rated and rang, the key was turned in the lock, and
their iron tread sounded on the stone stairs, going upwards. The room
was high, narrow, and lit by a barred and stanchioned window, far above
my reach, even if I had been unbound. I shame to say it, but I rolled
over on my face and wept. This was the end of my hopes and proud heart.
That they would burn me, despite their threats I scarce believed, for I
had in nowise offended Holy Church, or in matters of the Faith, and only
for such heretics, or wicked dealers in art-magic, is lawfully ordained
the death by fire. But here was I prisoner, all that I had won at
Orleans would do little more than pay my own ransom; from the end of my
risk and travail I was now further away than ever.

So I mused, weeping for very rage, but then came a heavy rolling sound
overhead, as of moving wheeled pieces of ordnance. Thereon (so near is
Hope to us in our despair) I plucked up some heart. Ere nightfall, Paris
might be in the hands of the King, and all might be well. The roar and
rebound of cannon overhead told me that the fighting had begun, and now I
prayed with all my heart, that the Maid, as ever, might again be
victorious. So I lay there, listening, and heard the great artillery
bellow, and the roar of guns in answer, the shouting of men, and clang of
church bells. Now and again the walls of the tower rang with the shock
of a cannon-ball, once an arrow flew through the casement and shattered
itself on the wall above my head. I scarce know why, but I dragged me to
the place where it fell, and, put the arrow-point in my bosom. Smoke of
wood and pitch darkened the light; they had come, then, to close
quarters. But once more rang the rattle of guns; the whizzing rush of
stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and steel
harness, the cries of war, "Mont joye St. Denis!" "St. George for
England!" and slogans too, I heard, as "Bellenden," "A Home! a Home!" and
then I knew the Scots were there, fighting in the front. But alas, how
different was the day when first I heard our own battle-cries under
Orleans walls! Then I had my life and my sword in my hands, to spend and
to strike; but now I lay a lonely prisoner, helpless and all but
hopeless; yet even so I clashed my chains and shouted, when I heard the
slogan.

Thus with noise and smoke, and trumpets blowing the charge or the recall,
and our pipes shrieking the pibroch high above the din, with dust
floating