"Now she's taking her little plumed cap off to somebody—ah, it's fine and graceful!"
"She's patting that woman on the head with her gauntlet."
"Oh, she was born on a horse—see her turn in her saddle, and kiss the hilt of her sword to the ladies in the window that threw the flowers down."
"Now there's a poor woman lifting up a child—she's kissed it—oh, she's divine!"
"What a dainty little figure it is, and what a lovely face—and such color and animation!"
Joan's slender long banner streaming backward had an accident—the fringe caught fire from a torch. She leaned forward and crushed the flame in her hand.
"She's not afraid of fire nor anything!" they shouted, and delivered a storm of admiring applause that made everything quake.
She rode to the cathedral and gave thanks to God, and the people crammed the place and added their devotions to hers; then she took up her march again and picked her slow way through the crowds and the wilderness of torches to the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, where she was to be the guest of his wife as long as she stayed in the city, and have his young daughter for comrade and room-mate. The delirium of the people went on the rest of the night, and with it the clamor of the joy-bells and the welcoming cannon.
Joan of Arc had stepped upon her stage at last, and was ready to begin.