paltry wages by plunder, and who knew of religion nothing but blasphemies and oaths. Behind the fighting army there followed an army in itself, parasitic in its function, in which the combatants found an outlet for the lusts of war: monks and libertines and hang-ers-on, herds of cattle, horses, and swine. The Maid's descent upon them was like a thunderbolt: she forbade them to utter blasphemies and to consort with harlots. She could be seen riding her horse among the libertines and the loose women, driving them from the camp with her staff, saying: "Trust in God and confess, and victory shall be yours."

Is this an example of disgrace to men? Not fit to be an example for women? Is she anything but a pious reformer, spreading purity wherever she went? The commanders swore, as she lay on her back at night in their midst, that never once did the thought of laying hands on her cross their minds. Now she is calling to the enemy, with her native boldness, from the top of the ladder, above the water-filled moat dividing the English garrison from the attacking army: "Obey God and surrender at once, and save your lives." And the English called back to her: "You harlot, you cowherd! If you fall into our hands, we shall burn you alive." They were crouching as the animal crouches before it springs. And so the enemy took her unawares. Joan heard nothing but the cry, "The English are betraying us." What had happened? Had her commanders mocked her, and not told her what they meant to do? Or is this what war is? But the blaze of patriotic fire left her no room for thought; she cried out as she buckled on her armor, "To horse! Mount!" Then, "Where is my standard?" And she devoured the ground, sparks flying from beneath her horse's hooves. Ah, that first hour, in which she beheld the field of battle drenched in blood — the stage of hot and telling combat had passed, and a listlessness had seized the army, as though the piled-up years of defeat had cramped its will, and it lay hostage to inevitable rout.

She paid no heed to those who fell back, and did not fear death,

but plunged into the fray, shouting: "Hardiment! Attaquez les anglais!" Her cries were like the beating of the war trumpet; they worked like magic, and turned the course of the battle, flood after ebb; the French swept the field and razed the fortress to the ground, while Joan of Arc's standard — the standard of the liberation of France — fluttered above their heads. The army entered Orléans, and the church bells' peals of "Hosanna" filled the air.

Joan alone did not exult, did not rejoice. She knelt and prayed for the souls of the slain, and made her confession to the priest — though her pure hands had never left the flag, and her symbolic sword had not spilled a single drop of blood.

A year after the manifest victory of Orléans, Joan of Arc set out for the ill-fated siege of Compiègne, in which she fell a prisoner of war, and then a pris-oner of the Church. The "voices" said to her: "Accept your fate

with a willing heart, and God will help you." From behind the curtain the English brought forward Pierre Cauchon, promised him the bishopric of Beauvais, and bought a council of grandees from the University of Paris to persuade the world that Joan of Arc's deeds had been wrought by satanic power. Whatever may be said of her trial, it will never be anything but a brand of shame upon the brow of justice — to say nothing of the injustice and torture beyond imag-ining that she met with in prison. And despite her boldness and the whiteness of her record, the cage of the ecclesiastical Inquisition prevailed over that exemplar of patriotism and winged liberty, and she was led to the stake, above which was written: "Pretender, unbeliever, traitor, heretic."

Joan the woman died; but Joan the legend, Joan the victorious, lived on in the hearts of the French, like a firebrand of light scattering the gloom of the dark ages.