did no good, they divided and swept by her like a wave. Old
D'Aulon begged her to retreat while there was yet a chance for safety,
but she refused; so he seized her horse's bridle and bore her along with
the wreck and ruin in spite of herself. And so along the causeway they
came swarming, that wild confusion of frenzied men and horses--and the
artillery had to stop firing, of course; consequently the English and
Burgundians closed in in safety, the former in front, the latter behind
their prey. Clear to the boulevard the French were washed in this
enveloping inundation; and there, cornered in an angle formed by the
flank of the boulevard and the slope of the causeway, they bravely
fought a hopeless fight, and sank down one by one.

Flavy, watching from the city wall, ordered the gate to be closed and
the drawbridge raised. This shut Joan out.

The little personal guard around her thinned swiftly. Both of our good
knights went down disabled; Joan's two brothers fell wounded; then Noel
Rainguesson--all wounded while loyally sheltering Joan from blows aimed
at her. When only the Dwarf and the Paladin were left, they would not
give up, but stood their ground stoutly, a pair of steel towers streaked
and splashed with blood; and where the ax of one fell, and the sword of
the other, an enemy gasped and died.

And so fighting, and loyal to their duty to the last, good simple souls,
they came to their honorable end. Peace to their memories! they were
very dear to me.

Then there was a cheer and a rush, and Joan, still defiant, still laying
about her with her sword, was seized by her cape and dragged from her
horse. She was borne away a prisoner to the Duke of Burgundy's camp, and
after her followed the victorious army roaring its joy.

The awful news started instantly on its round; from lip to lip it flew;
and wherever it came it struck the people as with a sort of paralysis;
and they murmured over and over again, as if they were talking to
themselves, or in their sleep, "The Maid of Orleans taken!... Joan of
Arc a prisoner!... the savior of France lost to us!"--and would keep
saying that over, as if they couldn't understand how it could be, or how
God could permit it, poor creatures!

You know what a city is like when it is hung from eaves to pavement
with rustling black? Then you know what Rouse was like, and some other
cities. But can any man tell you what the mourning in the hearts of the
peasantry of France was like?