When we reached the gate, Joan told Gaucourt to open it and let her pass.

He said it would be impossible to do this, for his orders were from the council and were strict.  Joan said: 

“There is no authority above mine but the King’s.  If you have an order from the King, produce it.”

“I cannot claim to have an order from him, General.”

“Then make way, or take the consequences!”

He began to argue the case, for he was like the rest of the tribe, always ready to fight with words, not acts; but in the midst of his gabble Joan interrupted with the terse order: 

“Charge!”

We came with a rush, and brief work we made of that small job.  It was good to see the Bailly’s surprise.  He was not used to this unsentimental promptness.  He said afterward that he was cut off in the midst of what he was saying—­in the midst of an argument by which he could have proved that he could not let Joan pass—­an argument which Joan could not have answered.

“Still, it appears she did answer it,” said the person he was talking to.

We swung through the gate in great style, with a vast accession of noise, the most of which was laughter, and soon our van was over the river and moving down against the Tourelles.

First we must take a supporting work called a boulevard, and which was otherwise nameless, before we could assault the great bastille.  Its rear communicated with the bastille by a drawbridge, under which ran a swift and deep strip of the Loire.  The boulevard was strong, and Dunois doubted our ability to take it, but Joan had no such doubt.  She pounded it with artillery all the forenoon, then about noon she ordered an assault and led it herself.  We poured into the fosse through the smoke and a tempest of missiles, and Joan, shouting encouragements to her men, started to climb a scaling-ladder, when that misfortune happened which we knew was to happen—­the iron bolt from an arbaquest struck between her neck and her shoulder, and tore its way down through her armor.  When she felt the sharp pain and saw her blood gushing over her breast, she was frightened, poor girl, and as she sank to the ground she began to cry bitterly.

The English sent up a glad shout and came surging down in strong force to take her, and then for a few minutes the might of both adversaries was concentrated upon that spot.  Over her and above her, English and French fought with desperation—­for she stood for France, indeed she was France to both sides—­whichever won her won France, and could keep it forever.  Right there in that small spot, and in ten minutes by the clock, the fate of France, for all time, was to be decided, and was decided.