And off into the mists that enveloped the meadows of the Meuse rode the little

company down the road into France.

[6]

“Madame Margaret did not come to France until seven years later. The six thousand men never did come. Jeanne did.”––Andrew Lang.

[7]

Pucelle––virgin, maid.

CHAPTER XV

STARTING THE GREAT ADVENTURE

“The character of Joan of Arc is unique. It can be

measured by the standards of all times without misgiving

or apprehension as to the result. Judged by any of them,

judged by all of them, it is still flawless, it is still ideally

perfect; it still occupies the loftiest place possible to

human attainment, a loftier one than has been reached

by any other mere mortal. ”

MARK TWAIN. Preface––“Personal Recollections

of Joan of Arc. ”

And so began this strange ride; the strangest that was ever made. There were a

thousand perils to be encountered: great rivers to be crossed; great forests infested by wolves to be traversed; trackless spaces of a country, half of which was hostile––full of every danger of war, to be covered.

Jeanne had been told many times of the risks of the journey; but, happy in the knowledge that she was at last on her way to the Dauphin, no peril, no danger seemed formidable. She had no fear of marauding bands, nor did she feel anxiety concerning the conduct of her companions. A great peace filled her soul. She h

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begun her work. How it was all to end for her she neither foresaw nor asked; she only knew what she had to do. So light hearted did she appear that Bertrand de

Poulengy wondered at it. Jeanne noticed him regarding her curiously.

“What is it, messire?” she asked.

“It will be a hard, tiresome ride, Pucelle.”

“I know, messire.”

“To sit in the saddle long hours is most fatiguing. Have you been accustomed to

riding?”

“No, messire. I never rode at all until I came to Vaucouleurs.”

“You did not? I can hardly believe that, Pucelle.” He gave a glance of frank admiration at the slight, erect figure sitting her horse so martially. “You ride as though born to the saddle, which is well, for the journey will tax your endurance to the utmost. We stop to-night at the Abbey of Saint Urbain for rest and refreshment, but to-morrow and thereafter we shall be obliged to rest in the open fields. We must avoid the frequented roads and the cities held by the English, therefore we can not go to the inns. There will be many dangers.”

“What do you fear, messire?”

“That we shall never reach Chinon,” he answered gloomily. “The hazards are too

great. I thought that the Captain would give us more of an escort, but we be but seven all told. Of what avail would such a small number be against an attacking force of freebooters?”

FAR INTO THE NIGHT THEY RODE

But Jeanne turned a smiling face toward him; a face as blithe and bright as that of a fair youth.

“Have no fear,” she said, with calm confidence. “My brothers in Paradise will watch over us.”

“Will you really do what you say?” he questioned.

“I will do what I am commanded to do, messire. My brethren in Paradise tell me

what I have to do. It is now four years since my brethren in Paradise and Messire told me that I must go forth to war to deliver the realm of France.”

But Poulengy, De Metz, and their companions had not the maiden’s confidence.

Now that the irrevocable step was taken and they were actually embarked upon

this wild adventure the chill of reflection was upon them. Was the girl really an inspired prophetess, or a witch? If the former, all would be well with them should they reach Chinon in safety; if the latter, they were liable to come to the gallows for bringing a witch to court. So many doubts and misgivings assailed them as they rode forward.

Far into the night they rode, stopping at length at the Abbey of Saint Urbain on the right bank of the Marne for rest. From time immemorial the Abbey had been

a place of refuge, and it gave them a cordial welcome. Jeanne was glad to lay her wearied body upon the rude cot in the house set apart for the use of strangers, but she was up early next morning, and attended conventual mass; then she and

her companions took horse again. Crossing the Marne by the bridge opposite Saint Urbain they pressed on towards France.

They were in more dangerous ground now, so they proceeded more stealthily.

Bertrand de Poulengy and Jean de Metz, being hardened campaigners and accustomed to such expeditions, knew the by-ways, and were acquainted with the means necessary to travel quietly. Sometimes the days were sunlit, and the nights moonlit; at other times, there was rain, or sleet, or snow, but whatever the weather they rode and rode. Jeanne was always cheerful, always confident, always good-humoured. The King’s messenger, Colet de Vienne, Sire Bertrand and Jean de Metz were hot-headed, hot-hearted soldiers of fortune, neither over-scrupulous nor over-pious, but they learned to regard the young girl in their charge with reverence and awe. It was a feeling that strangely combined chivalry and religion. She was so devout, so clean-spirited, that there was nothing to be done but to believe in her goodness, her purity, and her faith. If they did not altogether believe in her visions they believed that she believed, and they came to think of her as nothing less than a saint.

“Truly, Bertrand, she comes from God,” declared De Metz one day upon his return from a town where he had gone in search of food. The party dared not enter the place for fear of detection. The news was broadcast over the country that the inspired Maid of Vaucouleurs was proceeding to the King under escort,

and the knights feared an encounter with some band of the enemy. “She has not