and the prophecy of the Maid should be
fulfilled! Verily, though she lay in bonds, her spirit was with us on
that day!

But still our portcullis was down, and the long tail of angry people
stretched inwards, from the inner mouth of the boulevard, along the
street, surging like a swollen loch against its barrier.

On the crest of the boulevard was Flavy, baton in hand, looking forth
across field and forest, watching for I knew not what, while still the
people clamoured to be let go. But he stood like the statue of a man-at-
arms, and from the bastille of the Burgundians the arrows rained around
him, who always watched, and was still. Now the guards of the gate had
hard work to keep the angry people back, who leaped and tore at the men-
at-arms arrayed in front of them, and yelled for eagerness to issue forth
and fight.

Suddenly, on the crest of the boulevard, Flavy threw up his arm and gave
one cry--

"Xaintrailles!"

Then he roared to draw up portcullis and open gates; the men-at-arms
charged forth, the multitude trampled over each other to be first in
field, I was swept on and along with them through the gate, and over the
drawbridge, like a straw on a wave, and, lo! a little on our left was the
banner of Pothon de Xaintrailles, his foremost men dismounting, the
rearguard just riding out from the forest. The two bands joined, we from
Compiegne, the four hundred of Xaintrailles from the wood, and, like two
swollen streams that meet, we raced towards the bastille, under a rain of
arrows and balls. Nothing could stay us: a boy fell by my side with an
arrow thrilling in his breast, but his brother never once looked round. I
knew not that I could run, but run I did, though not so fast as many, and
before I reached the bastille our ladders were up, and the throng was
clambering, falling, rising again, and flowing furiously into the fort.
The townsfolk had no thought but to slay and slay; five or six would be
at the throat of one Burgundian man-at-arms; hammers and axes were
breaking up armour, knives were scratching and searching for a crevice;
women, lifting great stone balls, would stagger up to dash them on the
heads of the fallen. Of the whole garrison, one-half, a hundred and
sixty men-at-arms, were put to the sword. Only Pothon de Xaintrailles,
and the gentlemen with him, as knowing the manner of war, saved and held
to ransom certain knights, as Messire Jacques de Brimeu, the Seigneur de
Crepy, and other