experienced general, was Fastolfe. But that fierce Talbot would
hear of no delay. He was in a rage over the punishment which the
Maid had inflicted upon him at Orleans and since, and he swore by
God and Saint George that he would have it out with her if he had
to fight her all alone. So Fastolfe yielded, though he said they were
now risking the loss of everything which the English had gained by
so many years’ work and so many hard knocks.
The enemy had taken up a strong position, and were waiting, in
order of battle, with their archers to the front and a stockade before
them.
Night was coming on. A messenger came from the English with a
rude defiance and an offer of battle. But Joan’s dignity was not
ruffled, her bearing was not discomposed. She said to the herald:
“Go back and say it is too late to meet to-night; but to-morrow,
please God and our Lady, we will come to close quarters.”
The night fell dark and rainy. It was that sort of light steady rain
which falls so softly and brings to one’s spirit such serenity and
peace. About ten o’clock D’Alen‡on, the Bastard of Orleans, La
Hire, Pothon of Saintrailles, and two or three other generals came
to our headquarters tent, and sat down to discuss matters with
Joan. Some thought it was a pity that Joan had declined battle,
some thought not. Then Pothon asked her why she had declined it.
She said:
“There was more than one reason. These English are ours–they
cannot get away from us. Wherefore there is no need to take risks,
as at other times. The day was far spent. It is good to have much
time and the fair light of day when one’s force is in a weakened
state–nine hundred of us yonder keeping the bridge of Meung
under the Marshal de Rais, fifteen hundred with the Constable of
France keeping the bridge and watching the castle of Beaugency.”
Dunois said:
“I grieve for this decision, Excellency, but it cannot be helped. And
the case will be the same the morrow, as to that.”
Joan was walking up and down just then. She laughed her
affectionate, comrady laugh, and stopping before that old war-tiger
she put her small hand above his head and touched one of his
plumes, saying:
“Now tell me, wise man, which feather is it that I touch?”
“In sooth, Excellency, that I cannot.”
“Name of God, Bastard, Bastard! you cannot tell me this small
thing, yet are bold to name a large one–telling us what is in the
stomach of the unborn morrow: that we shall not have those men.
Now it is my thought that they will be with us.”
That made a stir. All wanted to know why she thought that. But La
Hire took the word and said:
“Let be. If she thinks it, that is enough. It will happen.”
Then Pothon of Santrailles said:
“There were other reasons for declining battle, according to the
saying of your Excellency?”
“Yes. One was that we being weak and the day far gone, the battle
might not be decisive. When it is fought it must be decisive. And it
shall be.”
“God grant it, and amen. There were still other reasons?”
“One other–yes.” She hesitated a moment, then said: “This was not
the day. To-morrow is the day. It is so written.”
They were going to assail her with eager questionings, but she put
up her hand and prevented them. Then she said:
“It will be the most noble and beneficent victory that God has
vouchsafed for France at any time. I pray you question me not as to
whence or how I know this thing, but be content that it is so.”
There was pleasure in every face, and conviction and high
confidence. A murmur of conversation broke out, but that was
interrupted by a messenger from the outposts who brought
news–namely, that for an hour there had been stir and movement
in the English camp of a sort unusual at such a time and with a
resting army, he said. Spies had been sent under cover of the rain