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The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate,
Seeking the inner court,^[1] as yet in hope
To abide a second siege, and with their friends
Find present refuge there. Mistaken men!
The vanquish'd have no friends! defeated thus,
Press'd by pursuit, in vain with eager voice
They call their comrades in the suppliant tones
Of pity now, now with the bitter curse
Of fruitless anger; they indeed within
Fast from the ramparts cast upon the French
Beams, stones, and javelins, — but the gate is barr'd,
The huge portcullis down!
                           Then terror seized
Their hopeless hearts: some, furious in despair,
Turn on their foes; fear-palsied some await
The coming death; some drop the useless sword,
And cry for mercy.
                   Then the Maid of Arc
Took pity on the vanquish'd; and she call'd
Aloud, and cried unto the host of France,
And bade them cease from slaughter. They obey'd
The delegated Damsel. Some there were
Apart who communed murmuring, and of those
Graville address'd her. "Prophetess! our troops
Are few in number ; and to well secure
These many prisoners such a force demands,
As should we spare might shortly make us need
The mercy we bestow; not mercy then,
Rather to these our soldiers, cruelty.
Justice to them, to France, and to our king,
And that regard wise nature hath in each
Implanted of self-safety, all demand
Their deaths."
                "Foul fall such evil policy!"
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. "I tell thee, chief,
God is with us! but God shall hide his face
From them, short-sighted they, as hard of heart,
Who, disregarding all that mitigates,
All that ennobles dreadful war, shed blood
Like water; who, in the deceitful scales
Of worldly wisdom, dare to counterpoise
The right with the expedient, and resolve
Without compunction, as the beam inclines
Held in a faltering or a faithless hand.
These men shall live to see their homes again,
Some to be welcomed there with tears of joy
By those who to the latest hour of life
Will in their grateful prayers remember us.
And when that hour shall come to us, that comes
To all, how gladly should we then exchange
Renown, however splendid, for the thought
That we have saved one victim from the sword, —
If only one, — who begs for us from Heaven
That mercy which to others we have shown!"
 
Turning to Conrade, then she said, "Do thou
Appoint an escort for the prisoners.
Thou need'st not be reminded they are men,
Rather by fortune, or by fate, than choice,
Brought hither from their homes to work our bale,
And for their own not less; but yielded thus
Whom we must neither treat as enemies
Nor trust as friends, but in safe-keeping hold,
Both for their own security and ours."

She said: when Conrade cast his eyes around,
And saw from man to man where Francis ran,
Bidding them spare the vanquish'd; him he hail'd.
"The Maid hath bade me choose a leader forth
To guard the prisoners; thou shall be the man;
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence,
Yet not forgetful of humanity."

Meantime the garrison of that stronghold,
Who, lest the French should enter, had exposed
Their comrades to the sword, sustain'd the siege
In desperate valor. Fast against the walls
The battering-ram was driven; the mangonels
Plied at the ramparts fast; the catapults
Drove there their dreadful darts ; the war-wolves there
Hurl'd their huge stones; and, through the kindled sky,
The engines shower'd their sheets of liquid fire.^[2]

"Feel ye not, comrades, how the ramparts shake?"
Exclaim'd a daring Englishman. "Our foes,
In woman-like compassion, have dismiss'd
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves,
And giving us fair hope, in equal field,
Of better fortune. Sorely here annoy'd,
And slaughter'd by their engines from afar,
We perish. Vainly may the soldier boast
Undaunted courage and the arm of strength,
If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls,
Mark'd for the hunter's arrows. Let us out
And meet them in the battle, man to man,
Either to conquer, or at least to die
A soldier's death."
                      "Nay, nay — not so," replied
One of less hopeful courage. "Though they point
Their engines here, our archers not in vain
Discharge their quarrels. Let the walls and works
Still be defended; it will then be time
To meet the.n in the battle man to man,
When these shall fail us."
                            Scarcely had he said,
When a huge stone, thrown from some petrary
Smote him upon the breast, and with dismay
Fill'd all around; for as it shattered him,
His blood besprinkled them, and they beheld
His mangled lungs lie quivering.
                                   "Such the fate
Of those who trust them to their walls' defence!"
Again exclaim'd the soldier: "Thus they fall,
Betray'd by their own fears. Courage alone
Can save us."
                 Nor to draw them from the fort
Now needed eloquence; with one accord
They bade him lead the onset. Forth they rush'd
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain,
Swollen by the autumnal tempest. Vega rolls
His rapid waters, when the gathered storm,
On the black heights of Hatteril bursting, swells
The tide of desolation.
                         Then the Maid
Spake to the Son of Orleans, "Let our troops
Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit
Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey."

1. ???
2. ???