University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE CAPTURE.

Days, weeks, and months, elapsed. The king, now such in
truth, with his victorious army and triumphant leaders, swept
onward unresisted; town after town opened its gates; district
after district sent out its crowds to hail the royal liberator,
chanting the hymn of victory, the proud Te Deum. Twice,
since the coronation, had the rival armies met; once at Melun,
and once again before the walls of Dammartin; — and twice,
had the wily Bedford declined the battle; not, however, as the
friends of Charles, intoxicated with success, imagined in their
vanity, through doubt or fear; but from deep craft, and dangerous
policy. Well had he studied human nature, in its lights as in
its shadows, in its day of exultation as in its moments of

despair — that ablest of the British chieftains. He saw that
the French were elated to the skies, buoyed up beyond the
present reach of danger or despondency, by a confidence in
their divinely-chartered leader; and farther yet than this, by
a proud consciousness of their own strength and valor. In
such a state of things, in either host, it needed not the penetration
of a Bedford to discover, that till some change should
come about, it would be worse than madness to try the field.
He waited therefore — but he waited like the tiger, when he
meditates his spring. His knowledge of mankind assured him
that, ere long, success would lead to carelessness, incaution to
reverses, and reverses to the downfall of that high spirit,
which had, in truth, been the winner of all the victories of
Charles.

Bedford was not deceived. Ingratitude, the bane alike of
monarchs and republics — “ingratitude more strong than
traitors' arms” — struck the first blow — fate did the rest. On
every side the English were trenched in with new opponents,
or encumbered with false friends, irresolute allies. In Normandy
the constable of France was up and doing; and so
celebrated were his talents, so rapid his manœuvres, and so
formidable his increase of power, that the regent deemed it
wise to quit at once the walls of Paris, against which the
maiden and the king were even then advancing, that he might
make head, while there was yet time, against this fresh assailant.
Scarce had he marched, when with Xaintrailles and
Dunois, and all his best and bravest, Charles hurried to seize,
as he expected, by an easy and almost unresisted charge, his
country's capital.

At the first, too, it seemed as though his towering hopes
were again about to be rewarded with success. Beneath a
storm of shafts and bolts from bow and arbalast, with the holy
banner of the maiden, and the dark green oriflamme displayed,

the chivalry of France rushed on against the guarded barriers,
Joan leading, as was her wont, the van. Down went the
outer palisades, beneath the ponderous axes; the defenders
had scarce time to breathe a prayer, before the living flood of
horse rushed over them. Down went the barricade, and on,
still on, they charged. The barbacan was won, despite the
shower of cloth-yard arrows, and the streams of boiling oil and
blazing pitch, that fell from embrasure, crenelle, and battlement.
A single moat alone lay between them and Paris.
The inner walls, weakly defended, and devoid of ordnance,
were all that barred out the monarch from his heritage.

“What, ho! our squires,” shouted Joan, curbing her charger,
on the brink of the fosse; “What, ho! — bring up our pavesses
— ladders to scale the rampart — hooks to force down the
drawbridge! Lo! the knave bowmen muster on the walls —
our cross-bows to the front! St. Denys, and God aid!”

“St. Mary!” cried Dunois, who, erect in his stirrups, was
making desperate but fruitless efforts to sever the chains of the
drawbridge with his espaldron — “St. Mary! we are lost, an'
these false varlets tarry! What, ho! bring mantelets and
pavesses, or we shall perish, like mere beasts of game, beneath
this archery of England!”

As he spoke, shaft after shaft rattled against his Milan coat,
but bounded off innocuous and blunted. Not so his comrades;
for the fatal aim of that brave yeomanry brought down full
many a gallant knight, full many a blooded charger; yet ever
and anon the battle-cry rose fiercely from the rear — “On!
on! St. Denys, and God aid!” While pressing forward, to
partake the sack which they believed to be in actual progress,
the squadrons of reserve cut off alike the possibility of succor
and retreat!”

“Ha!” shouted Dunois, once again, as he snatched a cross-bow
from the hands of a cowering Genoese, and launched its

heavy quarrel against the archers. “Ha! good bow!” The
sturdy peasant fell headlong from the rampart; but what
availed the death of one. Again and again, the steady arm of
the bastard shot certain death among them, while, confident in
his impenetrable harness, he defied their slender missiles —
but it was useless. A louder shout from the battlements, a
closer volley — and with a faint cry, between a shriek of anguish
and a shout of triumph, the maiden reeled in her stirrups,
and fell heavily to the earth. “Back — back!” was now the
word. “Save him who can! Flight is our only chance!”
and they did fly in hopeless disarray — trampling down, ay,
and smiting with the sword those of their countrymen, who
were stretched wounded beneath their horses' feet, or who,
bolder than the rest, would have persuaded or compelled them
to return. Dunois alone escaped the base contagion; he had
already sprung from his destrier to rescue the dismounted
maiden, when Gaucourt and La Hire seized him by either arm,
and dragged him into the press, from which no efforts of his
own availed to extricate him, till the last barricade was passed.
Then, then, at length, they paused; aware, for the first time,
that they were unpursued; that no foe had sallied; no cause
prevented the otherwise inevitable capture of the metropolis,
save their own want of concert and unreasonable panic.

“False friends, and craven soldiers!” cried Dunois, in low
and choking tones; “dearly, right dearly, shall ye rue this
foul desertion! The Maid of Arc, the liberator of our country,
the crowner of our king, the prophet of our God, lies wounded,
if not already made a captive, before the gates of Paris! Ho!
then to the rescue. Rescue for the Maid of Arc! A Dunois
to the rescue!”

But no kindred chords were stricken in the breasts of his
companions; Xaintrailles was silent; De La Hire bit his lips,
and played with the hilt of his two-handed sword; Gaucourt

shrugged his strong shoulders, and muttered words inarticulate,
or lost within the hollow of his helmet; but Charles himself
— the deepest debtor to the maiden who had raised him
from ignominy and defeat to triumph and a crown — Charles
himself answered coldly, “As thou wilt, fair cousin; be it as
thou wilt, but methinks she is already past reach of rescue,
even if those knave archers have not secured their prisoner,
within the walls of Paris. An hour hath flown since that
same arrow pierced her!”

“And if you English archers have secured her — what are
you English archers but men? — and men whose backs we
have beheld more often than their visages, while Joan was
here to lead us? And if she be within the walls of Paris —
what are those walls but stone and mortar, less strong, less
lofty, and less ably manned, than scores which Joan has
mounted? And what are we, that we should see the champion
of our country perish, without one struggle to preserve her?
My liege, my liege, this is cold counsel, not to say coward!
If Charles owe nothing to the savior of his diadem, Dunois
at least will spare him the reproach of Christendom for base
ingratitude!” Thus the bold bastard spoke; he unclasped the
fastenings of his casque, and, waving it aloft in his right hand,
he galloped back alone on his chivalrous and Christian errand.

Shame at length prevailed. First one, and then another
knight turned bridle, and spurred steed, to follow — a dozen
left the monarch's presence — a score — a hundred — but gallop
as they might, they could not overtake black Olivier; they
reached the shattered barbacan — Dunois had vanished beneath
its gloomy portal, flinging his casque before him into the lines
of the enemy. His followers might hear it clash and rattle on
the pavement; but ere those sounds had ceased, they caught
the din of arms, and over all the shout of Dunois, “Orleans!
Orleans to the rescue!”

Well had it been for Joan, that when she fell, her foemen
were parted from her by full moat and locked portcullis. A
captain of the guard had recognised her person; but in their
eagerness to prevent the ingress of the foe, they had prevented
their own power of sallying. The keys were in charge of the
governor; the governor was in the far Bastile — a watch was
set upon the turrets with commands to shoot her to the death,
should she attempt to escape; a messenger was despatched in
all haste to the citadel to seek the keys. Once, as she rallied
from the effects of her wound, the maiden raised her head, and
on the instant an arrow grazed her crest. With the speed of
light the truth flashed on her mind, and she lay passive, hoping,
yet hardly daring to expect, a rescue. An hour passed — an
hour that seemed longer, to the faint and tortured girl, than a
whole day of battle. There was a bustle on the walls; the
blocks of the drawbridge creaked and groaned; the chains
clashed heavily — it fell! The bolts of the heavy gate shot
back, the leaves were violently driven open; armed footsteps
clanked along the timbers of the bridge. An archer on the
ballium bent his yew bow, and drew the silken cord back to
his ear; for he had seen a movement in the form, which had
lain motionless so long that he had deemed it lifeless. She
had drawn her limbs, which had lain at their full extent, beneath
her, as though in readiness for a spring; she had
clutched her dagger, in desperate resolution to be slain, not
taken. The yeoman's aim was true; the point of the arrow
ranged with an aperture in the damsel's corslet; death had
been certain had he loosed the string.

“Nay, shoot not, Damian; the witch is well nigh sped already;
and our comrades close on her haunches. Lo, even
now they hold her.”

The archer lowered his weapon at the warden's sign; and
in truth relief did seem so hopeless, rescue so far beyond the

bounds of possibility, that to have shot might well have been
deemed an act of needless mercy. The foremost soldier had
already stretched out his hand to seize her, when she started
to her feet, and, as the man, thrown off his guard by the suddenness
of the movement, faltered, sheathed her poniard in his
throat. At the same point of time the empty helmet of Dunois
rolled clanging through the archway; and the bold bastard,
whose approach had been unheard amid the tumult of the sally,
dashed bareheaded on the scene of action. His axe was brandished
round his head, then hurled with the directness and almost
with the force of a thunderbolt; the captain of the guard
was dashed lifeless to the earth; and ere they had recovered
from their surprise, another, and another, of the captors bit the
dust around him. “In! in!” shouted a loud voice from the
walls; “in Englishmen! Room for the archery!” But the
confusion was too great. Their momentary panic past, the
knights of France redeemed their character; there was no
check, no faltering; bravely as Dunois had charged, they followed
him; and ere the sallying party had sufficient time, by
bugle-note and banner-cry, to rally and recross the bridge, a
score of the pursuers had passed the barbacan, and filled the
esplanade.

Down thundered the portcullis, and uprose the bridge;
leaving the wretches who had sallied forth in haughty triumph,
to a miserable fate. And miserable was the melée, that
not a bowman drew his string, lest he should slay a comrade.
As soon as he had been relieved, Dunois had borne the damsel,
still faint and stunned, to the rear-guard.

“Ha! is it thou, Gaucourt?” he muttered. “Thou wert
but backward even now. Save her, however, save her. As
well thou as any other.”

He spoke in scorn, and well the other knew it; yet not for
that dared he to bandy words with the best chevalier of France.

With a calm eye he saw her borne to a place of safety, and
then, with a slow step, turned again to join the conflict. But it
was well nigh over; a few wounded and weary Britons on
foot, and unarmed, save their short swords and quarter-staves
— frail weapons against mace and two-handed falchion — staggered
to and fro, blind with their wounds, yet battling it to the
last against unnumbered odds, while their own comrades stood
aloft, unable to protect or rescue them.

“Hold off your hands, fair sirs!” the bastard shouted, in a
voice of thunder! “hold off your hands! our victory is won
our prize is gained! the maiden is in safety! Draw off, then,
fairly — front to the walls — retire!”

It was sufficient; rescue or no rescue, that frail remnant
yielded them to the kind mercies of the conqueror; and with
a single and well-ordered movement the paladins drew off their
forces, the best armed and best mounted facing the ramparts
to the last, though the arrow-shots fell fast around them, till
their feebler comrades had filed from out the barbacan. Once
through the archway, the whole line halted in a serried line
of lances, and awaited the commands of him of Orleans.

“Xaintrailles,” he cried, “lead on! Gaucourt hath borne
the maiden hence erewhile. Commend me to the king. Lead
on! Adieu!”

With a heavy tramp the knights passed onward, but the
count de Xaintrailles paused. “And whither,” he said;
“whither, thou?”

“My casque,” replied Dunois. “I, too!” answered the
count; “bareheaded thou amid the shafts of those rogue
archers, and that untended? — never, by the bones of my
father — never!”

“Tarry, then, thou, and hold me, Olivier, till I go fetch it
thence,” cried Dunois; then, without waiting a reply, he flung
the rein to his companion, and holding his triangular buckler

aloft, strode steadily forth into the open space, whereon no
shelter intervened to dazzle the eyes of the archers, or to protect
the object of their aim.

As first he crossed the threshold of the barbacan, a dozen
arrows rattled against his armor, while a hundred others
aimed at the portal whizzed through it harmlessly. Still he
advanced, unharmed as yet and fearless: again the bows
were bent, again shafts were notched and fitted to the string.

“Hold, for your lives, ye varlets; harm him not,” cried a
voice of authority. “Now, by my faith, it is Dunois! My
noble friend, what wouldst thou?”

“Ha! Salisbury, good knight, and true,” returned the
Frenchman. “I knew not thou wert here. Gramercy for
thy caution, else had it fared with me right hardly. There
lies my casque, beside the fosse; I flung it there anon to win
it hence, as best I might, by strong heart and keen blade.
Come down, I prithee, Salisbury, that we may prove it here
which is the better knight; thou hast the vantage on thine
head — but hold thine archery aloof and I will stand the venture!”

“Who looses a shaft, dies!” shouted the baron, as he perceived
a hostile movement among his soldiery, at the bold
vaunt; “and thou, Dunois, take up thy casque, and get thee
hence betimes, else will these knaves riddle thee, despite me.
Begone, fair sir, and trust me we shall meet, and that right
early!”

“Thanks for thy courtesy, and trust me, Salisbury; times
shall go hard with Orleans if he requite it not!”

He donned his holmet, waved his hand to his renowned antagonist,
and joined his comrade, as carelessly as though he
had but parted from him in the joyous chase, and returned to
his side bearing the sylvan trophies at his saddle-bow.

It was dark night when they reached the host, in triumph it

is true, for they had saved the savior of France; but in the
host there was no triumph, no confidence, no hope. The first
blow had been stricken; the wheel of fortune had turned once
round upon its downward revolution; the victors had been vanquished.
The maid herself, though her chirurgeons spoke
but lightly of the wound, was in a sad, despondent mood, far
different from her wonted spirit.

“Now,” she said — “now would I willingly go hence; my
task is ended; my race run!”

“Wherefore,” inquired her preserver — “wherefore this
dark presentiment? Is aught revealed to thee, from those
who sent thee on thy mission? or hast thon warning of thy
death in anything?”

“Not so!” she answered; “I knew but this — God sent me
hither; sent me to raise the siege of Orleans; to crown my
king at Rheims — no more! Than this I have no further mission:
no further duty! Oh! may it please the king to spare
his servant!”

From that day forth the star of Charles declined. No other
attempt was made on the metropolis; no stricken field was
fought, no boroughs taken; the ardor of the troops was frittered
away in trifling skirmishes, wherein the English gained as
much as the French lost, of confidence. Ere long the tables
were turned once again; the chivalry of France retired to
their separate demesnes; their vassals withdrew to their metairies;
the armies were disbanded. A few scattered garrisons
were maintained in fortified towns and castles, while the troops
of Bedford kept the field, and again ventured to open their
trenches, and beleaguer their late victorious foemen. Compiègne,
closely invested, was well night driven to surrender, by
the united force of England and of Burgundy; with a selected
company Joan beat up their quarters one moonless and tempestuous
night, spiked half their battering cannon, and, without

the loss even of a single sergeant, made good her entrance to
the town. For a brief space, the spirits of the citizens surged
up against the pressure of calamity; the valor of the maiden
relumed for awhile their falling fortunes, shining out itself
more brightly, as it drew nigher to the hour of its extinction.
Day after day some new annoyance of the enemy was devised;
at one time a convoy was cut off; at another, a picquet was
utterly destroyed; now a mine exploded beneath the trenches;
and then, while the attention of the assailants was attracted to
one quarter, provisions, men, and munitions, were introduced
from another. The summer passed away, with its gay flowers
and bright hopes — autumn wore onward, with its sere foliage,
its brilliant skies, and all the melancholy thoughts it can not
fail to conjure up in every feeling bosom — winter drew nigh,
with its first hoar-frosts, and its nipping showers; the trees
were leafless, the spirits of the besieged waxed faint and
drooping; their garnered stores were wasted, their wells were
dried, their wine-butts had run low. Famine and despair had
traced their painful lines on every countenance; the hopes of
all were at the lowest ebb. In this dark crisis the maiden
saw the need of instant energy. “We will cut our way
through them,” she cried, “once again! With our good
swords and gallant steeds, will we win us provender; courage,
St. Denys and God aid!”

The wind wailed mournfully as she set forth, before the
dawn of day, on this her last excursion; the atmosphere was
raw and gusty; a thin, drizzling rain had saturated every
plume and banner, till they drooped upon their helms, or clung
around their staves in dismal guise of sorrow; the very horses
hung their heads, and neither pawed nor pranced at the call
of the war-trumpet. It was remembered, too, in after-days
that the consecrated sword of Joan, rusted perchance by the
dank air of morning, seemed loath to leave the scabbard; and

that her charger swerved as in terror, though there was naught
in sight, from the city-gates, and could be forced beyond the
threshold only by the utmost of the rider's strength and skill.

“Once more in the free air,” she cried exultingly; “once
more on a fair field, with France's foes before us! Charge,
then, my friends; charge cheerily; charge all! Better to
fall beneath the buckler bravely, than to perish piecemeal in
the guarded chamber! The standard of our God is waving
o'er us — the soil of our birth is beneath our feet! Victory is
in our hands — vengeance and victory! Once more we cry,
“God aid! St. Denys, and set on!”

And they did set on right bravely: straightway they
charged against the lines, passed them, and all was theirs. A
joyous gallop through the open fields; a scattering of convoys;
a gathering of rich booty; and with droves of oxen, wains
groaning beneath the weight of forage, they turned them homeward
at night-fall. A furious onslaught on the British outposts,
which lay betwixt the river and the town, led on by
Joan in person, was successful; the troops of Burgundy, already
on the alert, rushed to the rescue, leaving their own
trenches vacant or feebly guarded. The strife was short, but
furious — a shrill bugle-note from the further gates of the beleaguered
city gave note that the last wain had entered. On
the instant the maid drew off her skirmishers, and wheeling
her divided forces to the left and the right, rode hastily toward
the gate, so to effect her entrance.

Thus far the night had favored them with friendly darkness;
now, when their peril was the greatest, the moon burst out in
garish brilliancy, revealing every object for miles around, as
clearly as it would have showed beneath a mid-day sun. The
maiden's stratagem was marked, and, as she wheeled around
the walls, a heavy force of archery and men-at-arms, dismounted
for the purpose, stole secretly along their trenches,

to cut off her retreat. Such, however, was the rapidity of her
manœuvres, that she had reached the barrier before them; her
comrades were about her — the bridge was lowered — her triumph
was achieved. Soldier after soldier filed inward; yet
still she sat upon her docile steed, the last to enter, as she had
been the first to gallop forth. All had passed in but three,
when there arose a shout of, “Burgundy — a Luxembourg for
Burgundy;” and forth from the trenches, under cover of a
heavy volley, rushed the dismounted troopers.

“Stand to your arms, true friends!” cried the undaunted
maiden; “courage, and all is well!”

All was in vain; one squire turned his steed to join her, but
an arrow pierced his vizor, and he dropped from his saddle a
dead man. The hoof-tramps of the others, as they dashed
across the bridge, smote heavily on her heart — she was deserted!
Yet, there was yet time. She whirled her weapon
from its scabbard — she smote down a wretch whose hand was
on her bridle-rein; she dashed her spurs into the fleet Arab's
side; one other bound had placed her on the drawbridge; it
had begun to rise slowly; the dark planks reared their barrier
against her. “Treason!” she called aloud, in notes of super-human
shrillness. “Lower the bridge! Ho! treason!”

As she spoke, an arrow quivered in her charger's flank;
erect he bounded from the earth ten feet aloft; another pierced
his brain, and he plunged headlong. Still, as he fell beneath
her, she kept her footing, and with a fearless mien faced her
assailants. Even yet one sally — one charge of a determined
handful had preserved her, but the charge — the sally — came
not; the bridge swung to its elevation, and was there secured.

“Yield, Joan, I take thee to surrender; I, John de Ligny-Luxembourg;”
and with the words a stately knight sprang forward
to receive her weapon; and with a vengeance did he
receive it. The burghers from the ramparts, whereon they

hurried to and fro, incapable, from very terror, of exertion, beheld
her as she met him. Her eyes, they said, flashed fire
through the bars of her closed vizor, and her stature showed
loftier than its wont. Down came the consecrated blade upon
the crest of Luxembourg — the sparks, which sprang up from
the dinted casque, alone had proved the shrewdness of the
blow; but the strong warrior reeled beneath the stroke, like a
weak infant. Had the sword done its duty, the stout John de
Ligny had never more stirred hand or foot; but, like all else,
the sword was faithless. It shivered to the grasp, and she
stood weaponless. A dark cloud passed before the moon, and
the faint-hearted watchers beheld not the capture of the maiden;
but the reiterated shouts of thousands, the din of trump
and nakir, the shot of cavaliers, and the deep roar of ordnance,
announced to the inhabitants of many a league that the champion
of her king and country had been betrayed by faithless
friends to unrelenting foemen.