“My Council tell me to go against the English,” she cried, springing out of bed. “But if to assail their towers, or to meet this Fastolf I cannot tell.”
And then her trouble grew, and her eyes had the rapt look left in them by her visions.
“My arms, D’Aulon! My arms!” she cried. “Quick! The blood of our soldiers is flowing. Why did they not tell me?”
All was quiet in the streets, and there came no sign of conflict 222 on the tranquil air of the May afternoon. But D’Aulon leaped to his feet at her cry, and without a word began to buckle on her armour, assisted by Madame Boucher and her little daughter. Meantime Jeanne was calling loudly to her page for her horse. Hurriedly the youth saddled the charger and brought it to the door. As Jeanne swung herself into the saddle she perceived that her standard was wanting.
“My banner,” she cried, and Louis the page handed it to her from the upper chamber window. Then with the heavy flag staff in hand she set spurs to her horse and dashed away at speed so that the fire flashed from the stones that paved the thoroughfare. One by one her attendants armed themselves and clattered after her.
And now came shouts and cries, and all at once the streets were filled with people who cried loudly that the English were slaughtering the French.
Straight through the town Jeanne galloped, riding toward the loudest noise, which proved to be at the Burgundian Gate on the east side of the city. The gate was open to let in a rabble of retreating French who were bringing some wounded men with them. Overwhelmed with pity at the sight Jeanne paled, and half drew rein.
“I can never see French blood but my hair rises with horror,” she said to D’Aulon, who had now overtaken her.
Through the gate they passed, and met a disorganized band of men-at-arms, archers, and burghers flying before the English. For the coup which had been planned by the captains was a sortie against the strong bastille of St. Loup, and it had proven disastrous to those who had undertaken it.