“We will break them up.  Then you can march.”

With that plan the King was willing to venture assent.  He could sit around out of danger while the road was being cleared.

Joan came back in great spirits.  Straightway everything was stirring.  Proclamations were issued calling for men, a recruiting-camp was established at Selles in Berry, and the commons and the nobles began to flock to it with enthusiasm.

A deal of the month of May had been wasted; and yet by the 6th of June Joan had swept together a new army and was ready to march.  She had eight thousand men.  Think of that.  Think of gathering together such a body as that in that little region.  And these were veteran soldiers, too.  In fact, most of the men in France were soldiers, when you came to that; for the wars had lasted generations now.  Yes, most Frenchmen were soldiers; and admirable runners, too, both by practice and inheritance; they had done next to nothing but run for near a century.  But that was not their fault.  They had had no fair and proper leadership—­at least leaders with a fair and proper chance.  Away back, King and Court got the habit of being treacherous to the leaders; then the leaders easily got the habit of disobeying the King and going their own way, each for himself and nobody for the lot.  Nobody could win victories that way.  Hence, running became the habit of the French troops, and no wonder.  Yet all that those troops needed in order to be good fighters was a leader who would attend strictly to business—­a leader with all authority in his hands in place of a tenth of it along with nine other generals equipped with an equal tenth apiece.  They had a leader rightly clothed with authority now, and with a head and heart bent on war of the most intensely businesslike and earnest sort—­and there would be results.  No doubt of that.  They had Joan of Arc; and under that leadership their legs would lose the art and mystery of running.

Yes, Joan was in great spirits.  She was here and there and everywhere, all over the camp, by day and by night, pushing things.  And wherever she came charging down the lines, reviewing the troops, it was good to hear them break out and cheer.  And nobody could help cheering, she was such a vision of young bloom and beauty and grace, and such an incarnation of pluck and life and go! she was growing more and more ideally beautiful every day, as was plain to be seen—­and these were days of development; for she was well past seventeen now—­in fact, she was getting close upon seventeen and a half—­indeed, just a little woman, as you may say.

The two young Counts de Laval arrived one day—­fine young fellows allied to the greatest and most illustrious houses of France; and they could not rest till they had seen Joan of Arc.  So the King sent for them and presented them to her, and you may believe she filled the bill of their expectations.  When they heard that rich voice of hers they must have thought it was a flute; and when they saw her deep eyes and her face, and the soul that looked out of that face, you could see that the sight of her stirred them like a poem, like lofty eloquence, like martial music.  One of them wrote home to his people, and in his letter he said, “It seemed something divine to see her and hear her.”  Ah, yes, and it was a true word.  Truer word was never spoken.