And the battle?  It was raging still, but the heart of it seemed to be lacking.  The English were crying out that the White Witch was dead, taunting their foes with being led by a woman, and asking them where she was gone to now.

Dunois came hurrying up for news of her.  The Maid roused herself and beckoned to him to come to her where she lay, and asked him of the battle.  Dunois told her that the courage of the men seemed failing, that he thought of sounding the retreat.

For a few moments she lay still; her eyes bent full upon the blinding blue of the sunny sky.  Then she spoke: 

“Sound no retreat, my General,” she spoke, “but give the men a breathing space.  Let them draw off for a brief moment.  Let them eat and drink and refresh themselves.  Tell them that I will come to them again; and when you and they see my standard floating against the wall, then know by that token that the place is yours.”

Dunois went his way, and soon the sound of the struggle ceased.  There came a strange hush in the heat of the noontide hours.  The Maid lay still a while longer; then raising herself, asked that water should be brought to cleanse away all stains from her hands and face and her white armour.

That being done she called to D’Aulon and said to him: 

“Take the great standard; plant it again upon the edge of the moat; and when the silken folds touch the tower wall, call and tell me; and you, my knights and gentlemen, be ready to follow me to victory!”

Did we doubt her ability, wounded as she was, to lead us?  Not one whit.  We looked to our arms; we stood silently beside her.  We watched D’Aulon move quietly forward to the appointed place, and unfold the great white banner, which hung down limply in the sultry heat of the May afternoon.  He stood there, and we stood beside the Maid a great while; she lay upon the heap of cloaks which had been spread to form a couch for her; her hands were clasped and her eyes closed as though in prayer.

Then a little puff of wind arose, followed by another, and yet another—­soft, warm wind, but we saw the folds of the banner begin to unfurl.  Little by little the breeze strengthened; breathlessly we watched the gradual lifting of the silken standard, till, with an indescribably proud motion—­as though some spirit was infused into the lifeless silk—­it launched itself like a living thing against the tower wall.

“It touches!  It touches!” cried D’Aulon.

“It touches!  It touches!” we shouted in response.

“It touches!  It touches!” came an echoing wave sound from the soldiers watching from their resting places.

The Maid was on her feet in a moment.  Where was the weakness, the feebleness, the faintness of the wounded girl?  All gone—­all swallowed up in the triumph of the victorious warrior.

“Onward!  Onward, my children.  Onward, de la part de Dieu!  He has given you the victory!  Onwards and take the tower!  Nothing can resist you now!”