Joan had summoned the enemy the night before, and was quite clear in her mind. If the English would depart in their tunics, without arms or armor, they might do so; otherwise the town should be stormed. The other leaders decided that the English might take their horses as well as doublets. Sir John Fastolf was coming from Paris, and it would be well to be off with the old foe before they were on with the new.
Suffolk, naturally enough, refused these terms. The French heralds sounded the assault.
"Forward, gentle Duke!" cried the Maid. "To the assault!"
Alençon hesitated. Was the breach definitely practicable?
"Doubt not!" cried the Maid. "It is the hour that God has chosen. The good Lord helps those who help themselves. Ah! gentle Duke," she added, with the pretty touch of raillery that was all her own; "are you afraid? Do you not know that I promised your wife to bring you back safe and sound, better than when you left?"
She had her way; the ladders were placed, the French swarmed to the assault, while on both sides the cannon thundered defiance. Watching with Alençon near the breach, Joan suddenly cried, "Stand aside! that gun—" and she pointed toward a certain cannon on the wall—"will slay you!" The Duke stepped aside. A few minutes later the Sieur de Lude, standing on the same spot, was killed by a shot from the gun she had indicated.
This time the Maid could not give warning; she was rushing into the breach, the faithful Duke at her side. Seeing this, Suffolk called out, begging to speak with Alençon; but it was too late. Alençon was already following his leader up a scaling-ladder.
No easy task, climbing a long ladder (for Jargeau walls were high), in plate armor, carrying a heavy standard; but so the Maid went. Part way up a stone struck her, tearing the standard and crushing in the light helmet she wore. She fell, but was up again in an instant.
"On, friends, on! God has judged them. Be of good courage; within an hour they are ours!"
It did not need an hour. In an instant, it seemed to Alençon, the city was taken, its commander captured, its defenders fleeing in disorder. Over a thousand men were slain in the pursuit; Joan and Alençon returned in triumph to Orleans, and once more the town went mad over its glorious Pucelle.