Good news travels fast, sometimes, as well as bad.  By the time we were ready to start homeward by the bridge the whole city of Orleans was one red flame of bonfires, and the heavens blushed with satisfaction to see it; and the booming and bellowing of cannon and the banging of bells surpassed by great odds anything that even Orleans had attempted before in the way of noise.

When we arrived—­well, there is no describing that.  Why, those acres of people that we plowed through shed tears enough to raise the river; there was not a face in the glare of those fires that hadn’t tears streaming down it; and if Joan’s feet had not been protected by iron they would have kissed them off of her.  “Welcome! welcome to the Maid of Orleans!” That was the cry; I heard it a hundred thousand times.  “Welcome to our Maid!” some of them worded it.

No other girl in all history has ever reached such a summit of glory as Joan of Arc reached that day.  And do you think it turned her head, and that she sat up to enjoy that delicious music of homage and applause?  No; another girl would have done that, but not this one.  That was the greatest heart and the simplest that ever beat.  She went straight to bed and to sleep, like any tired child; and when the people found she was wounded and would rest, they shut off all passage and traffic in that region and stood guard themselves the whole night through, to see that he slumbers were not disturbed.  They said, “She has given us peace, she shall have peace herself.”

All knew that that region would be empty of English next day, and all said that neither the present citizens nor their posterity would ever cease to hold that day sacred to the memory of Joan of Arc.  That word has been true for more than sixty years; it will continue so always.  Orleans will never forget the 8th of May, nor ever fail to celebrate it.  It is Joan of Arc’s day—­and holy. [1]

[1] It is still celebrated every year with civic and military pomps and solemnities. —­ Translator.

Chapter 23 Joan Inspires the Tawdry King

In the earliest dawn of morning, Talbot and his English forces evacuated their bastilles and marched away, not stopping to burn, destroy, or carry off anything, but leaving their fortresses just as they were, provisioned, armed, and equipped for a long siege.  It was difficult for the people to believe that this great thing had really happened; that they were actually free once more, and might go and come through any gate they pleased, with none to molest or forbid; that the terrible Talbot, that scourge of the French, that man whose mere name had been able to annul the effectiveness of French armies, was gone, vanished, retreating—­driven away by a girl.

The city emptied itself.  Out of every gate the crowds poured.  They swarmed about the English bastilles like an invasion of ants, but noisier than those creatures, and carried off the artillery and stores, then turned all those dozen fortresses into monster bonfires, imitation volcanoes whose lofty columns of thick smoke seemed supporting the arch of the sky.