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The destinies of France were at the lowest. From the
rapid waters of the Rhine to the stormy coasts of the Atlantic,
from Calays to the heights of Jura, there was but a single
thought, a single terror among the inhabitants of that fair
and fertile kingdom — the English! the victorious English!
Never, since the days of Charles the Bold, when the roving
Northmen had moored their galleys on the coast, and erected
their raven-standards on the conquered walls of Neustria —
never had the arm of foreign invader so paralyzed the efforts,
so overawed the high and cheerful courage of that warlike
people. Paris herself was garrisoned by the victorious archers
of the Ocean Isle, and scarce an echo throughout the
western provinces but had sent back the twanging of their
bows and the deep terrors of their Saxon war-cry. Force and
guile had hitherto been tried in vain. If, for a moment, at the
death of some bold leader on the field of his renown Fortune
had seemed to smile, it was but to efface the recollection of
that transitory gleam in the dark sorrows that succeeded it.
Salisbury, indeed, had fallen; but, in his place, the stern and
politic Bedford, than whom a wiser regent never swayed the

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terrible engine of military power, lorded it over the crouching
natives with equal ability and tenfold rigor; nor could the
united force of France and Scotland, the emulous and well-matched
valor of Douglas and the bold Dunois, effect more
than a temporary check on men to whom battle had become
the very breath of life, and victory the certain consequence of
battle.

It was at this fatal period, when, the English lion “camped
in gold” over the subject towers of every town or castle from
Brest to Calays — when the feeble garrison of Orleans alone
maintained a protracted resistance — the resistance of despair—
when the battle of the Herrings had put an end, even in the
boldest spirit, to the hope of raising that last siege — when the
trembling parliament was convened at Poictiers, and the court
dwelt, shorn of half its honors, in the petty town of Chinon —
when the aisles of Notre-Dame were polluted by mass and
requiem chanted in the strange dialect of the invaders. It
was at this stormy period that the sire de Baudricourt sat alone
in his ancient chateau of Vancouleurs Night had already
closed around, and the small turret-chamber, in which he sat,
was dark and gloomy; but not more gloomy nor more dark
than was the visage of the stern old governor. No lights
had yet been brought, and the embers of an expiring fire
scarce threw their fitful illuminations beyond the jambs of the
waste and tomb-like chimney. A table covered with a faded
carpet, and strewn with two or three huge folios, treatises on
the art of war, and several rude scrawls, the nearest approach
to maps of which that remote age was capable, occupied the
centre of the chamber; and beside it in a high chair of antique
oak, the tall, spare form of the old warrior, his arms
folded and his teeth set, brooded over the misfortunes of his
sovereign and of his native land. A loose robe of sad-colored
velvet, gathered round his waist by a broad belt of buff

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from which protruded the hilt of a long and formidable poniard,
and a bonnet of the same materials carelessly thrown
upon his time-blanched locks, composed his present attire;
though at a few paces' distance from his seat, a heart-shaped
shield, dinted by many a shrewd blow; and a huge two-handled
espaldron, at least five feet in length, on which might be
traced, even through the growing darkness, as the red glare
of the wood-fire rose and fell in transient gleams upon its
corsleted hilt and pondrous blade, the stains of recent slaughter,
together with a crested burgonet and shirt of linked mail,
lying in confusion in a recess formed by an embrasure, proved
that the sire of Baudricourt had not as yet neglected the practice
or the theory of war, nor forgotten in his old age the lessons
of hard experience, which he had been taught in the
well-fought, though fatal field of Agincourt, and many a disastrous
battle since.

The shades of night fell darker yet and darker, the clash
of arms without, and a repeated flourish of trumpets, mingled
with the booming of the kettle-drums, announced the setting
of the watch, but failed to arouse the old man from the stupor,
which, it would seem, had fallen on his usually elastic and
energetic spirit. There he sat alone in the deepening gloom
like some desolate and foiled magician, forsaken by the very
friends who had ministered to his success, but ministered only
to precipitate his fall, gazing with a fixed and stormy eye upon
the vacant darkness. A quick step was heard without, the
fastenings of the door jingled beneath the pressure of a hasty
hand, the creaking leaves flew open with a jar that might have
roused a thousand sleepers buried in the deepest slumbers of
the flesh; but his were slumbers of the mind, nor did he start
from his chair until the light and reverential touch of the
squire, who stood beside his elbow, had thoroughly dispelled
the waking dreams which had so completely enthralled his mind.

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“Damian,” he cried, as soon as he became aware of the
intruder's presence, “Damian, what wouldst thou? hast thou
more ill-tidings for our ear? For, by my faith, all tidings have
been ill for France, these six months. Alas! alas! poor
France! Unhappy country!” and he smote his breast heavily
as the full sense of all her miseries flashed upon his mind,
stunned as it had been before, and paralyzed by the news of
the last defeat.

“Not so, beau sire,” replied the squire; “but there is one
below urgent to see your valor on matters, it is rumored, of
high import.”

“Admit him on the instant,” was the hasty answer of the
impatient baron — “on the instant! Sir, this is no time for
loitering; and let those lazy knaves bring lights and mend the
fire. This is cold cheer! Look to it, sir, and speedily.”

The dormant spark once kindled in his bosom, he did not
again sink into despondency or gloom; and, till the return of
the squire bearing a pair of huge waxen torches, flaming and
smoking in the sudden gusts of wind that wandered through
those old apartments, he strode impatiently, almost fiercely,
across the narrow floor, the solid timbers groaning beneath his
still firm stride, now muttering to himself, now playing with
his dagger-hilt, and now pausing awhile to mark if he could
eatch the footsteps of the new-comer. “They come not yet.
Tete Dieu, the loitering knaves. Heaven's malison upon
them! And it may be despatches from Poictiers! Would
that it were — would that it were! Ma foi, this garrison duty,
and these dull skirmishes with the base Flemish hogs upon
the frontier, are foul checks on the spirit of a gentleman of
France! Would that it were despatches, that old Baudricourt
might see once more the waving of the oriflamme, the ban
and arriêre ban of France, and stand some chance of falling,
as brave men should fall, among the splintering of lances, and

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the gallopping of war-steeds, the fluttering of pennons, and the
merry blaze of trumpets; but, mea culpa! mea culpa! what
have I said or thought? The best, the bravest knight is
enough honored — enough, did I say? — is too much honored,
so he may serve his country!”

The muttered soliloquy of the baron was interrupted by the
entrance of a dozen of serving-men, not in rich liveries or
peaceful garb, but helmed and booted, with sword on the hips,
and the spur on the heel, ready alike for the service of their
lord in the hall of banquet, or on the field of carnage, and
prompt to execute his bidding almost before it was expressed.
Fresh logs were heaped upon the hearth, which soon diffused
a broad and cheerful glare athwart the Gothic niches and
richly-tinted casements; a dozen lights glittered around the
walls; the worm-eaten folios and dusty parchments disappeared
from the central table, and in their place two massive
flagons of burnished silver, with as many goblets of a yet more
precious metal, sent back the mingled light of fire and torches
in a dozen streams of bright reflection. Scarce were these
dispositions of the chamber completed, ere Damian returned,
accompanied by the stranger whose arrival had created so
much anxiety. This was a low, slight figure, apparently a
stripling of some eighteen years, wrapped in a long, dark
mantle, which fully answered the purpose of a disguise, as it
trailed upon the ground behind, while in front it hung far below
the ankles; a Spanish hat, much slouched over the face,
with a black, drooping feather, concealed the features of the
wearer as completely as the mantle did his form. Entering
the turret-chamber, the figure advanced quickly for about three
paces, then, without uncloaking, or even removing his hat,
although the stately baron had uncovered his locks of snow,
in deference to his guest, turned abruptly to the squire, who
had paused upon the threshold, motioning him to retire.

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“Not I, by Heaven!” muttered the favorite attendant; “not
I, and that, too, at a nameless and most discourteous stranger's
bidding.”

“Damian!” exclaimed the old baron, with a stern and solemn
emphasis, “Damian, begone.”

“My master! — my honored, my adored master,” cried the
squire flinging himself at the feet of the lord he had followed
in many a bloody day, and wetting his buskins with honest
tears — “anything! — anything but this! Bid me not leave
you — and alone with yon dark stranger. Bethink you, sir, for
France's sake, if not for Damian's, or your own — bethink you!
It is scarce three months since the bold knight of Bracquemont
was murthered — basely murthered — on his own hearthstone,
and by a nameless guest. Who knows not, too, of the captal
de Bûche kidnapped in his princely hall, and borne from the
midst of his own retainers to an eternal dungeon? Let me
stay with you, beau sire; a Villeneuve has no ears to hear,
nor eyes to see, nor hand to strike, save at the bidding of a
Baudricourt.”

“This must not be, good Damian,” replied the knight, but
no longer in accents of anger; “this must not be! Your fears
for me have overpowered your wonted penetration. See, 'tis
a stripling — a mere stripling! Why, this old arm could quell—
hath quelled a score of such, and thought it light work, too,
good Damian. So! my faithful friend. Is your old lord so
fallen in your estimation that you dare not trust him to his own
good blade against a single boy? Why, I have known the
day you would have borne our gage of battle to Roland, and
pledged your hope of golden spurs upon our battle! Leave us
awhile, good Damian! It needs not this — away!”

Reluctantly and slowly did the trusty squire withdraw, keeping
his eye fixed on the dark cloak and slouched head-gear,
which seemed so suspicious to his loves or to his fears, and

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his hand griping the hilt of his short, sharp estoc until the door
closed upon him; and even then he stood at a short distance,
watching, as the greyhound straining in the slips, when the
slow-hounds are making the coppice ring with their deep baying,
to catch the slightest indication of tumult or disturbance
in the chamber of his lord, that he might fly to his aid, and,
if not rescue, at least die for his benefactor. With a keen
eye, and watchful, if not suspicious spirit, the old knight scrutinized
the motions of his guest. Before the jarring of the
ponderous door had fully announced that they were alone, the
plumed hat was cast aside, revealing, by its absence, a well-formed
head, covered with a profusion of black and silky hair,
hanging in short but massy ringlets, far down the neck of the
stranger, and a set of features which might well have passed
for those of a beautiful girl, but which might yet belong to extreme
youth and delicacy in the other sex. The brow was
broader and more massive than is often seen in women, and
the eyes, though fringed with long and lovely lashes, had an
expression of wild and almost ecstatic boldness; the rest of
the lineaments that met the eye of Baudricourt were regular
and delicate, even to effeminancy, in their chiselling.

“In God's name, what art thou?” cried the stern warrior,
losing, in the wonder and excitement of the moment, all the
cold dignity and hauteur of his wonted mood. “Maiden, or
page, spirit of the blessed, or dark and evil fiend, I know not,
and I care not, speak? Stand not thus, I do conjure thee —
speak?”

The mantle fell slowly to the ground, and a female form of
exquisite proportions, though somewhat lofty for its years and
sex, stood palpably before him. The dress had nothing to
create even a moment's attention: a dark, close robe of serge,
gathered about the waist by a broad, leathern girdle, and sandals
of the chamois hide, and no more; but in the attitude, the

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supernatural expression of the features, the hands uplifted,
and, above all, the penetrating glance of the full and flashing
eyes, there was much, which, in that age of mystery and
superstition, might well have led the governor to deem his
visitant a being of no mortal origin.

“Thou art a lover of thy country,” she said at length in harmonious,
but slow and solemn tones, “a faithful servant of thy
king, a fervent worshipper of the one living God? I tell thee,
sire de Baudricourt, that by the special favor of the last, thou
shalt save thy native land from the fury of the invader, and
seat thy monarch once again upon the throne of his forefathers.
This shalt thou do. Swear only to follow my commands, the
commands of thy king, thy country, and thy God?”

“And who art thou to speak thus boldly of the will of monarchs,
and the destined mercies of Almighty power?” cried
Baudricourt, recovering somewhat from his first surprise, and
becoming rapidly incredulous, nearly to the same degree in
which he had lately been the contrary.

“I might say to thee, as He once said to his doubting servant
in the wilderness, I AM, and, did I speak the words,
't were parricidal sin in thee to doubt them. But though thy
flesh is weak and faithless, thy heart is true and loyal; therefore,
I say to thee, I am the Maid of Arc, the Maid of Orleans
that shall be, and thence the Maid of Rheims. In me hath
God raised up a savior to his bleeding country, a deliverance
to his people!”

“Tush, tell me not! Heaven chooses other messengers, I
trow, than such as thee to work its miracles! Nor would thy
slender form bide long the brunt of Suffolk's levelled lances,
or Bedford's archery!”

“Ha! Doubtest thou the will of the Omnipotent? — doubtest
thou that He, who chose the son of the humble carpenter
to be his Son, is the anointed King and Savior of the universe? —

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doubtest thou that he can turn the frailty of the weakest girl into
an engine ten thousand times more mighty than the practised
valor of the bravest veteran? Me! me! has he raised up,
and, spite of thee, old warrior, I will save my country! And
thou, whose patriotism, whose loyalty, and whose religion, are
but a mockery and a lie, thou, too, shalt see the glories thou
hast presumed to doubt!”

“Sayest thou?” shouted her enraged host — “sayest thou
so, wench? By Him that made us both, but that I deem thee
mad, dearly shouldst thou rue thy contumely!”

“Even as I entered,” was the calm reply — “even as I entered,
thou didst frame a wish to perish, as a brave man should,
upon the field of glory.”

“Knowest thou that?” he gasped; “then is the fiend, indeed,
at work here!”

“Listen, and thou shalt hear. But three nights since I was
a peasant-maiden without a care or thought beyond my humble
duties, and my innocent, though happy pleasures. Now am I
a woman, indeed, but a woman inspired with that high and
holy inspiration that armed of yore a Jael, and a Deborah, and
a Judith, against the mailed oppressors of their country and
their God. But three nights since, a voice came to me in my
sleep — a mighty voice, loud as the rolling thunder, but sweeter
than the breeze of summer — `Slumber no more,' it cried. `Arise!
arise! thou humble one that shall be mightier than the mightiest,
arise!' it cried in tones that still ring in my mortal ears, like
strains of unforgotten music, `thou shalt save thy country!' I
started from my sleep, and there they stood — there, beside
my lowly pallet — mother of the blessed Jesus, meek and gentle,
in her exceeding beauty, and with a pure and holy fire in
her deep-blue eyes, that spoke of immortality, bright and allglorious,
and eternal! And by her side there stood a mailed
and helmed shape of glory; but his arms were of a fashion

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not like thine, for his limbs were naked in their strength, and
his face unshaded by the vizor, a planet-star gleamed on his
kingly crest, and a broad cross of living lustre flamed on the
buckler of the great archangel, and they held converse with
me in that low and solitary chamber — high, but voiceless converse—
and they told of the things that were, that are, and
that shall be hereafter! Then was I unlearned and rudespoken.
Now, blessed be they that gave, can I speak many
and great things; and now I say to thee, as it was said to me—
`Arise! Do on thy arms of steel, and mount thy destrier,
summon thy vassals, and display thine ancient banner, the
Lord doth lack thy services! and — ' ”

“And for what?” interrupted the impatient veteran — “for
what shall I do on my armor, and erect the banner of mine
house — at whose bidding?”

“To speed the messenger of victory, the deliverance of
France, to the king — even to the king — thou hard of heart,
and stubborn, that I may say to him the words of Him who
sent me — `This do, and thou shalt live!' ”

“Away!” was the reply. “I will not don mine harness,
nor bestride my charger — trumpet shall not sound, nor banner
wave this night.”

“Ere an hour shall go by,” the maiden again broke in with
clear, unfaltering voice — “ere an hour shall go by, thou unbeliever,
trumpet shall sound, banner shall wave, and at thy
bidding! and thou shalt don thine arms, and rein thy puissant
steed at my command, and His that sent me. I talk not to
thee of glory, or of loyalty, for it were of no avail. I talk to
thee of Power! Power which made thee — as it made the
fiends — made thee, and may destroy.”

“And by that Power I swear!” he shouted —

“Swear not at all! but hear me. Since all other methods
fail, hear me and tremble. By the immortal soul of her whose

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mortal body thou didst destroy, warping her purest and most
womanish affections to thine unholy will and her destruction,
I bid thee follow and obey. Not that the works of Heaven
need the aid of men, but that all earth may know the arm
of Heaven by the union of a scarlet sinner, such as thou, to a
maid, as I am, humble, but, as I am — all glory be to Him! —
holy and innocent, wilt thou obey me?”

“Never! never! I mock thy power, scoff at thy words.
Thou knowest not — none ever knew.”

“Knew not the clear and glassy waves of the Garonne,
which thou didst render loathsome as the charnel-house?
Knew not the high and holy stars that heard her cries for
mercy? Knew not the Sitter on the Throne, the Maker and
Judge of men and things? Knew not the Almighty Shepherd
the fate of his still loved, though erring child? Knew not the
blood of Agnes de —”

“Speak not her name! — speak not her name! Slay me —
do with me as thou wilt — but, oh! speak not her name!”
And in a paroxysm of agony and shame the old man dashed
himself at her feet!

“Rise up and do my bidding.” And he arose, silent and
submissive as a chastened infant; and banners did wave, and
trumpets ring that night. Torches and cressets flashed through
Gothic armory and vaulted stable. Horses were saddled, and
their steel-clad riders mounted beneath the midnight moon.
The drawbridge fell, and hollowly did its echoes sound beneath
the trampling feet, as, followed by knightly crests, and
noble banners, and with that proud old governor, a willing vassal
at her bridle-rein, the Maid of Arc rode forth on her first
path of glory.

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