splendid harness, each bearing his feudal banner–and riding!
Oh, that was a magnificent thing to see. Riding down the
cavernous vastness of the building through the rich lights
streaming in long rays from the pictured windows–oh, there was
never anything so grand!
They rode clear to the choir–as much as four hundred feet from
the door, it was said. Then the Archbishop dismissed them, and
they made deep obeisance till their plumes touched their horses’
necks, then made those proud prancing and mincing and dancing
creatures go backward all the way to the door–which was pretty to
see, and graceful; then they stood them on their hind-feet and spun
them around and plunged away and disappeared.
For some minutes there was a deep hush, a waiting pause; a silence
so profound that it was as if all those packed thousands there were
steeped in dreamless slumber–why, you could even notice the
faintest sounds, like the drowsy buzzing of insects; then came a
mighty flood of rich strains from four hundred silver trumpets, and
then, framed in the pointed archway of the great west door,
appeared Joan and the King. They advanced slowly, side by side,
through a tempest of welcome–explosion after explosion of cheers
and cries, mingled with the deep thunders of the organ and rolling
tides of triumphant song from chanting choirs. Behind Joan and
the King came the Paladin and the Banner displayed; and a
majestic figure he was, and most proud and lofty in his bearing, for
he knew that the people were marking him and taking note of the
gorgeous state dress which covered his armor.
At his side was the Sire d’Albret, proxy for the Constable of
France, bearing the Sword of State.
After these, in order of rank, came a body royally attired
representing the lay peers of France; it consisted of three princes of
the blood, and La Tremouille and the young De Laval brothers.
These were followed by the representatives of the ecclesiastical
peers–the Archbishop of Rheims, and the Bishops of Laon,
Chѓlons, Orleans, and one other.
Behind these came the Grand Staff, all our great generals and
famous names, and everybody was eager to get a sight of them.
Through all the din one could hear shouts all along that told you
where two of them were: “Live the Bastard of Orleans!” “Satan La
Hire forever!”
The august procession reached its appointed place in time, and the
solemnities of the Coronation began. They were long and
imposing–with prayers, and anthems, and sermons, and everything
that is right for such occasions; and Joan was at the King’s side all
these hours, with her Standard in her hand. But at last came the
grand act: the King took the oath, he was anointed with the sacred
oil; a splendid personage, followed by train-bearers and other
attendants, approached, bearing the Crown of France upon a
cushion, and kneeling offered it. The King seemed to hesitate–in
fact, did hesitate; for he put out his hand and then stopped with it
there in the air over the crown, the fingers in the attitude of taking
hold of it. But that was for only a moment–though a moment is a
notable something when it stops the heartbeat of twenty thousand
people and makes them catch their breath. Yes, only a moment;
then he caught Joan’s eye, and she gave him a look with all the joy
of her thankful great soul in it; then he smiled, and took the Crown
of France in his hand, and right finely and right royally lifted it up
and set it upon his head.
Then what a crash there was! All about us cries and cheers, and the
chanting of the choirs and groaning of the organ; and outside the
clamoring of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The
fantastic dream, the incredible dream, the impossible dream of the
peasant-child stood fulfilled; the English power was broken, the
Heir of France was crowned.
She was like one transfigured, so divine was the joy that shone in
her face as she sank to her knees at the King’s feet and looked up at
him through her tears. Her lips were quivering, and her words