would be to have it in the bottom of the sea?"

Dunois made some wandering attempts to explain the inexplicable and
excuse the inexcusable, but Joan cut him short and said:

"Answer me this, good sir--has the army any value on this side of the
river?"

The Bastard confessed that it hadn't--that is, in view of the plan of
campaign which she had devised and decreed.

"And yet, knowing this, you had the hardihood to disobey my orders.
Since the army's place is on the other side, will you explain to me how
it is to get there?"

The whole size of the needless muddle was apparent. Evasions were of
no use; therefore Dunois admitted that there was no way to correct the
blunder but to send the army all the way back to Blois, and let it begin
over again and come up on the other side this time, according to Joan's
original plan.

Any other girl, after winning such a triumph as this over a veteran
soldier of old renown, might have exulted a little and been excusable
for it, but Joan showed no disposition of this sort. She dropped a word
or two of grief over the precious time that must be lost, then began at
once to issue commands for the march back. She sorrowed to see her army
go; for she said its heart was great and its enthusiasm high, and that
with it at her back she did not fear to face all the might of England.

All arrangements having been completed for the return of the main body
of the army, she took the Bastard and La Hire and a thousand men and
went down to Orleans, where all the town was in a fever of impatience
to have sight of her face. It was eight in the evening when she and the
troops rode in at the Burgundy gate, with the Paladin preceding her with
her standard. She was riding a white horse, and she carried in her hand
the sacred sword of Fierbois. You should have seen Orleans then. What
a picture it was! Such black seas of people, such a starry firmament of
torches, such roaring whirlwinds of welcome, such booming of bells
and thundering of cannon! It was as if the world was come to an end.
Everywhere in the glare of the torches one saw rank upon rank 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
seein