By this time the soldiers had brought bundles of wood, faggots, and whatever would help to fill the moat, Jeanne calling encouragingly to them the while. Presently they were enabled to struggle across, and the charge began. At this instant, as had been arranged, a great commotion was heard in the city, the loyalists running through the streets and shouting: “All is lost! The enemy has entered.” It was hoped that this would help the King’s troops without the gates. The people 304 in the churches, panic-stricken, rushed to their homes, shutting their doors behind them, but there was nothing gained. The garrison kept their heads, and their numbers at the gates and on the ramparts were increased.
The firing now became very heavy; the artillery bellowed and the guns roared in answer. There were shouts of men, and words of order. And through the rattle of guns, the whizzing rush of stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and steel harness, the hundreds of war cries there sounded the wonderful, silvery tones of a girl’s voice, clear as a clarion call:
“On! On, friends! They are ours.”
On the shelving ridge between the two ditches stood the Maid, her white armour gleaming in the sunshine, a shining figure, exposed to every shot and missile. Hour after hour she stood, in the heat of the fire, shouting directions to her men, urging, cheering them while always the struggle raged around her, her banner floating over her head. Suddenly a mighty shout of joy went up from the men on the walls. Three times the roar rent the din of battle. For the Witch had fallen, pierced through the thigh by a bolt from a crossbow.
Undismayed, Jeanne struggled to her feet, when the man at her side who bore her standard was hit in the foot. Lifting his visor to pull the arrow from the wound he was struck between the eyes, and fell dead at the maiden’s feet. Jeanne caught the standard as he fell, but for a moment her own strength failed her, and she sank beside the standard bearer. When her men would have borne her out of the battle she would not consent, but rallied them to the charge. Then slowly, painfully, 305 she crept behind a heap of stones, and soon the dauntless voice rang out:
“Friends! Friends! be of good cheer. On! On!”
And so, wounded, weak, unable to stand she lay, urging the soldiers on, and on. There never was anything like it. Whence came that indomitable spirit and courage? “A Daughter of God” her voices called her, and truly was she so named. For who that had not kinship with the Divine could transcend the weakness of the flesh as did this girl of seventeen?
Fiercer grew the din, and fiercer. The heat became stifling. Hours passed, and the day waxed old. The sun set; twilight fell, and the dusk came. The shots were fewer and more scattering, and then they stopped. The two French captains had had enough for one day, for the attack had been confined to the forces under Jeanne, Rais and de Gaucourt, and the trumpet sounded the recall. But Jeanne did not heed, but kept crying her men on to the charge. She herself could not move to lead them, the supporting army was out of range, and the men would not go further without her. Gaucourt ordered his men to bring her out of the fire. Jeanne protested, but weeping she was carried back, set in the saddle and conveyed back to La Chapelle. Over and over she cried:
“It could have been taken! It could have been taken!”
Early the next morning in spite of her wound she went to Alençon, begging him to sound the trumpets and mount for the return to Paris.