A few moments passed. The great standard fluttered with the movements of the Maytime breeze. Presently the knight cried:
“Jeanne, it touches!”
“Then enter,” cried Jeanne her voice thrilling through the air. “In God’s name, enter! All is yours.”
The troops rose as one man, and flung themselves against the walls. Up they swarmed, “as thick as a cloud of birds lighting on a bush,” says the old chronicle.[10] “Never was assault so fierce and wonderful seen within the memory of living man.” The English, amazed at the new onset, defended themselves 239 valiantly, but the French were irresistible. The defenders became panic-stricken as the French swarmed over the top of the earthwork. Panic-stricken, not by the enemy but by that white figure standing there beneath her standard, the rays of the setting sun striking a dazzling radiance from her shining armour. The witch was there. They had thought her dead, yet there she stood without sign of injury.
“A crowd of butterflies hangs about her,” a soldier cried in terror, throwing down his weapon and turning to flee into the Tourelles.
“No; it is a dove,” gasped another who followed him.
Arrows flew on every side of the maiden, but never touched her, and on the French sped, incited to superhuman effort by the bell-like voice:
“On, on! All is yours!”
And the boulevard was taken.
Showering down blasphemies Glasdale stood on the drawbridge making a desperate effort to save his men by covering their retreat over the bridge into the Tourelles. Suddenly a foul smoke rolled up from the river, suffocating all who stood with him. The citizens had loaded a barque with sulphur and all manner of evil smelling things, and floated it under the drawbridge. Presently tongues of flames shot up from it, licking the rafters of the drawbridge, and darting through the planks, while all about them fell the stone bullets of the guns of Orléans, lighting on the roofs and walls of the Tourelles, and splashing in the waters of the Loire. Jeanne’s quick eye saw the men’s danger.