Further indications of pride and vanity were sought.

"What horse were you riding when you were captured? Who gave it you?"

"The King."

"You had other things--riches--of the King?"

"For myself I had horses and arms, and money to pay the service in my
household."

"Had you not a treasury?"

"Yes. Ten or twelve thousand crowns." Then she said with naivete "It was
not a great sum to carry on a war with."

"You have it yet?"

"No. It is the King's money. My brothers hold it for him."

"What were the arms which you left as an offering in the church of St.
Denis?"

"My suit of silver mail and a sword."

"Did you put them there in order that they might be adored?"

"No. It was but an act of devotion. And it is the custom of men of war
who have been wounded to make such offering there. I had been wounded
before Paris."

Nothing appealed to these stony hearts, those dull imaginations--not
even this pretty picture, so simply drawn, of the wounded girl-soldier
hanging her toy harness there in curious companionship with the grim
and dusty iron mail of the historic defenders of France. No, there
was nothing in it for them; nothing, unless evil and injury for that
innocent creature could be gotten out of it somehow.

"Which aided most--you the Standard, or the Standard you?"

"Whether it was the Standard or whether it was I, is nothing--the
victories came from God."

"But did you base your hopes of victory in yourself or in your
Standard?"

"In neither. In God, and not otherwise."

"Was not your Standard waved around the King's head at the Coronation?"

"No. It was not."

"Why was it that your Standard had place at the crowning of the King in
the Cathedral of Rheims, rather than those of the other captains?"

Then, soft and low, came that touching speech which will live as long
as language lives, and pass into all tongues, and move all gentle hearts
wheresoever it shall come, down to the latest day:

"It had borne the burden, it had earned the honor." (1) How simple it
is, and how beautiful. And how it beggars the studies eloquence of the
masters of oratory. Eloquence was a native gift of Joan of Arc; it came
from her lips without effort and without preparation. Her words were as
sublime as her deeds, as sublime as her character; they had their source
in a great heart and were coined in a great brain.

(1) What she said has been many times translated, but never with
success. There is a haunting pathos