The march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad with
jubilation; but this one was a thing to break it.

We rode now to the King's lodgings, which was the Archbishop's country
palace; and he was presently ready, and we galloped off and took position
at the head of the army. By this time the country-people were arriving in
multitudes from every direction and massing themselves on both sides of
the road to get sight of Joan--just as had been done every day since our
first day's march began. Our march now lay through the grassy plain, and
those peasants made a dividing double border for that plain. They
stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright colors on each
side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it had a white
jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her. Endless
borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front of us--that
is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we had been marching
through all these days. Not a lane between multitudinous flowers standing
upright on their stems--no, these flowers were always kneeling; kneeling,
these human flowers, with their hands and faces lifted toward Joan of
Arc, and the grateful tears streaming down. And all along, those closest
to the road hugged her feet and kissed them and laid their wet cheeks
fondly against them. I never, during all those days, saw any of either
sex stand while she passed, nor any man keep his head covered. Afterward
in the Great Trial these touching scenes were used as a weapon against
her. She had been made an object of adoration by the people, and this was
proof that she was a heretic--so claimed that unjust court.

As we drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and towers
was gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of people; and all
the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and gloomed with drifting