Book the Sixth

The night was calm, and many a moving cloud
Shadowed the moon. Along the forest glade
With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd
The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire,
Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld
The day go down upon their merriment:
No song of Peace now echoed on its banks.
There tents were pitched — and there the centinel,
Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld
The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream.
Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way,
Shunning the camp, now hush'd in sleep and still.
And now no sound was heard save of the Loire,
Murmuring along. The noise of coming feet
Alarm'd him. Nearer drew the fearful sound
As of pursuit — anon — the clash of arms!
That instant rising o'er a broken cloud
The moon beams shone, where two with combined force
Prest on a single foe: he, warding still
Their swords, retreated in the unequal fight,
As he would make the city. Conrade shook
His long lance for the war, and strode along.
Full in the breast of one with forceful arm
Plunged he the spear of death; and as, dismayed
By his fellow's fall, the other turn'd to fly,
Hurl'd the red weapon reeking from the wound,
And fix'd him to the plain. "Now haste we on,
"Frenchman!" he cried. On to the stream they speed,
And plunging stemm'd with sinewy stroke the tide.
Soon on the opposite shore arrived and safe.

"Whence comest thou?" cried the Chief; "on what high charge
"Commission'd?"
"Is it not the voice of Conrade?"
Francis exclaim'd; "and dost thou bring to us
"Tidings of speedy aid? oh! had it come
"A few hours earlier! Isabel is gone!"

"Nay she is safe," cried Conrade, "her I found
"When wilder'd in the forest, and consign'd
"To the protection of that holy Maid,-
"The delegate of Heaven. One evening more
"And thou shalt have thine Isabel. Now say,
"Wherefore alone? A fugitive from Orleans,
"Or sent on dangerous service from the town?"

"There is no food in Orleans," he replied,
"Scarce a meal more! the assembled chiefs resolved
"If thou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid
"To cut their way to safety, or by death
"Prevent the pang of famine. One they sought
"Who venturous in the English camp should spy
"Where safest they might rush upon the foe.
"The perilous task I chose, then desperate
"Of happiness."
So saying, they approach'd
The gate. The centinel, soon as he heard
Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance
Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voice
He draws the strong bolts back, and painful turns
The massy entrance. To the careful chiefs
They pass. At midnight of their extreme state
Counselling they sat, serious and stern. To them
Conrade.
"Assembled Warriors! sent from God
"There is a holy Maid by miracles
"Made manifest. Twelve hundred chosen men
"Follow her hallowed standard. These Dunois,
"The strength of France, arrays. With the next noon
"Ye shall behold their march."
Astonishment
Seized the convened Chiefs, and joy by doubt
Little repress'd. "Open the granaries!"
Xaintrailles exclaim'd. "Give we to all the host
"With hand unsparing now the plenteous meal;
"To-morrow we are safe. For Heaven all just
"Has seen our sufferings and decreed their end.
"Let the glad tidings echo thro' the town!
"God is with us!"
"Rest not in too full faith,"
D'Orval replied, "on this miraculous aid.
"Some frenzied female whose wild phantasy,
"Shaping vain dreams, insect.s the credulous
"With her own madness! That Dunois is there,
"Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men,
"Cheers me: yet let not we our little food
"Be lavish'd, lest the warrior in the fight
"Should haply fail, and Orleans be the prey
"Of England!"
"Chief! I tell thee," Conrade cried,
"I did myself behold the marble tomb
"Burst, to the holy Maid disclosing arms
"Held in the grave inviolate for her.
"She is the Delegate of the Most High,
"And shall deliver Orleans!"
Gaucour then,
"Be it as thou hast said. High hope I feel,
"For to no vulgar tale would Conrade yield
"Belief, or he the Bastard. Our small stores
"Must yield us, ere another week elapse,
"To death or England. Tell thro' all our troops
"There is a holy Virgin sent from God;
"They in that faith invincible shall war
"With more than mortal fury."
Thus the Chief,
And what he said seem'd good. The men of Orleans,
Long by their foemen bayed, a victim band,
To war, and woe, and want, such transport felt
As when the Mexicans, with eager eye
Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top,
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire,
That kindled by the fierce Copolcan priest,
Flames on the breast of some brave prisoner,
A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze
Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers,
Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far,
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy
Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tears
The mantling aloe from the female's face,
And children, now deliver'd from the dread
Of everlasting darkness, look abroad,
Hail the good omen, and expect; the sun
Uninjur'd still to run his flaming race.

Thus whilst in that besieged town the night
Wain'd sleepless, silent slept the hallowed host.
And now the morning came. From his hard couch,
Lightly upstarting and bedight in arms,
The Bastard moved along, with provident eye
Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they march.
And now the sun shot from the southern sky
His noon-tide radiance, when afar they hear
The hum of men, and mark the distant towers
Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe,
And many a streamer wantoning in air.
These as they saw and thought of all the ills
Their brethren had endured beleager'd there
For many a month; such ardor for the fight
Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt
When to the assembled tribe Mohammed spake,
Asking for one his Vizier. Fierce in faith,
Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth,
"Prophet of God! lo — I will be the man!"
Nor did not Ali merit that high post,
Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale,
And on mount Ohud, and before the walls
Of Chaibar, then when cleaving to the chest
His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate,
Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort,
And lifted it in air — portentous shield!

"Behold the towers of Orleans," cried Dunois.
"Lo! this the vale where on the banks of Loire,
"Of yore, at close of day the rustic band
"Danced to the roundelay. In younger years
"As oft I glided down the silver stream,
"Frequent upon the lifted oar I paus'd
"List'ning the sound of far-off merriment.
"There wave the English banners! martial Maid,
"Give thou the signal — let me rush upon
"These ministers of murder, who have sack'd
"The fruitful fields, and made the hamlet haunts
"Silent — or hearing but the widow's groan,
"Give thou the signal Maiden!"
Her dark eye
Fix'd sadly on the foe, the holy Maid
Answer'd him. "Ere the bloody sword be drawn,
"Ere slaughter be let loose — befits us send
"Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known
"The will of Heaven. So timely warn'd, our foes
"Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace
"Besieged Orleans. Victory is sad
"When even one man is murder'd."
So she said,
And as she spake a soldier from the ranks
Advanced. "I will be thy Messenger,
"Maiden of God! I to the English camp
"Will bear thy bidding."
"Go," the Virgin cried,
"Say to the Chief of Salisbury, and the host
"Attending — Suffolk, Fastolffe, Talbot, Scales,
"Invaders of the country — say, thus says
"The Maid of Orleans. "With your troops retire
"In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys
"Restore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek
"Your native England; for the God of Hosts
"Thus has decreed. To Charles the rightful heir,
"By long descent and voluntary choice,
"Of duteous subjects hath the Lord assign'd
"His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes
"Arm'd with his sword — yet not of mercy void.
"Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns,
"Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave
"The holy banner." To the English camp
Fearless the warrior strode.
At mid-day meal,
With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth,
The British Chiefs carous'd and quaff'd the bowl
To future conquest. By the centinel
Conducted came the Frank.
"Chiefs," he exclaim'd,
"Salisbury, and ye the representatives
"Of the English King, usurper of this realm,
"To ye the leaders of the invading host
"I come, no welcome messenger. Thus says
"The Maid of Orleans. "With your troops retire
"In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys
"Restore to Charles; so bloodless may you seek
"Your native England; for the God of Hosts
"Thus has decreed. To Charles the rightful heir,
"By long descent and voluntary choice
"Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd
"His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes,
"Arm'd with his sword, yet not of mercy void.
"Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns,
"Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave
"The holy banner."
Wonder made a pause;
To this the laugh succeeds. "What!" Fastolffe cried,
"A woman warrior has your monarch sent
"To save devoted Orleans?" By the rood
"I thank his Grace. If she be young and fair
"No worthless prize my Lords. Go tell your Maid
"Joyful we wait her coming."
"Get thee gone,"
Sternly cried Talbot, "thou who think'st to scare
"With girlish phantasies the English host
"That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee hence,
"Insolent Herald! tell this frantic girl,
"This courtly minion, to avoid my wrath,
"For if she dares the war, I will not stain
"My good-blood-rusted sword — but she shall meet
"The mockery of the camp."
"Nay, scare her not,"
Replied their Chief, "go tell this Maid of Orleans,
"That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight.
"Nor let her fear that rude and iron chains
"Shall gall her tender limbs; for I myself
"Will be her prison, and — "
"Contemptuous Man!
"No more," the Frank exclaimed, as to his cheek
"Rush'd the red anger. "Bearing words of peace
"And timely warning, came I to your camp,
"Here with rude mock'ry and stern insolence
"Received. Bear witness Chieftains! that the French,
"Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war."

So saying he departed. Thro' the tents
As him the centinel conducted, round
He gaz'd and cried; "Oh! I am sad to think
"So many men shall never see the sun
"Go down! Ye English mothers mourn ye now,
"Daughters of England weep! for hard of heart
"Still your mad leaders urge the impious war,
"And for their folly and their wickedness,
"Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall.
"Widow'd and friendless, ye shall sit and weep,
"And, wanting bread, groan for the murdered ones
"In whom your joys were murdered!"
So he cried,
And they who heard him trembled. Thro' the host
Ran the strange tidings. For the fight they arm,
Eager for war no longer, nor of blood
Greedy, but palsied by religious dread.
Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear
Even from themselves; some of the coming fray
Murmuring in hints half heard, tho' understood;
Some deadly pale and ominous of death,
Silently stood and breath'd the inward prayer.

Meantime the. Herald had with hasty steps
Rejoin'd the hallowed troops. "Maiden of God!
"Vainly I proffer'd peace to the proud chiefs:
"Their hearts are hardened."
Thro' the marshall'd band
Ran the loud cry, "Lead, lead us to the foe!"
The mission'd Maid exclaim'd, "Not upon us,
"Not upon us, cry out the innocent blood!"
Given was the signal now; and now were heard
The clarion's clangor, and the trumpet's blast,
Soul-rousing sounds. Like two conflicting clouds,
Pregnant with thunder, rush'd the hostile hosts.
Then man met man — then on the batter'd shield
Rung the loud lance, and thro' the darken'd sky
Fast fell the arrowy storm. Amidst his foes
The Bastard's arm sway'd irresistible
The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid
Led the fierce fight; the Maid, tho' all unus'd
To the rude conflict, now inspir'd by Heaven,
Flashing her flamy falchion thro' the troops,
That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell,
Scattered the trembling ranks. Nor plated shield,
Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque,
Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved,
Like as the Angel of the Lord went forth
And smote his army, when the Assyrian King,
Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen,
Blasphem'd the God of Israel.
Yet the fight
Hung doubtful, where exampling hardiest deeds,
Salisbury mow'd down the foe, and Fastolffe strove,
And in the hottest doings of the war
Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day
When from his name the affrighted sons of France
Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force
And wontless valour, rages round the field
Dreadful in fury; yet in every man
Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith
Of Heaven's assistance firm.
The clang of arms
Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war
Prepar'd, and confident of victory,
Speed forth the troops. Not when afar exhal'd
The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood
That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame
Taints the pure air, wings he more eagerly
To riot on the gore, than rush'd the ranks;
Impatient now for many an ill endur'd
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes
Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray;
The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun,
Now lost in blood their radiance.
"the host
Howl'd the deep wind that ominous of storms
Roll'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night
Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky
Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang;
Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jarr'd
The ponderous battle axe; the groan of death
Commingling frequent with the storm was heard,
And the shrill shriek of Fear.
Amid the fight
Slaughter exultant rides. His giant limbs
Bestride the whirlwind, and his red right arm
Arrowed the lightning. Frantic Fury howls
Amid the thickest ranks, and from her torch
Tartarean flashes shook, and loud was heard
Horror's dread shriek amid the wild uproar.

Lo! where the holy banner waved aloft
The lambent lightnings play'd. Irradiate round
As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field
It shot miraculous splendor. Then their hearts
Sunk, and the English trembled. With such fear
Possessed, as when the combined host beheld
The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice
Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote
The country of the hills, and of the south,
From Baal-gad to Halak, and their Kings,
Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled
From that portentous banner, and the sword
Of France; tho' Talbot with vain valiancy-
Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide
Of conquest. Even their leaders felt dismay;
Fastolffe fled fast, and Salisbury in the rout
Mingles, and all impatient of defeat,
Borne backward Talbot turns. Then echoed loud
The cry of conquest. Deeper grew the storm,
And Darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing,
Brooded the field of death.
Nor in the camp
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives.
On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there
Amid the moats by fear, and the dead gloom
Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops,
Crush'd by fast following numbers who partake
The death they give. As rushing from the snows
Of winter liquified, the torrent tide
Resistless down the mountain rolls along,
Till at the brink of giddy precipice
Arrived, with deaf ning clamor down it falls:
Thus borne along, the affrighted English troops
Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid
The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries
More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waves
That to the passing lightning as they broke
Gleam'd horrible.
Nor of the host so late
Triumphing in the pride of victory,
And swoln with confidence, had now escap'd
One wretched remnant, had not Talbot's mind,
Slow as he mov'd unwilling from the war,
What most might profit the defeated ranks,
Pondered. He reaching safe the massy fort
By St. John's name made holy, kindled up
The guiding fire. Not unobserved it blaz'd;
The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile
Of that proud city, in remembrance fond
Call'd London, light the beacon. Nor aloft
Did they not flame from every smaller fort,
That firm entrenched with walls and deep-delved moats
Included Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain
They cast a lurid splendor; to the troops
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller,
Wand'ring with parched feet o'er the Arabian sands,
The far-seen cistern; he for many a league
Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved
With tempest swell the desart billows round,
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,
Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave
So long bewail'd.
Swift as the affrighted herd
Scud o'er the plain, when frequent thro' the sky
Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host
Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste,
Tho' safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd
And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl
Hears the wood echo, when from the fell beast
Escap'd, of some tall tree the topmost branch
He grasps close-clinging, still of that keen fang
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the big drops stand
On his cold quiv'ring limbs.
Nor now the Maid
Greedy of vengeance urges the pursuit.
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound;
A pleasant music to the routed ranks
Blows the loud blast. Obedient to its voice
The French, tho' eager on the invaders' heads
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.

Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn
To Orleans. There what few to guard the town
Unwilling had remained, haste forth to meet
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held
That rais'd aloft amid the midnight storm,
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced —
Deep thro' the sky the hollow thunders roll'd —
Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner
Wreath'd their red radiance.
Thro' the open'd gate
Slow past, the laden convoy. Then was heard
The shout of exultation, and such joy
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight
Possess'd; as when from Bactria late subdued,
The Macedonian Madman led his troops
Amid the Sogdian desart, where no stream
Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves.
Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed;
Scorch'd by the sun that o'er their morning march
Steam'd his hot vapors, heart subdued and faint;
Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights
Burst the soul-gladdening sound! for thence was seen
The evening sun silvering the tide below,
Where Oxus roll'd along.
Clamors of joy
Echo along the street of Orleans, wont
Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry,
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound,
When from the cannon burst its stores of death.
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles,
And high heap'd carcasses, whence scar'd away
From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing
Rose the night-raven slow.
In the English forts,
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night
Steals in the stragling fugitive; as when,
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky
Serenely shines the sun; with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain,
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.