All night long the streets of Blois had rung with the wildest
confusion. War-drum and nakir mingled their long rolling
cadences with the shrill flourish of horn and trumpet, and the
tinkling clang of cymbals. The blacksmiths' forges blazed
red and lurid, while the strong-limbed artisans plied their
massive hammers to shape and bend the shoes of the huge
destriers, that pawed and snorted round the smithies. Pages
and squires were hurrying to and fro with helms and hauberks,
to be polished or repaired for to-morrow's service — wagons
laden with wine and wheat, were dragged along the ill-paved

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streets, groaning and creaking with their own weight, by the
reluctant oxen — ever and anon a piece of rude and cumbrous
ordnance, shaped like a cask with bars of hammered iron,
hooped into the form of tubes by solid rings of the same metal,
was hauled along with yet mightier effort, amidst the shouts
of the fierce soldiery.

Still, among all the din and note of preparation, there was
naught of riot or debauchery — no healths pottle-deep — no
carousings round the midnight watch-fires — no squeaking of
rote or gittern — no lascivious dances, or loose songs of courtesan
and jongleur! — all was stern, grave, and business-like.
Men felt as if they were on the eve of a dread convulsion —
of a mighty effort — they passed to and fro, as the exigencies
of the time required, with bent brows and long-determined
strides; their conversation was in short stern whispers! —
The spirit of THE MAIDEN was among them — the very men,
who a few short weeks before had been all fickleness and
levity, who would have endured death itself more willingly
than the curtailment of the least of those licenses, which they
chose to call their liberty — these very men now moved about
in silent resolution, too full of purpose to leave any room for
levity! — They swore no strange oaths, they kneeled humbly at
the confessional, they bowed themselves in awestruck adoration
before the shrines of their patron-saints! — They were now the
stuff whereof to model conquerors — their minds were strung
to the very pitch — and therefore they were well-nigh certain
of success.

As the night wore away, and the stars began to fade in the
heavens, the banner-cries of the different companies, the en-seancies
of ancient houses, and the gathering shout of France,
Montjoye! Montjoye! St. Denis! pealed fast and frequently;
and at every cry the ready veterans announced their presence
at the banners of their following by the national response of

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Vive le roi! The great place in the centre of the city was
thronged well-nigh to suffocation with armed multitudes. The
brave gen-d'armerie of the surrounding districts, monnted on
small rugged horses, with brigantines of leather rudely covered
by scales of rusty steel, long lances, and helmets without either
crest or vizor — Switzers in their massive coats of plate, burnished
till every rivet shone like silver; bright bacinets upon
their heads, and in their hands short heavy partisans with
blades two feet in length — Genoese cross-bowmen in gaudy
dresses, and light shirts of chain-mail, their ponderous weapons
slung across their shoulders — and above all, the men-at-arms,
the flower of France, sheathed from crest to spur in
complete suits of mail and plate, and mounted upon steeds of
blood and bone proportioned to the weight which they supported;
with their tilting lances eighteen feet in length, each
having a gay pennon streaming from the head, their axes and
maces slung on either hand the saddle, their huge two-handed
swords extending, as they sat on their tall war-horses, from
heel to shoulder — all these groped beneath the projecting bartizans
and around the Gothic cross of the market-place, and
partially revealed by the pale moonlight or the ruddy glare of
torch and cresset, presented a picture to which the gayest
pomp and circumstance of modern warfare are but tame and
insignificant.

Day broke at length, and as the expected rays shot upward
from the horizon, a loud flourish of trumpets swelled almost
painfully upon the ear, accompanied by the distant acclamations
of the populace. Then might you have seen the war-steeds
toss their heads and paw till the pavements rang, and
the riders curbing them steadily and skilfully into the ranks;
while the shouts of the harbingers and fouriers — “Ha! debout,
messires! debout!” and the redoubled efforts of banner-men
and esquires restrained them in their ranks, and

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marshalled them, after much tumult and confusion, in a huge hollow
square around the market-place. Nearer the trumpets
flourished, and nearer yet — then there arose a cry — a single
cry swelled by a thousand voices — “the king! the king!”
Ten thousand men stood there, but not a spear clashed, not a
charger pawed, not a voice or whisper could be heard in that
vast concourse as the leaders entered the place-of-arms.

First came the pursuivants, riding two by two on snow-white
horses, clothed in tabards of murrey-colored satin semés
with fleurs-de-lis of gold, and in their hands the bannered
trumpets, with the royal quarterings of France glowing in rich
heraldic blazonry. Then came Montjoye! the hereditary king-at-arms,
in his emblazoned coat, one solid sheet of gems and
gold. And after him the bold Dunois, on his black Olivier,
sheathed in his plain dark panoply, with the bend sinister of
bastardy crossing the arms of Orleans on his triangular buckler,
and his vizor at half-spring, showing his calm observant
eye and eagle features above the rim of the raised beaver —
the plainest and the simplest, though, perhaps, the most rigidly
complete in his war-array of all that gallant company.
There rode not there a knight, on whom the eye of one, who
loved like the eighth Henry to look upon a man, would have
dwelt with so much pleasure as on the bold Dunois. Behind
him came the knights and squires of his body, all armed; and
after him a standard-bearer, gallantly mounted, and holding
aloft a banner of rich yet singular device. It was a sheet of
pure white damask, with a triple tressure of golden fleurs-de-lis,
but in the midst of there was emblazoned, with the utmost of
the herald's skill, a figure, which it would now be deemed the
worst profanity thus to mingle with preparations for carnage
and destruction — it was the figure of the One Eternal!
grasping in his hands the globes celestial and terrestrial, as
when at the instant of creation he launched them into immen

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sity! — Profane, however, and horrible as such a representation
would now be regarded, it was then looked upon far otherwise;
as the hallowed banner was borne into the market-place every
footman sunk upon his knee, every cavalier bowed his crest in
meek adoration, every weapon of war was lowered, every banner
veiled!*

They arose from their devotion, and before them stood a
pair that would have claimed the pencil of a Raphael, or the
pen of a Froissart, to represent them justly. On the king's
chestnut Arabian — strong enough to be the war-horse of one
so slightly framed as she, who reined him in with equal skill
and grace — snorting and champing on his bits of gold, as if
proud to bear so proud a rider, sat the prophet-maiden! Her
head was bare, and her dark locks now streamed to the light
wind in spiral ringlets, now fell in heavy masses over her
polished forehead; her throat was covered to the chin by her
bright gorget; her corslet, cuishes, and greaves, were of azure
steel, damasked and riveted with gold; a scarf of white sennit
fringed with gold supported the sacred weapon of St. Denis,
and attached to the cantle of her demipique swung the long
lance of knighthood. But it was not the panoply of price, nor
the high-mettled charger, but the beaming eye, the glorious
intellect, the all-pervading soul, the untaught flexibility and
grace of every limb, whether in action or repose, that stamped
the peasant-maid of Arc as one of nature's aristocracy.

Beside her bridle-rein rode Charles the Seventh, like his
comrade sheathed in armor, and like her with his head uncovered;
but his sunny locks and bright blue eye rendered
his countenance, if possible, more feminine, on a slight

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inspection, than that of the fair being at his side. His coat of plate
was, like the maiden's, of the choicest Milan steel, but, unlike
hers, was not engraved with arabesques, being covered entirely
with a thin coating of gold, so admirably enamelled upon
the stronger metal, that no violence could have parted them,
and presenting the appearance of an entire suit of golden
armor! His buckler was hung about his neck by a thong of
gilded leather plaited upon a chain, a plain field of azure with
the urgent fleurs-de-lis of France; the barbings of a magnificent
bay-destrier, which he bestrode with a firm seat, yet easy
withal, were bright plain steel, with housings of azure velvet.
Two pages, in common half-armor, with steel spurs and bacinets,
but neither crest or vizor, followed, bearing the plumed
casques of either rider; and behind these again two others,
bearing, one the lance and espaldron of the monarch, the other
the buckler and axe of the maiden. The rear of this gorgeous
cavalcade was brought up by full five hundred knights of every
rank, and every station of renown, from the high feudatories
and greater barons of the crown — some bearing ducal coronets
around their cerveillieres, and all having the broad pennon, as
distinguished from the banderol, attached to their long lances—
down to the simple bannerets, and young esquires burning
to win their spurs in the first field of glory. As the monarch
advanced with the maiden to the foot of the Gothic market-cross,
all eyes were fixed upon him with one single expression
of enthusiastic love and admiration! All his youthful extravagances,
all his mad passions, all his intrigues, were swept
away, forgotten as though they had never been, in the joy of
all sorts and classes of men at beholding a legitimate king of
France once again riding forth under shield, boldly to do or
die! He spoke not, but looked slowly round the circle with a
cheerful eye; he waved his hand, and the count of Harcourt,
one of the oldest and most noble barons of the realm, displayed

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the sacred oriflamme of France — a banner of dark green stain,
already rent in many places, and showing the effects of time
which only rendered it the more venerable, charged with a
royal diadem of gold, surrounded by six langues of flame,
whence it derived its title. Never displayed but on occasions
the most holy and important, its very appearance on the field
was hailed as an auspice and almost as a pledge of victory! —
Scarcely was it now flung abroad to the free winds, before
every voice throughout the crowded ranks went up to heaven
in one universal soul-fraught cry — “France! France! Montjoye!
St. Denis!” The trumpets flourished cheerily and
high, the word was given for the march, and with a steady
and increasing motion, like the flowing of a spring tide, that
mighty mass rolled onward, and, ere an hour had passed, the
streets of Blois were silent and deserted.

As soon as they had cleared the gates of the borough, they
moved forward with as much rapidity as was consistent with
good order; and three hours had not elapsed before the vanguard
were in view of the lines of circumvallation, which had
been drawn around Orleans by the English, under that consummate
knight and leader, the regent duke of Bedford.

At this point they made a wide circuit under the very guns
of the British bastions, to gain the banks of the broad Loire,
but strange to say no shot was fired from the heavy ordnance,
no arrow was sent from the green-frocked archery of England.
Onward they filed, and now they gained the banks, when from
the city rose a pealing shout — the gates were thrown open on
the side of Beausse, and with trumpet-note and battle-cry, pennon,
and plume, and lance, the garrison dashed out in a bold
sally, charging, for the first time in many months, resolutely
and boldly upon the breastworks and intrenchments of the
islanders. Then were heard the mingled cries of France's
and England's warfare — “St. George! St. George for merry

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England!” — “France! France! Montjoye! St. Denis!” The
gallant yeomanry of Lancashire and Yorkshire advanced slowly
and in compact array — they halted. Then, as the charging
chivalry drew near, they stepped forward a single pace; they
raised their six-foot bows, and, without a shout or a word
spoken, at the moving of their marshal's truncheon, let fly a
volley of cloth-yard arrows, shooting so wholly and together,
that no atmosphere was ever filled more closely with the snow-flakes
of December, than was the space between the hostile
forces with the fatal shafts of England. No species of missile
has ever been invented half so deadly as was the Anglo-Norman
archery. The musket is superior in certainty, and, above
all, in the comparatively small space required for the transportation
of its ammunition, but no volley of musket-shot ever
swept the ground, piercing through triple steel, and hurling
horse and man to earth, with one continual and incessant
shower, as did that iron storm. A few — a few only — of the
best and bravest reached the lines, protected by strong barriers
and steel-shod palisades — but wo to the yeoman who met
those desperate few! No offensive armor that could be worn
by the heaviest infantry, much less the light hacquetons and
open morions, which, with a buckler of a hand's breadth,
formed the sole protection of the bow-men, could resist the
thundering sweep of the two-handed swords, which rose and
fell like ponderous engines rather than mere human weapons,
or the tremendous thrust of the level lance! Boldly, however,
and with stubborn hearts did they make good the fight despite
the odds — hurling their iron mallets at the heads of their
steel-clad antagonists, plunging their swords into the crevices
of the barbed armor which covered the destriers, and here
and there inflicting ghastly wounds on the riders themselves,
through plate and mail, with their national weapon, the brown-hill.
Anon the tramp of horses and the clank of armor

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announced the British chivalry, as wheeling round on either
flank from the rear of the archery, their plumes streaming
backward in the current of air created by the violence of their
own motion, and their lances levelled to the charge, they
swept irresistibly over the plain. Had they thus fallen on
the rear of the sallying force, already galled almost beyond
endurance by the incessant discharge of arrows with which
they had been plied, not a man of all that gallant company
would ever have returned within the walls of Orleans. But
so it was not ordained; with the steady generalship of an old
experienced leader, the maid had profited, in the first instance,
by the superstitious terror of the English outposts, who were
half-defeated by their consternation before a blow was struck,
and then by the diversion caused by the sally of the besieged.
Slowly and cautiously she had marshalled her army upon the
river bank — had embarked strong reinforcements and store of
provisions in the galleys on the broad and beautiful river —
had watched their progress with sail and oar, until they had
entered the water-gates, and until the joyous acclamations from
within announced that Orleans was indeed relieved. Then
wheeling her columns of chivalry into long lines, she advanced
with lance in rest, at a smart trot in beautifully accurate array,
to bring off the party which had so seasonably and so gallantly
sallied forth in her behalf. At the very moment when the
scanty forces of France were hemmed in, as it seemed, hopelessly
between the archery and the men-at-arms of England,
so promptly had she timed, and so skilfully executed her man
œuvre — at the very point of time, the faint shout of the besieged
was answered by a shrill clear voice — the cry of the
inspired maid — “God aid! God aid! — France! France and
victory!” The English were in turn outflanked; and, although
Bedford with the almost instinctive skill that can only be acquired
by minds naturally martial, and by those only after long

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experience, brought off his chivalry unhurt, he was nevertheless
compelled to abandon his prey. In sullen mood, he saw
the relieved garrison draw off their shattered companies — he
saw them enter the fresh files of the maiden's marshalled host,
and pass off to the gates, while she, unmoved and calm amid
the shouting and the din, sat bareheaded beneath her mystic
banner! Not a bow was bent, not a lance levelled! The
very banners of the English host, the lion banners that for ten
long years had never been displayed, except to wave o'er conquered
fields of glory, were furled around their staves! The
spell was broken! the most potent spell on earth, while it endures,
the confidence in their own valor — the certainty of
victory was torn from those bold islanders; nay, more, it was
already transferred to their despised antagonists: for there
was not one French heart, of all the thousands gathered there,
that beat not high with self-congratulating pride and valor, as
the long array entered the gates of Orleans.

“Gentlemen, and knights of France — princes and paladins,
and thou, sir king, have I, or have I not fulfilled my plighted
word? I said that Orleans should be saved, and we are within
her walls! Is she not saved already?” Such were the
words of Joan, as she displayed her sacred banner, beside the
oriflamme of France, high on the outer walls. “As I said
then, so say I now; and, as I say, so shall it be for ever!
The Maid of Are shall be forgotten in the Maid of Orleans!
It is so even now! The Maid of Orleans shall be forgotten
in the Maid of Rheims! So shall it be right shortly! On!
on! nobles and knights — behind ye is defeat and death, before
ye is a bright career of honor, victory, and immortal
fame! On! on! for I have said that France shall once again
be free!”

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