Instantly at the touch of the unclean thing the blade parted in two. One piece fell to the ground, and Jeanne, stricken by the happening, sat gazing silently at what remained in her hand.
“’Tis the holy sword,” exclaimed Charles, aghast. “Are there no cudgels to be had that you should use the sacred weapon? I like not the omen.”
Jeanne made no reply. She could not. All about her ran whispers and outcries as news of the incident flew from lip to lip. Soon the story was spread through the army. The Maid had broken the miraculous sword. It was a bad portent, and men
shook their heads, saying that it boded ill for future enterprise. The King sent the sword to his own armourers to be mended, “but they could not do it, nor put the pieces together again; which is great proof that the sword came to her divinely. ”[22]
At a Council held later it was determined that an attack on Paris should be made the next day, and thereupon the troops withdrew to La Chapelle, a village midway between St. Denys and Paris, and encamped there for the night. But the
King remained at St. Denys.
“I like not the day, gentle duke,” said Jeanne protestingly to Alençon. “To-morrow is the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Mother of God. It is not meet to fight on such a day.”
“We must, Jeanne. We have been insistent that the assault should be made; and if we decline now La Trémouille will persuade the King that we are the cause of
the delay.”
“True,” agreed the maiden. “Well, we will make the attack, fair duke. After all, it is the duty of Frenchmen to fight the enemy whenever need arises, be the day what it may.”
Yet in spite of her words it was with reluctance that Jeanne prepared for the assault the next morning. It was the eighth of September, upon which day fell the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, a great festival of the church. The church bells of
La Chapelle were ringing as she rose, and faintly the bells of Paris and St. Denys tinkled an answer to the summons to the faithful. All the citizens of Paris would be at church, for no one would expect an attack upon such a day, and Jeanne would far rather have spent the time before the altar. She did not wish the assault, but yielded to Alençon and the captains.
The troops made a late start, it being eight o’clock before they marched out of La Chapelle, and wended their way toward Paris. The morning was bright and beautiful, though unusually warm for the season. In the sunshine the towers and battlements of the city gleamed and glistened. It was a great city; far greater than Orléans, and a prize worth fighting for, but the chances of taking it had diminished by the dalliance of the King.
The morning was entirely consumed in placing the ordnance, and getting ready
for the assault. The point of attack was to be a place between the gates of St.
Honoré and St. Denys, which Jeanne was to lead with Rais and Gaucourt, while
Alençon, placing his guns in the swine market near the gate, stationed his force behind the Windmill Hill which sloped above the market. This was done to guard the rear from a possible attack from a sally of the English from the St.
Denys Gate. The main body of the army was posted as a reserve out of range.
The King did not leave St. Denys. Charles was the only prince in Europe who did not lead his own army in the field. All was in readiness, when Jeanne learned to her great surprise that no serious assault was intended. It was to be an effort to cause tumult and surrender in the city. The Maid determined to force the fighting to an issue.
At two o’clock in the afternoon the trumpet sounded the call, and the roar and rebound of cannon began, the artillery plying the boulevard or earthwork which
protected the Gate of St. Honoré. The palisade weakened; presently the pales fell with a crash, and the earthen wall of the boulevard stood beyond. With a shout,
“Mont-joie St. Denys!” the French rushed forward with scaling ladders, and began the escalade, their friends backing them by shooting of arbalests from behind the remnant of the palisade. By sheer impetuosity they carried the outpost, and poured over the walls pell-mell, driving its defenders before them back to the fortifications of the gate itself.
All at once their furious advance was brought to a sudden check; for before them lay two wide deep ditches, one dry, the other full of water, which here guarded the walls of the gate. The archers and gunners on the ramparts above jeered mockingly at the halted French, and sent a rain of stones and arrows down at them, waving their banners, which mingled the leopards of England with the
rampant two-tailed lion of Burgundy.
Jeanne was of course at the head of her men, and only for a moment did she permit them to pause before the set-back. Calling loudly for faggots and beams
to bridge the moat she descended into the dry fosse, then climbed out again to the shelving ridge which divided the two trenches. Some of the men ran for the
bundles of wood and bridging material, while the others followed her to the ridge. Dismay again seized them as the wide deep moat full to the brim with water stretched before them. But Jeanne was not daunted. Handing her standard
to a man at her side, she took a lance and tested the water amid a shower of arrows and stones.
“Surrender,” she called to the men on the walls. “Surrender to the King of France.”
“Witch! Evil One!” they shouted in answer.
By this time the soldiers had brought bundles of wood, faggots, and whatever would help to fill the moat, Jeanne calling encouragingly to them the while.
Presently they were enabled to struggle across, and the charge began. At this instant, as had been arranged, a great commotion was heard in the city, the loyalists running through the streets and shouting: “All is lost! The enemy has entered.” It was hoped that this would help the King’s troops without the gates.
The people in the churches, panic-stricken, rushed to their homes, shutting their doors behind them, but there was nothing gained. The garrison kept their heads, and their numbers at the gates and on the ramparts were increased.
The firing now became very heavy; the artillery bellowed and the guns roared in answer. There were shouts of men, and words of order. And through the rattle of guns, the whizzing rush of stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and steel harness, the hundreds of war cries there sounded the wonderful, silvery tones of a girl’s voice, clear as a clarion call:
“On! On, friends! They are ours.”
On the shelving ridge between the two ditches stood the Maid, her white armour
gleaming in the sunshine, a shining figure, exposed to every shot and missile.
Hour after hour she stood, in the heat of the fire, shouting directions to her men, urging, cheering them while always the struggle raged around her, her banner floating over her head. Suddenly a mighty shout of joy went up from the men on
the walls. Three times the roar rent the din of battle. For the Witch had fallen, pierced through the thigh by a bolt from a crossbow.
Undismayed, Jeanne struggled to her feet, when the man at her side who bore her standard was hit in the foot. Lifting his visor to pull the arrow from the wound he was struck between the eyes, and fell dead at the maiden’s feet. Jeanne caught the standard as he fell, but for a moment her own strength failed her, and she sank beside the standard bearer. When her men would have borne her out of
