Nobody could win victories that way. Hence, running became the habit of the French troops, and no wonder. Yet all that those troops needed in order to be good fighters was a leader who would attend strictly to business--a leader with all authority in his hands in place of a tenth of it along with nine other generals equipped with an equal tenth apiece. They had a leader rightly clothed with authority now, and with a head and heart bent on war of the most intensely businesslike and earnest sort--and there would be results. No doubt of that. They had Joan of Arc; and under that leadership their legs would lose the art and mystery of running.
Yes, Joan was in great spirits. She was here and there and everywhere, all over the camp, by day and by night, pushing things. And wherever she came charging down the lines, reviewing the troops, it was good to hear them break out and cheer. And nobody could help cheering, she was such a vision of young bloom and beauty and grace, and such an incarnation of pluck and life and go! she was growing more and more ideally beautiful every day, as was plain to be seen--and these were days of development; for she was well past seventeen now--in fact, she was getting close upon seventeen and a half--indeed, just a little woman, as you may say.
The two young Counts de Laval arrived one day--fine young fellows allied to the greatest and most illustrious houses of France; and they could not rest till they had seen Joan of Arc. So the King sent for them and presented them to her, and you may believe she filled the bill of their expectations. When they heard that rich voice of hers they must have thought it was a flute; and when they saw her deep eyes and her face, and the soul that looked out of that face, you could see that the sight of her stirred them like a poem, like lofty eloquence, like martial music. One of them wrote home to his people, and in his letter he said, "It seemed something divine to see her and hear her." Ah, yes, and it was a true word. Truer word was never spoken.
He saw her when she was ready to begin her march and open the campaign, and this is what he said about it:
"She was clothed all in white armor save her head, and in her hand she carried a little battle-ax; and when she was ready to mount her great black horse he reared and plunged and would not let her. Then she said, 'Lead him to the cross.' This cross was in front of the church close by. So they led him there. Then she mounted, and he never budged, any more than if he had been tied. Then she turned toward the door of the church and said, in her soft womanly voice, 'You, priests and people of the Church, make processions and pray to God for us!' Then she spurred away, under her standard, with her little ax in her hand, crying 'Forward--march!' One of her brothers, who came eight days ago, departed with her; and he also was clad all in white armor."
I was there, and I saw it, too; saw it all, just as he pictures it. And I see it yet--the little battle-ax, the dainty plumed cap, the white armor--all in the soft June afternoon; I see it just as if it were yesterday. And I rode with the staff--the personal stdaff--the staff of Joan of Arc.
That young count was dying to go, too, but the King held him back for the present. But Joan had made him a promise. In his letter he said:
"She told me that when the King starts for Rheims I shall go with him. But God grant I may not have to wait till then, but may have a part in the battles!"
She made him that promise when she was taking leave of my lady the Duchess d'Alen‡on. The duchess was exacting a promise, so it seemed a proper ttime for others to do the like. The duchess was troubled for her husband, for she foresaw desperate fighting; and she held Joan to her breast, and stroked her hair lovingly, and said:
"You must watch over him, dear, and take care of him, and send him back to me safe. I require it of you; I will not let you go till you promise."
Joan said:
"I give you the promise with all my heart; and it is not just words, it is a promise; you shall have him back without a hurt.