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Little regarding: on the one side he
Who to the English had her bidding borne;
Firmly he stood, untired and undismay'd,
Though many a spear against his burgonet
Was thrust, and on his arm the buckler hung
Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts,
Even like a porcupine, when in his rage
Roused, he collects within him all his force,
Himself a quiver. On the other hand,
Competing with him to protect the Maid,
Conrade maintain'd the fight; at all points arm'd,
A jazerent of double mail he wore;
Its weight in little time had wearied one
Of common strength; but unencumber'd he,
And unfatigued, alertly moved in it,
And wielded with both hands a battle-axe,
Which gave no second stroke; for where it fell,
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head,
As at the Maid he aim'd his javelin,
Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow
The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove
The fragments. At his fall the enemy,
Stricken with instantaneous fear, gave way.
That instant Conrade, with an active bound,
Sprung on the battlements;^[1] and there he stood,
Keeping the ascent. The herald and the Maid
Follow'd, and soon the exulting cry of France
Along the lists was heard, as there they saw
Her banner planted. Gladdisdale beheld,
And hastened from his well-defended post,
That where immediate danger more required
There he might take his stand; against the Maid
He bent his way, and hoped one happy blow
Might end at once the new-raised hopes of France,
And by her death, to the English arms their old
Ascendency restore. Nor did not Joan
Areed his purpose, but with lifted shield
Prepared she stood, and poised her sparkling spear.
The English chief came on; he raised his mace;
With circling force the iron weight swung high,^[2]
And Gladdisdale with his collected strength
Impell'd the blow. The man of lowly line
That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield,
And met the broken stroke, and thrust his lance
Clean through the gorget of the English knight.
A gallant man, of no ignoble line,
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace;
They heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died,
And to their ancient burial-place were borne
With book and bell, torches, and funeral chant;
And duly for their souls the neighboring monks
The solemn office sung. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race,
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share
A common grave.
                     Then terror seized the host,
Their chieftain dead. And lo! where on the wall
Maintain'd of late by Gladdisdale so well,
The Son of Orleans stands, and sways around
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,
Till on the battlements his comrades climb
And raise the shout of conquest. Then appall'd
The English fled: nor fled they unpursued,
For mingling with the foremost fugitives,
The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng
The knights of France together o'er the bridge
Press'd forward. Nor the garrison within
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall,
For in the entrance of the fort the fight
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate
The vanquish'd English and their eager foes
Pass'd in the flying conflict.
                               Well I deem
And wisely did the heroic Spaniard act
At Vera Cruz, when he his yet sound ships
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops
In conquest sought their safety; victors hence
At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans,
And by Otompan, on that bloody field
When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd,
Fierce in vain valor, on their dreadiul foes.
There was a portal in the English fort
Which open'd on the wall;^[3] a speedier path
In the hour of safety, whence the soldier's eye
Might overlook the river's pleasant course.
Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war;
For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there,
And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom
Fought not in that day's battle. Of success
Desperate, for from above the garrison
(Lest upon friend and enemy alike
The indiscriminating blow should light)
Could give no aid, the English of that way
Bethought them; by that egress they forsook
St. Loup's, and the Orleanites with shouts of joy
Beheld the Virgin's banner on its height
In triumph planted. Swift along the wall
The English haste to St. John's neighboring fort,
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives
Mingled and waged the war; and combatants,
Lock'd in each other's grasp, together fell
Precipitate.
              But foremost of the French,
Dealing destruction, Conrade made his way
Along the wall, and to the nearest fort
Came in pursuit; nor did not then the chief
What most might serve bethink him; but he took
His stand in the portal, and first looking back,
Lifted his voice aloud; three times he raised,
Cheering and calling on his countrymen,
That voice o'er all the uproar heard afar,
Then to the strife addrest himself, assail'd
By numerous foes, who clamorously now
Menaced his single person. He the while
Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash,
But in his vantage more than his own strength
Trusting; for narrow was the portal way,
To one alone fit passage, from above
Not overbrow'd by jutting parapet,^[4]
Whence aught might crush him. He in double mail
Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well tried
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head
And fenced with iron plates, a buckler broad
Hung from his neck. Nor to dislodge the chief

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