“Classidas! Classidas!” she cried. “Yield thee, yield thee 240 to the King of Heaven. I have great pity on thee and thy people.”
Before the compassionate voice died away the bridge bent under the rush of armoured men, and broke. Glasdale and his companions plunged downward into the great river and were seen no more, for the weight of their armour, the fire and the water all conspired against them. And at the sight Jeanne broke down and wept, then kneeling began to pray for their souls.
Yet the greater part of the surviving English had succeeded in reaching the fortress, but here they found themselves assailed from another quarter––Orléans. The gap whence the arches had been broken had been spanned by gutters and beams, and through the smoke and dusk came the knights from the city, assaulting the Tourelles from that side. The struggle was soon over. Of all the stout defenders of the fort not one escaped; all were slain, drowned, or taken and held to ransom. Talbot with his English in the forts before the city had heard the French trumpets sound the recall, and had believed that the battle was over. Now the flames of boulevard and bridge blazed out the story of a new defeat.
The bells of Orléans pealed forth joyously as Jeanne re-entered the town by the bridge, as she had said she would do. The streets were crowded with people so that it was with difficulty that she could make her way through them. They pressed about her as closely as they could, to kiss her hand, her greaves, her mailed shoes, her charger, or the floating folds of her banner, while others went before her, crying:
“Room! Room for the Maid of Orléans!”
She was no longer the holy Maid from Vaucouleurs or Domremy, she was their Maid; the Heaven-sent deliverer of their city; their Maid whom God had raised from among His poor for their salvation; their Maid, and so she has remained, and always will remain––The Maid of Orléans.
Through all the delirious joy Jeanne rode in a maze of happiness, fatigue, languor, pain, and profound pity for the souls of those who had gone unshriven to their maker. She stopped only to return thanks in the Church of St. Paul, and then rode to her lodgings, and went to bed.
On Sunday morning she arose and, weak from her wound, put on a coat of armour lighter than she had worn, and with Dunois and the captains marched out of the Regnart Gate, for the English had come out of their fortresses and were drawn up outside in battle array. The confident French soldiers were eager to attack them, but Jeanne was reluctant to do so.
“Let us not attack them, for it is Sunday,” she said. “But if they attack you, fight bravely, and you will get the better of them.”