with a faithful friend, she only exclaimed:

"Ah, if it might but please God to let me put off this steel raiment, and go back to my father and my mother, and tend my sheep again with my sisters and brothers who would be so glad to see me!"

Only that, poor child, but it could not be. Never again was she to go back to her simple life, but it is said that old Jacques d'Arc and Durand Laxart came to Rheims to gladden the Maid's heart with a sight of their familiar faces, and to see for themselves this child of Jacques's who had won so great renown.

And at that time also, two of her brothers are known to have been in the army, of which she must needs be still the head, as the King gave a shameful example of never commanding it in person. Seeing that she must still be Commander-in-chief; immediately after the Coronation, Jeanne called a council of war, and made a stirring appeal for an immediate march on Paris. This was resisted with most strenuous and wily arguments for delay, to all of which the Maid cried impatiently, "We have but to march—on the instant—and the English strongholds, as you call them, along the way are ours. Paris is ours. France is ours. Give the word, Oh, my King, command your servant!"

Even in the face of her ringing appeal there was more arguing and more resisting, but finally, thrilled by Jeanne's final plea the King rose and drawing his sword, took it by the blade and strode up to Jeanne, delivering the hilt into her hand, saying:

"There, the King surrenders. Carry it to Paris!" And to Paris Jeanne might go, but the tide of success had turned, and although on the fourteenth day of August the French army marched into Compiègne and hauled down the English flag, and on the twenty-sixth camped under the very walls of Paris, yet now the King hung back and was afraid to give his consent to storming the city. Seven long days were wasted, giving the enemy time to make ready to defend their strongholds, and to plan their campaign. Then the French army was allowed to attack, and Jeanne and her men worked and fought like heroes, and Jeanne was everywhere at once, in the lead, as usual with her standard floating high, even while smoke enveloped the army in dense clouds, and missiles fell like rain. She was hurt, but refused to retire, and the battle-light flamed in her eyes as her warrior-spirit thrilled to the deeds of the moment.

"I will take Paris now or never!" she cried, and at last she had to be carried away by force, still insisting that the city would be theirs in the morning, which would have been so, but for the treachery of him for whom Jeanne had given her young strength in such consecrated service. The Maid was defeated by her own King, who because of political reasons declared the campaign ended, and made a truce with the English in which he agreed to leave Paris unmolested and go back again to the Loire.

History offers no more pathetic and yet inspiring sight than Jeanne, broken by the terrible news, still sure that victory would be hers if but allowed to follow her voices—yet checkmated by the royal pawn whose pleasure it was to disband the noble army of heroes who had fought so nobly for the cause of France.

When Jeanne saw the strength of the Dauphin's purpose, she hung up her armour and begged the King to now dismiss her from the army, and allow her to go home, but this he refused to do. The truce he had made did not embrace all France, and he would have need of her inspiring presence and her valuable counsel—in truth it seemed that he and his chief counsellors were afraid of allowing her out of their sight, for fear of what she might achieve without their knowledge.

For some eight months longer, in accord with his desire, Jeanne, still sure of her divine mission to work for France, loyally drifted from place to place with the King and his counsellors, heart-sick and homesick, occupying her many leisure hours with planning vast imaginary sieges and campaigns.

At last, on the twenty-fourth of May, 1430, with a handful of men, she was allowed to throw herself into Compiègne, which was being besieged by the Burgundians, and there after bravely fighting and rallying her men for a third attack, the English came up behind and fell upon their rear, and the fleeing men streamed into the boulevard, while last of all came the Maid, doing deeds of valour beyond the nature of woman, so it is said, and for the last time, as never again should Jeanne bear arms. Her men had fled. She was separated from her people; and surrounded, but still defiant, was seized by her cape, dragged from her horse, and borne away a prisoner, while after her followed the victors, roaring their mad joy over the capture of such a prize.

Like wildfire the awful tidings spread. The Maid of Orléans taken by the English? Jeanne a prisoner? Could such things be?

Alas, yes. The Maid who had delivered France was in the hands of the enemy, because, at the climax of her victory, when all France was in her grip, the chance had been lost by the folly of that King whom she had led to his crowning.

After six months of captivity she was sold, yes sold, for ten thousand crowns, that royal Maid—sold to John of Luxembourg, the only bidder for her noble self. Truth which is sometimes stranger than fiction, offers no parallel to this. Not a single effort was put forth by the King, or his counsellors, or by any loyal Frenchman to rescue or to ransom Jeanne. No trouble was taken to redeem the girl who, foe and friend alike agreed, had saved the day for France, and who was the greatest soldier of them all, when she was allowed to have her way.

Ten thousand crowns was the price of Jeanne's brave spirit, and her purchaser doubtless meant to hold on to her until he could make money on his prisoner, but, oh the shame, the infamy of it, Charles, the King of France,—led to his crowning day by a Maid's own hand,—offered not one sou for her ransoming!

To linger on this part of Jeanne's life is torture to others, as it was to her. In December she was carried to Rouen, the headquarters of the English army, heavily fettered; was flung into a gloomy prison, from which she attempted escape, but vainly, and finally was tried as a sorceress and a heretic, and never a sound of help or deliverance from the King or the nation.

Her trial was long, and she was exposed to every form of brutality, thinly veiled under the guise of justice. Day after day her simple heart was tortured by the questions of learned men, whose aim was to make her condemn herself, but this they could never do, for every probing resulted in the same calm statements. Finally one was sent to draw from her under the seal of the confessional, her sacred confidences, which were then rudely desecrated. She was found guilty of sacrilege, profanation, disobedience to the church, pride and idolatry, and her heavenly visions were said to be illusions of the devil. She was then tortured by a series of ignominies, insults, threats, and promises until, bewildered and half crazed by confinement, in agony of mind and body, she blindly assented to everything they asked her, was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, and forced to put on a woman's dress which she had repeatedly declared she would never do so long as she was thrown entirely in the company of men. But she was forced to obey the bidding of her persecutors, and then followed such degradation and insults as are almost beyond belief, and then, oh the shame of it, she was condemned to die by burning, on the tenth of May, 1431! Though worn with suffering and sorrow, she faced this crowning injustice with the dauntless courage which had ever been hers on the field of battle, and died with the Cross held high before her eyes and the name of Jesus on her lips.

The peasant girl of Domrémy, the warrior of Orléans, the