rm a couch for her; her hands were clasped and her eyes
closed as though in prayer.

Then a little puff of wind arose, followed by another, and yet
another--soft, warm wind, but we saw the folds of the banner begin
to unfurl. Little by little the breeze strengthened; breathlessly
we watched the gradual lifting of the silken standard, till, with
an indescribably proud motion--as though some spirit was infused
into the lifeless silk--it launched itself like a living thing
against the tower wall.

"It touches! It touches!" cried D'Aulon.

"It touches! It touches!" we shouted in response.

"It touches! It touches!" came an echoing wave sound from the
soldiers watching from their resting places.

The Maid was on her feet in a moment. Where was the weakness, the
feebleness, the faintness of the wounded girl? All gone--all
swallowed up in the triumph of the victorious warrior.

"Onward! Onward, my children. Onward, de la part de Dieu! He has
given you the victory! Onwards and take the tower! Nothing can
resist you now!"

Her voice was heard all over the field. The white folds of the
banner still fluttered against the wall, the white armour of the
Maid shone dazzling in the sunshine as she dashed forward. The army
to a man sprang forward in her wake with that rush, with that power
of confidence against which nothing can stand.

The English shrieked in their astonishment and affright. The dead
had come to life! The White Witch, struck down as they thought by
mortal wound, was charging at the head of her armies. The French
were swarming up the scaling ladders, pouring into their tower,
carrying all before them.

Fighting was useless. Nothing remained but flight. Helter skelter,
like rabbits or rats, they fled this way and that before us. Not an
Englishman remained upon the south side of the river. The French
flag waved from the top of the tower. The seven months' siege was
raised by the Maid eight days after her entrance into the city.

CHAPTER XIII. HOW THE MAID WON A NEW NAME.

"Entrez, entrez--de la part de Dieu--all is yours!"

Thus spoke the Maid, as we rushed the tower of the boulevard, the
English flying this way and that before us. The Maid found herself
face to face with the commander--that Sir William Glasdale, who had
called her vile names a few days before, and had promised to burn
her for a witch if once she fell into his hands.

But she had no ill words for him, as she saw him, sword in hand,