In the morning early，at sunrise，she dashed forth from the town again，though the generals，her hosts，and all the authorities who were in the plot endeavoured to detain her."Stay with us，Jeanne，"said the people with whom she lodged--official people，much above the rank of the Maid--"stay and help us to eat this fish fresh out of the river.""Keep it for this evening，"she said，"and I shall return by the bridge and bring you some Goddens to have their share."She had already brought in a party of the Goddens on the night before to protect them from the fury of the crowd.The peculiarity of this promise lay in the fact that the bridge was broken，and could not be passed，even without that difficulty，without passing through the Tourelles and the boulevard which blocked it at the other end.At the closed gates another great official stood by，to prevent her passing，but he was soon swept away by the flood of enthusiasts who followed the white horse and its white rider.The crowd flung themselves into the boats to cross the river with her，horse and man.Les Tourelles stood alone，black and frowning across the shining river in its early touch of golden sunshine，on the south side of the Loire，the lower tower of the boulevard on the bank blackened with the fire of last night's attack，and the smoking ruins of Les Augustins beyond.The French army，whom Orleans had been busy all night feeding and encouraging，lay below，not yet apparently moving either for action or retreat.Jeanne plunged among them like a ray of light，D'Aulon carrying her banner；and passing through the ranks，she took up her place on the border of the moat of the boulevard.Her followers rushed after with that /élan/of desperate and uncalculating valour which was the great power of the French arms.In the midst of the fray the girl's clear voice，/assez voix de femme/，kept shouting encouragements，/de la part de Dieu/always her war-cry."/Bon c？ur，bonne espérance/，"she cried--"the hour is at hand."But after hours of desperate fighting the spirit of the assailants began to flag.
Jeanne，who apparently did not at any time take any active part in the struggle，though she exposed herself to all its dangers，seized a ladder，placed it against the wall，and was about to mount，when an arrow struck her full in the breast.The Maid fell，the crowd closed round；for a moment it seemed as if all were lost.
Here we have over again in the fable our friend Gamache.It is a pretty story，and though we ask no one to take it for absolute fact，there is no reason why some such incident might not have occurred.
Gamache，the angry captain who rather than follow a /péronnelle/to the field was prepared to fold his banner round its staff，and give up his rank，is supposed to have been the nearest to her when she fell.
It was he who cleared the crowd from about her and raised her up.
"Take my horse，"he said，"brave creature.Bear no malice.I confess that I was in the wrong.""It is I that should be wrong if I bore malice，"cried Jeanne，"for never was a knight so courteous"(/chevalier si bien apprins/).She was surrounded immediately by her people，the chaplain whom she had bidden to keep near her，her page，all her special attendants，who would have conveyed her out of the fight had she consented.Jeanne had the courage to pull the arrow out of the wound with her own hand，--"it stood a hand breadth out"behind her shoulder--but then，being but a girl and this her first experience of the sort，notwithstanding her armour and her rank as General-in-Chief，she cried with the pain，this commander of seventeen.Somebody then proposed to charm the wound with an incantation，but the Maid indignant，cried out，"I would rather die."Finally a compress soaked in oil was placed upon it，and Jeanne withdrew a little with her chaplain，and made her confession to him，as one who might be about to die.
But soon her mood changed.She saw the assailants waver and fall back；the attack grew languid，and Dunois talked of sounding the retreat.
Upon this she got to her feet，and scrambled somehow on her horse.
"Rest a little，"she implored the generals about her，"eat something，refresh yourselves：and when you see my standard floating against the wall，forward，the place is yours."They seem to have done as she suggested，making a pause，while Jeanne withdrew a little into a vineyard close by，where there must have been a tuft of trees，to afford her a little shelter.There she said her prayers，and tasted that meat to eat that men wot not of，which restores the devout soul.
Turning back she took her standard from her squire's hand，and planted it again on the edge of the moat."Let me know，"she said，"when the pennon touches the wall."The folds of white and gold with the benign countenance of the Saviour，now visible，now lost in the changes of movement，floated over their heads on the breeze of the May day.
"Jeanne，"said the squire，"it touches！""On！"cried the Maid，her voice ringing through the momentary quiet."On！All is yours！"The troops rose as one man；they flung themselves against the wall，at the foot of which that white figure stood，the staff of her banner in her hand，shouting，"All is yours."Never had the French /élan/been so wildly inspired，so irresistible；they swarmed up the wall "as if it had been a stair.""Do they think themselves immortal？"the panic-stricken English cried among themselves--panic-stricken not by their old enemies，but by the white figure at the foot of the wall.Was she a witch，as had been thought？was not she indeed the messenger of God？
The dazzling rays that shot from her armour seemed like butterflies，like doves，like angels floating about her head.They had thought her dead，yet here she stood again without a sign of injury；or was it Michael himself，the great archangel whom she resembled do much？
