It was a long ride and a dangerous one. The wide plain was covered by a dense
growth of underbrush and trees, and there was danger of an ambush. Not an Englishman was visible. Cautiously the French made their way, and some of the
captains began to show signs of uneasiness. Jeanne encouraged them constantly.
“In God’s name we must fight them; if they were hung in the clouds we should
have them, for God has sent them to us that we might punish them.” And again:
“Fear naught. This day the gentle Dauphin shall have the greatest victory he has ever won; my Counsel have told me that they are ours.”
The pursuit continued until near Patay, a town standing midway between Meung
and Rouvray, where Fastolf had won the Battle of Herrings in February. La Hire
and his scouts were scouring the country to get trace of the English, but without success. All at once they roused a stag as they rode, and, startled, the animal bounded away before them, disappearing into some bushes which grew as a hedge by the roadside. Instantly there came a shout from English voices––a cheer of delight as the creature plunged among them, and, not suspecting that the French van was so near, they began to fire upon it.
La Hire drew rein, and sent back a messenger to the main army to hurry forward.
Then with a shout he and his company spurred forward, and charged the English
before they had time to form, or to set up their usual defenses.
Now Talbot had been marching in three bodies. First, the advance guard; then his artillery; then his battle corps a good way in the rear. When he was within a league of Patay some of his scouts reported that a large body of the French was advancing toward him. Seeing that he could not escape without some fighting he
posted his advance guard with the wagons and artillery behind some strong hedges which would cover their front from the French cavalry. He himself with
five hundred archers halted in a place where the road through which the French
must pass was bordered on both sides by a hedge. Here he stood waiting for the
enemy, waiting too for his main body of troops under Sir John Fastolf to join the train, when the advent of the stag discovered his presence to the French.
The English archers were thrown into wildest confusion and disorder by the suddenness of the onslaught. Slashing and slaying, the French cut them down, pressing onward toward the advance guard of the English with the wagons and
artillery. Sir John began to gallop toward the advance guard, but to the latter he seemed to be fleeing before the enemy. Panic seized them, and leaving the provisions and guns the troops broke and fled, utterly demoralized, on the road toward Patay. Talbot himself fought with desperation and rage, to be thus overcome a second time by a girl whom he believed to be a pernicious witch, but
was finally taken prisoner by Poton Zaintrailles, while his men fled and were killed in their flight. Fastolf turned back to the field, hoping to die there or be captured, but his escort dragged him off, and at length he too rode off toward Paris. His men were cut down at the will of the victors.
The Battle of Patay was won.
But it was a bloody field, for slaughter of fugitives who were not valuable followed. Jeanne had never seen such a massacre, and “she had great
compassion on the victims.” Meeting a Frenchman who was brutally using a prisoner she flung herself from her horse, indignant that he should be subjected to such treatment, and seating herself beside him lifted his bleeding head upon her lap. Sending for a priest that he might have the last comforts of religion she comforted him with womanly tenderness until he died.
Jeanne wanted the English out of France. She fought them that she might achieve that end. She had steeled herself to the necessity of war, but pity was always enthroned in her heart. A wounded enemy appealed to her tenderness as
much as one of her own countrymen would have done.
And so ended a great week of wonders. Between June eleventh and eighteenth the Maid had delivered three strong towns from the English, and routed them in
open field. All the Loire and the waterway was now in the power of France. But
it was not Alençon, nor Dunois, nor the French generals who had secured the victories. It was the dauntless girl, the peasant maid in whom was more of the divine than human––she who after a scarce month of war bore herself like the
“most skilled captain in the world who all his life has been trained to war”[12]––
this girl of seventeen who bade fair to be the best soldier of them all.
[12]
De Termes.
263
CHAPTER XXII
THE CULMINATION
“Along this square she moved, sweet Joan of Arc,––
With face more pallid than a day-lit star
Half-seen, half-doubted; while before her, dark
