of upturned white faces, the mouths wide open, shouting,
and the unchecked tears running down; Joan forged
her slow way through the solid masses, her mailed
form projecting above the pavement of heads like a
silver statue. The people about her struggled
along, gazing up at her through their tears with the
rapt look of men and women who believe they are seeing
one who is divine; and always her feet were being
kissed by grateful folk, and such as failed of that
privilege touched her horse and then kissed their
fingers.
Nothing that Joan did escaped notice; everything she
did was commented upon and applauded. You could
hear the remarks going all the time.
“There—she’s smiling—see!”
“Now she’s taking her little plumed cap
off to somebody—ah, it’s fine and
graceful!”
“She’s patting that woman on the head
with her gauntlet.”
“Oh, she was born on a horse—see
her turn in her saddle, and kiss the hilt of her sword
to the ladies in the window that threw the flowers
down.”
“Now there’s a poor woman lifting up a
child—she’s kissed it—oh,
she’s divine!”
“What a dainty little figure it is, and what
a lovely face—and such color and animation!”
Joan’s slender long banner streaming backward
had an accident—the fringe caught fire
from a torch. She leaned forward and crushed the
flame in her hand.
“She’s not afraid of fire nor anything!”
they shouted, and delivered a storm of admiring applause
that made everything quake.
She rode to the cathedral and gave thanks to God,
and the people crammed the place and added their devotions
to hers; then she took up her march again and picked
her slow way through the crowds and the wilderness
of torches to the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer
of the Duke of Orleans, where she was to be the guest
of his wife as long as she stayed in the city, and
have his young daughter for comrade and room-mate.
The delirium of the people went on the rest of the
night, and with it the clamor of the joy-bells and
the welcoming cannon.
Joan of Arc had stepped upon her stage at last, and
was ready to begin.
She was ready, but must sit down and wait
until there was an army to work with.
Next morning, Saturday, April 30, 1429, she set about
inquiring after the messenger who carried her proclamation
to the English from Blois—the one which
she had dictated at Poitiers. Here is a copy of
it. It is a remarkable document, for several
reasons: for its matter-of-fact directness, for
its high spirit and forcible diction, and for its naive
confidence in her ability to achieve the prodigious
task which she had laid upon herself, or which had
been laid upon her—which you please.
All through it you seem to see the pomps of war and
hear the rumbling of the drums. In it Joan’s
warrior soul is revealed, and for the moment the soft
little shepherdess has disappeared from your view.
This untaught country-damsel, unused to dictating
anything at all to anybody, much less documents of
state to kings and generals, poured out this procession
of vigorous sentences as fluently as if this sort
of work had been her trade from childhood:
