a glimpse of her was so great that we could hardly push our way through the streets at all.  Her new name had gone all about, and was on everybody’s lips.  The Holy Maid of Vaucouleurs was a forgotten title; the city had claimed her for its own, and she was the maid of Orleans now.  It is a happiness to me to remember that I heard that name the first time it was ever uttered.  Between that first utterance and the last time it will be uttered on this earth—­ah, think how many moldering ages will lie in that gap!