sued three days of passionate debate
and discussion. For a moment it appeared as if she would have thrown off
the bonds of loyal obedience and pursued her mission at all hazards. Her
"voices," if they had previously given her uncertain sound, promising
only the support and succour of God, but no success, now spoke more
plainly and urged the continuance of the siege; and the Maid was torn in
pieces between the requirements of her celestial guardians and the force
of authority around her. If she had broken out into open rebellion who
would have followed her? She had never yet done so; when the King was
against her she had pleaded or forced an agreement, and received or
snatched a consent from the malevolent chamberlain, as at Jargeau and
Troyes. Never yet had she set herself in public opposition to the will
of her sovereign. She had submitted to all kinds of tests and trials
rather than this. And to have lain half a day wounded outside Paris and
to stand there pleading her cause with her wound still unhealed were not
likely things to strengthen her powers of resistance. "The Voices
bade me remain at St. Denis," she said afterwards at her trial, "and I
desired to remain; but the seigneurs took me away in spite of myself. If
I had not been wounded I should never have left." Added to the force
of these circumstances, it was no doubt apparent to all that to resume
operations after that forced retreat, and the betrayal it gave of
divided counsels, would be less hopeful than ever. These arguments even
convinced the bold La Hire, who for his part, being no better than a
Free Lance, could move hither and thither as he would; and thus the
first defeat of the Maid, a disaster involving all the misfortunes that
followed in its train, was accomplished.

Jeanne's last act in St. Denis was one to which perhaps the modern
reader gives undue significance, but which certainly must have had a
certain melancholy meaning. Before she left, dragged almost a captive
in the train of the King, we are told that she laid on the altar of the
cathedral the armour she had worn on that evil day before Paris. It was
not an unusual act for a warrior to do this on his return from the wars.
And if she had been about to renounce her mission it would have been
easily comprehensible. But no such thought was in her mind. Was it a
movement of despair, was it with some womanish fancy that the arms in
which she had suffered defeat should not be borne again?--or wa