In a vast Gothic hall, within the ancient walls of Poictiers,
the parliament of France had been convened, during the occupation
of the capital by their brave invaders. They had come
together, the peers, both temporal and spiritual of the realm, in
full numbers, and in all the gorgeous magnificence of the
feudal ages; nor would it be easy to conceive a scene of more
exalted splendor than that which was presented by this august
assemblage. The long hall, lighted on either hand by a row
of tall, lanceolated windows, through which the daylight
streamed, not in its garish lines of unmellowed lustre, but tender,
rich, and melancholy, through the medium of the thousand
hues, in which were blazoned on the narrow panes the

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bearings of many a noble house; the clustered columns hung with
gigantic suits of armor; the fantastic carvings of the capitals;
the groining of the vaulted roof, with the bannered trophies of
ten centuries swaying to and fro in the light currents of air
that played through the hall; the long central table, with its
rich covering of crimson velvet, and the displayed insignia of
royalty, the sword, the sceptre, and the mace of Charlemagne;
the throne, with its massive gilding, and its canopy of cloth
of gold; all had been prepared with as much of elaborate
taste, as though a victorious monarch were about to receive the
congratulations of his assembled feudatories, in the high places
of his hereditary dominion. Far different, however, from the
splendor which surrounded them on every side, was the expression
that sat, with hardly an exception, on every brow
through that proud conclave. It was one pervading universal
expression of restless anxiety, of universal dismay. Old
knights were there, whose beards had grown long and hoary
beneath the helmet, which had scarcely left their brows since
the distant days of their boyhood; men who had proved and
rued the discipline and valor of the English yeomanry at
Cressy and Poictiers; men, over whom a silent century had
sped its course, and left them broken in body, but untamed in
spirit, and unsubdued in intellect; chiefs were there, whose
maiden swords had, for the first time, gleamed on the disastrous
field of Agincourt — chiefs, to whom the deadly onset was
dearer than the voluptuous dance, the maddening clamor of
the trumpet more congenial than the minstrel's lute; but of the
hundreds who sat in long array — in ermined robes and caps
of maintenance, scarce one in fifty had passed the middle age
of manhood. The noblesse of France had been fearfully decimated
by the merciless sword of England, which had converted
their finest provinces into sterile and uncultivated deserts.
Year after year had brought the same dark tidings of defeat

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and desolation, of captivity and death. The burgonets of ancient
houses, for the most part, pressed the sunny locks of
boyhood; and the task of deliberating on the weal of kingdoms
had, for the most part, descended to the gallant youth, more
fitted to chant love-ditties in the bower of willing beauty, or to
fight with impetuous ardor in the first ranks of the battle, than
to frame laws, or to solve nice points of casuistry. A yet
more remarkable token of the insecurity of the times, was to be
found in the shirts of linked mail, or coats of plate, which were
universally worn beneath the ermined garments of the senators—
in the concourse of pages and esquires without, bearing each
the casque, the buckler, and the weapons of his lord — and in
the barbed war-horses, that were led to and fro, in full caparison,
beneath the windows of the council-chamber. More incongruous
yet would it have appeared to modern eyes, could
they have witnessed the highest dignitaries of the church,
clad like their temporal brethren, in all the panoply of warfare;
yet there were present at least a score of these literal members
of a church militant, who would have been, perhaps, more
familiar with the usage of the lance than of the crosier, and to
whose lips the banner-cry of their families would have risen
more promptly than mass or benediction.

Assembled as these nobles were, ready alike for combat or
for council, it would seem that there was yet a something
wanting ere they could proceed to business; impatient glances
were thrown toward the sun, that was already riding high in
the heavens, and to the throne, which was as yet unoccupied.
Nor was this all; murmurs of disapprobation were beginning
to be heard, even among the most volatile spirits of the parliament,
while the more aged councillors knit their dark brows
and shook their heads, boding no good to France or its inhabitants,
so long as its destinies should be swayed by a monarch
ever willing to postpone the most serious duties for the

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prosecution of some headlong sport, or of some licentious amour.
It was, perhaps, with a view of calling the attention of the
court to this strange neglect of the reigning sovereign — for
the sway of monarchs was vastly abridged by the power of
their higher vassals — that the bishop of Senlis, a tall, ironlimbed,
and hard-featured prelate, who wore his cape and robes
over a suit of Milan steel superbly damasked with gold, which
clanked omniously as he strode to the central table, rose as if
to speak. Scarcely, however, had he broken silence, before a
cry was heard without — “Room! room! for the king! — room!
for the bold Dunois — room! for the prophet-maiden” — followed
by cheering so tumultuous that the banners flapped heavily,
as if a mighty wind had fallen upon their folds, and not a few
of the younger nobles sprang to their feet in astonishment.

In an instant the doors were thrown open; and well might
the nobles gaze in wonder at the group that entered. With
his wonted impetuosity, Charles had not stopped, even for a
moment's space, to alter his attire, ere he entered the presence
of his peers — springing from his horse, and casting its rein to
the esquire in waiting, commanding his attendants to follow
without delay, he rushed into the supreme council of his nation
in his hunting-dress, with the stains of the chase fresh
upon spur and buskin. This would, however, have called
forth no surprise on the part of the peers, accustomed, as they
long had been, to the extravagances of the young king, who,
though he could, when it listed him so to do, debate as sagely
as the wisest of their number, or array a host, with his own
lance for leading staff, as soldierly as any, save perhaps Dunois,
was just as likely to fling away from business of the most engrossing
interest to mingle in the dance or lead the hunt. On
the entrance of Charles, indecorous as was the speed with
which he strode up the hall, and unsuited as was his garb to
the occasion, all had arisen and several of the highest dignity

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advanced as if to conduct him to the throne; but when Dunois
was seen to pass the threshold with the prophet-maiden supported
on his stalwart arm, a general murmur of disgust passed
along the crowded benches, and seemed about to swell into
notes of deeper and more fearful import. Nor indeed was she
a spectacle peculiarly adapted to the scene. In an age when
the greatest possible veneration was paid to rank, and when
humble parentage was almost deemed a crime, it was scarcely
possible that the haughtiest council of Europe would brook
the intrusion — even when sanctioned by their monarch — of a
mere peasant-girl into their solemn halls of audience. At this
moment, too, there was another, and yet a stronger reason for
the anger of the peers. They doubted not but that Charles,
with a degree of levity which he had never before reached,
even in his wildest moments of license, was introducing a paramour
to their august presence — a peasant paramour. Yet,
had they looked on the speaking lineaments, rather than on
the frock of serge and leathern girdle — had they marked the
flash of her dark eye, as she gazed around her, unawed by the
dignity, and undisturbed by the displeasure of the parliament—
had they marked the indignant expression, the curl of her
lip, and the expansion of her nostrils, as she caught the sound
of some disparaging epithet — had they cared to read the
meaning of the deep crimson flush, that rushed over her cheek
and brow, they could not, for a second's space, have deemed
her a thing of infamy, perhaps they scarcely could have believed
her other than a scion of some time-honored race.

It was but for a moment, however, that the tumult — for the
manifestation of anger had reached a pitch which almost justified
that title — was permitted to endure. The best and noblest
of the peers rushed forward, though scarcely less indignant
than their fellows, to enforce silence at least, if not respect and
homage.

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“How now, my lieges!” cried the youthful king, standing
erect in the centre of the hall, “have you no warmer welcome
for your sovereign than these tumultuous clamors? — methinks
such tones were best reserved till we join fronts with England's
archery; and then, my lords, will Charles send forth
his voice to swell the war-cry of his fathers! — Mont Joy
Saint Denis!”

“But little chance is there, beau sire,” interrupted the warrior-bishop,
with a freedom of speech that would at any time
have been deemed to border upon discourtesy at least, if not
on treason — “But little chance is there, beau sire, that
France's nobles should be summoned to other conflict than
that of the midnight banquet or the morning chase, by a prince
who deems it fitting his own dignity to lead his low-born concubines
into the very halls of his high parliament! — And for
that matter, little chance is there that they would heed his bidding,
even should he, in some wild caprice, unfold the oriflamme,
and call his vassals to the field of honor.”

“Sayest thou, sir bishop!” shouted the gallant boy, his brow
crimsoning with the eloquent blood of indignation — “sayest
thou — and to me? Now, by the honor of a child of France,
thou shalt account to me for this outrage. Ho! Dunois —
summon our guards, and let yon brawler learn if cope and
cowl should buckler such a cause as he has dared uphold this
morning. Nay, speak not for him, Dunois — nor thou, fair
prophetess; for by my father's soul, Senlis shall lose her
bishop ere the sun set. Our guards! what ho! our guards!”

The gates were flung open at the monarch's cry; and a
dozen sergeants of the guard, in royal liveries, with partisans
advanced, and swords already glittering in the sunshine, were
seen without the archway. “Forward! my guards,” he cried
again in a yet louder voice. “Bertrand de Montmorenci,
seize yon factious bishop — seize him!” he continued, seeing

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some slight hesitation on the part of the officer — “seize him,
were he at the holy altar — ourselves will reckon with the
mother-church!”

Slowly the guards marched forward, in compact and steady
order; and so silent was that assembly, which had but a moment
before showed like the ocean billows chafing beneath
the tempest, that not a sound was heard, save the heavy tramp
of the armed warders, as they advanced to do the bidding of
their monarch. The haughty prelate stood erect and fearless,
meeting the glowing features and flashing eye of the youthful
king with an expression as proud, a port as fearless, as his
own. The guards drew nigher, and yet nigher; but, at the
very instant when they were about to lay hands on the offender,
as if by a common impulse, the whole assembled peerage
advanced a pace or two, as if to assert the privilege of parliament;
and although no word or gesture of violence had as yet
occurred, it became evident even to the prince that the sense
of the assemblage was against him, and that a tumult, the desperate
nature of which might be conjectured from the determined
silence of the actors, must be the result of his persisting
in the arrest of his seditious noble. Still there was no touch
of fear or hesitation in his noble spirit. “Speak not to me,
Dunois,” he replied, in a hoarse, low whisper, as his best
councillor implored him to be prudent — “speak not to me.
I am the king of France! and never did king brook so foul a
contumely from the lips of subject. No! Let them murther
me, if they will, in my own courts of parliament, and write in
the records of their house, that the peers of France have
deemed it worthy of their own, and of their country's honor,
to slay the heir of Charlemagne for upholding his own good
name. Speak not to me; for by the blessed sun that sees us
both, Albert of Senlis, or Charles of France, shall close his
eyes this night upon those splendors, never to see them more!”

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As he spoke, he laid his hand on the hilt of his hunting-sword,
and advanced in person to seize, with his own hand,
the haughty churchman. A hoarse, low murmur ran through
the hall, like the shuddering breath that agitates the woodland
before the coming of the tempest, but he marked or recked it
not — another instant would have unsheathed a thousand swords,
and the miseries of that unhappy realm would have been augmented
yet more terribly by the mutual strife and slaughter of
those, who should have been her best defenders. The bishop
still stood erect; and now, confident of the support of the
banded feudatories, a smile curled his lip, and he perused,
with a half-contemptuous expression, the lineaments of the
king as he strode on to seize him, followed by the resolute
though still reluctant Dunois. At this critical moment, when
another word or action would have given rise to deeds, which
never could have been recalled, the Maid of Arc stood forward.

“Forbear!” she cried, in a voice so high and musical that,
even in that moment of excitement and impending violence, it
fell on every ear with a soothing sound, and arrested every impetuous
arm — “Forbear! thou child of France — and thou, sir
bishop. Shame! — Shame, that a minister of holy church should
be a minister of wrath and evil. Hear me!” she continued, with
animation still increasing as she spoke — “Nobles and knights
of France hear me, the Messenger of Heaven! I have
come by the will of The Father, to save the sons of France
from the polluting blight of the invader! — I, a peasant-maiden,
who lay down to rest, and rose up to labor, with no higher
thoughts than of my daily toils — I, Joan of Arc, am sent by
the Most High to lead the hosts, and wield the sword of vengeance!
A few short hours since were my words rude, and my
thoughts lowly; now, by gift of Him who sent me, my speech
is eloquent, my breast is full of high and glorious aspirations,

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my soul is rich with wisdom! Start not, nor doubt my words,
for I have proved them! See ye this blade?” and she waved
it triumphantly above her head. “This blade — once of St.
Denis, now of a mightier than St. Denis? Five dark and
silent centuries hath it lain in the mouldering tomb, unknown,
unnoted, and forgotten, for it was unneeded! But the voice
which roused me from my sleep of ignorance revealed it.
The Lord of Hosts hath need of an avenger, and he hath
armed her for the field with that miraculous sword, which shall
be red as crimson with the proudest blood of England. Nobles
and knights, to arms — your king, your country, and your God,
call you to arms! Ere six months have elapsed, I tell ye,
France shall be delivered. I tell ye that the oriflamme shall
float in glory o'er the walls of Orleans. I tell ye that this
child of France shall buckle on the sword, and shall be crowned
with the crown of Charlemagne in the high church of
Rheims — and by thy hands, lord bishop! Princes, and paladins,
and peers, I do conjure you by a sign; I do command
ye by a power which ye see not, but must obey! To arms
for France and Freedom! To arms for France and Vengeance!
It is the will of God!”

Strange had been the emotions of those high spirits during
the appeal of the peasant-maiden; pride, at first, and contempt
were painted on every scowling brow; but as her words
waxed powerful and high, as her voice flowed like the continued
blast of a silver trumpet, as her bosom heaved with inspiration,
and as her dark eyes flashed with supernatural lustre,
contempt and pride were lost in astonishment and admiration.
She struck the key of their insulted patriotism, and they
burned — she spoke to their superstitions, and they well nigh
trembled — she asserted the assistance of a power which they
must obey; and the proudest, the noblest, the haughtiest assembly
of the Christian world heard — and they did obey.

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One voice — as she concluded her fervid harangue — one
powerful voice sent forth her last words, shouting them as
though they were a battle-cry — “To arms! It is the will of
God!” It was the voice of the best and bravest — it was the
voice of the stern Dunois.

From heart to heart it ran like an electric shock —
from lip to lip it pealed — “To arms — for France and Freedom!
To arms — for France and Vengeance! It is the will
of God!” Louder it rang, and louder, till battlement and turret
seemed to rock before the earthquake clamor, and the
maiden read the certainty of triumph in the enthusiastic confidence
of those she was about to lead to victory.