“My mind is yours,” she said, with a sigh, “and so I would have made this onslaught.  But I submitted me to the will of the captains.”

Through the night we pushed our way slowly, for in such a march none may go swifter than the slowest, namely, the carts and the waggons.  Thus it befell that the Maid and the captains were in more thoughts than one to draw back to Compiegne, for the night was clear, and the dawn would be bright.  And, indeed, after stumbling and wandering long, and doubting of the way, we did, at last, see the church towers and walls of Pont l’Eveque stand out against the clear sky of morning, a light mist girdling the basement of the walls.  Had we been a smaller and swifter company, we should have arrived an hour before the first greyness shows the shapes of things.  But now, alas! we no sooner saw the town than we heard the bells and trumpets calling the townsfolk and men-at-arms to be on their ward.  The great guns of the keep roared at us so soon as we were in reach of shot; nevertheless, Pothon and the Maid set companies to carry the double ladders, for the walls were high, and others were told off to bring up the fascines, and so, leaving our main battle to wait out of shot, and come on as they were needed, the Maid and Pothon ran up the first rampart, she waving her standard and crying that all was ours.  As we ran, for I must needs be by her side, the din of bells and guns was worse than I had heard at Orleans, and on the top of the church towers were men-at-arms waving flags, as if for a signal.  Howbeit, we sprang into the fosse, under shield, wary of stones cast from above, and presently three ladders were set against the wall, and we went up, the Maid leading the way.

Now of what befell I know but little, save that I had so climbed that I looked down over the wall, when the ladder whereon I stood was wholly overthrown by two great English knights, and one of them, by his coat armour, was Messire de Montgomery himself, who commanded in Pont l’Eveque.  Of all that came after I remember no more than a flight through air, and the dead stroke of a fall on earth with a stone above me.  For such is the fortune of war, whereof a man knows but his own share for the most part, and even that dimly.  The eyes are often blinded with swift running to be at the wall, and, what with a helm that rings to sword-blows, and what with smoke, and dust, and crying, and clamour, and roar of guns, it is but little that many a man-at-arms can tell concerning the frays wherein, may be, he has borne himself not unmanly.

This was my lot at Pont l’Eveque, and I knew but little of what passed till I found myself in very great anguish.  For I had been laid in one of the carts, and so was borne along the way we had come, and at every turn of the wheels a new pang ran through me.  For my life I could not choose but groan, as others groaned that were in the same cart with me.  For my right leg was broken, also my right arm, and