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He stood prepared: nor now with heedless rage
The champions fought, for either knew full well
His foeman's prowess: now they aim the blow
Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel
Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms
Yield to the strong-driven edge; the blood streams down
Their batter'd mail. With swift eye Conrade mark'd
The lifted buckler, and beneath impell'd
His battle-axe; that instant on his helm
The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow
It broke. "Yet yield thee, Englishman!" exclaim'd
The generous Frank; "vain is this bloody strife:
Me should'st thou conquer, little would my death
Avail thee, weak and wounded!"
                                  "Long enough
Talbot has lived," replied the sullen chief:
"His hour is come ; yet shalt not thou survive
To glory in his fall!" So, as he spake,
He lifted from the ground a massy spear,
And came again to battle.
                           Now more fierce
The conflict raged, for careless of himself,
And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still
Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd
The well-thrust javelin, there he swung around
His guardian shield: the long and vain assault
Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil,
He bare his buckler low for weariness;
The buckler, now splinter'd with many a stroke,^[1]
Fell piecemeal; from his riven arms the blood
Stream'd fast: and now the Frenchman's battle-axe
Came unresisted on the shieldless mail.
But then he held his hand. "Urge not to death
This fruitless contest!" he exclaim'd: "oh chief!
Are there not those in England who would feel
Keen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance
Who trembles for thy safety, or a child
Needing a father's care!"
                           Then Talbot's heart
Smote him. "Warrior!" he cried, " if thou dost think
That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence,
And save thyself: I loathe this useless talk."

So saying, he address'd him to the fight,
Impatient of existence: from their arms
Fire flash'd, and quick they panted; but not long
Endured the deadly combat. With full force
Down through his shoulder even to the chest,
Conrade impell'd the ponderous battle-axe;
And at that instant underneath his shield
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl,
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe
Should live to boast his fall.
                               Then with faint hand
Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow
Wiping the cold dews ominous of death.
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove,
While the long lance hung heavy in his side,
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe
He lay, the herald of the English Earl
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw
His master's arms, "Alas! and is it you,
My lord?" he cried. "God pardon you your sins!
I have been forty years your officer,
And time it is I should surrender now
The ensigns of my office!" So he said,
And paying thus his rite of sepulture,
Threw o'er the slaughter'd chief his blazon'd coat.^[2]

Then Conrade thus bespake him: "Englishman,
Do for a dying soldier one kind act!
Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste
Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompense
It pleaseth thee to ask."
                           The herald soon,
Meeting the mission'd Virgin, told his tale.
Trembling she hasten'd on, and when she knew
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan
Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand,
And press it to her heart.
                            "I sent for thee,
My friend!" with interrupted voice he cried,
"That I might comfort this my dying hour
With one good deed. A fair domain is mine;
Let Francis and his Isabel possess
That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile,
Struggling for utterance; then with breathless speed,
And pale as him he mourn'd for, Francis came,
And hung in silence o'er the blameless man,
Even with a brother's sorrow: he pursued,
"This, Joan, will be thy care. I have at home
An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe
Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus:
Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose!"
 
So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth,
And died without a groan.
                          By this the scouts,
Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain
Of Patay had arrived, of late so gay
With marshall'd thousands in their radiant arms,
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun.
And blazon'd shields and gay accoutrements,
The pageantry of war; but now defiled
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms,
And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins
His victor army. Round the royal flag,
Uprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock,
Proffering their eager service. To his arms,
Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force
Compell'd, the embattled towns submit and own
Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain;
Yenville and Mehun yield; from Sully's wall
Hurl'd is the banner'd lion: on they pass,
Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates,
And by the mission'd Maiden's rumor'd deeds
Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims
Feel their own strength; against the English troops
With patriot valor, irresistible,
They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord
Present the city keys.
                        The morn was fair
When Rheims reechoed to the busy hum
Of multitudes, for high solemnity
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves

1. ???
2. ???