So without knowing that her prophecy had been fulfilled so soon the maiden passed on into the great hall. The audience chamber was crowded with curious

courtiers and the royal guard, and the place shone with the lustre of fifty flambeaux. At the end of the vaulted room was a chimney of white stone in which a noble fire blazed, reflected by the polished oak boards of the floor.

Veteran soldiers of the wars were there; counsellors, like the favorite La Trémouille, prelates, like the Archbishop of Reims, and trains of fair ladies with fine raiment and gay manners; all gathered to see the sorceress. A throng of men and women in velvet and cloth of gold, in crimson and azure such as she had never seen. A brilliant mob of vivid colors; a company of the noblest lords and ladies of France, their finery glowing in the flaring flames of many torches. The fans of the ladies fluttered; their high head-dresses, or hennins, towered above the head coverings of the men; a thousand unfamiliar hues and forms combined

to dazzle the eyes and disturb the composure of a peasant girl.

But Jeanne was neither disturbed nor dazzled. Eagerly she looked to see the King. She did not care for the courtiers gazing so intently at her––some with amusement, some smiling, some sneering, the most of them sceptical, but all of

them gazing at her with open curiosity; with surprise at her page’s attire, her man-at-arms shoes, and above all at her hair which, cut round like a page’s, flowed softly about her face. At this time no woman, of whatever rank, showed

the hair. It was worn covered always in obedience to Saint Paul’s command.

Jeanne saw the amusement, and wonder, and scepticism on the faces around her;

saw but heeded them not; moving forward the while with her eyes fixed ever on

the figure seated on the throne. Suddenly she stopped short with a stifled exclamation. The Count de Vendôme touched her arm gently.

“Kneel,” he whispered. “The King is before you.”

But Jeanne did not respond. She looked at him who was seated upon the throne,

but made no obeisance. Instead she knitted her brows in thoughtful manner, then turned deliberately round and glanced searchingly about among the courtiers. A

low murmur of astonishment ran through the room as all at once she moved quickly toward a group of courtiers, and pushing them aside knelt before a soberly clad young man hiding behind them.

“God give you good life, gentle Dauphin,” she said.

“But it is not I that am the King,” said he with smiling lips. “Yonder he sits upon the throne.”

“In God’s name, gentle Dauphin, say not so,” she said. “It is you and no other.”

Then rising from her knees she continued: “Fair Dauphin, I am Jeanne the Maid.

I am sent to you by the King of Heaven to tell you that you shall be anointed and

crowned at Reims, and shall be lieutenant of the King of Heaven, who is King of France.”

Charles’s face grew grave as he heard the words. The little masquerade planned

for the amusement of the courtiers had failed; the jest was over. Solemnly he spoke:

“How know you this, Maid?”

“My Voices have told me. I have come to lead you to your anointing, but first I must raise the siege of Orléans. This, fair Dauphin, I can do if you will but give me men-at-arms. Out of your grace, I beg you to send me at once to Orléans.”

Touched by her perfect sincerity, her intense earnestness, her good faith, the King gazed musingly at her, and then asked:

“How shall I know that you can do this, Maid? What sign can you give?”

“My sign shall be the raising of the siege of Orléans; but, gentle Dauphin, I have another sign which is to be told to you alone.”

“Then tell it to me,” he said, drawing her into a window recess out of ear shot of the courtiers.

“Gentle Dauphin, when you prayed this morning in your oratory there was a great pain in your heart.”

“True;” nodded Charles.

“And you made a prayer there. Fair Dauphin, did you tell to any one the prayer

that you made?”

“No,” he answered gravely. “I did not. ’Tis a prayer that concerns none but myself.”

Then quickly, earnestly, passionately, Jeanne spoke, addressing him familiarly as an inspired prophetess:

“Did you not pray that if you were the true heir of France, and that if justly the kingdom were yours, that God might be pleased to guard and defend you? But

that if you were not descended from the royal House of France God would grant

you escape from imprisonment or death by permitting you to go into the land of

Scotland or Spain, that you might find refuge there?”

Charles’s face grew blank with amazement.

“I did pray that, exactly,” he admitted. “In my heart alone, without pronouncing

the words. Speak on, Maiden. Is there aught from your heavenly visitors that would answer that prayer?”

“There is, gentle Dauphin. Know then, to ease thy heart, that I tell thee from Messire, that thou art the true heir of France, and son of the King.”

She made the strange statement so authoritatively, so impressively that the monarch’s countenance grew radiant. Those watching the pair wondered at the change, but none knew until long afterward what it was that the maiden had told him. Now he took Jeanne’s hand and bowed over it.

“I believe in you, Maid,” he said. “Though all should doubt yet do I believe. You shall have your men-at-arms, and go to Orléans.”

“Now God be praised,” exclaimed the maiden joyfully. “May he send you long

life, oh fair and gentle Dauphin. Give me the men soon, I pray you, that I may be about my work.”

“You shall have your wish,” he said gently; and with this he led her back to the gaping courtiers.

CHAPTER XVII

THE IMPOSSIBLE HAPPENS

“To pray, we do not say with the lips, but to pray with