In sooth, the faintness was deathlike for awhile, and she did beckon to her priest to come close to her and receive her confession, whilst we formed round her in a circle, keeping off all idle gazers, and standing facing away from her, with bent, uncovered heads.
Was it possible that her Lord was about to take her from us, her task yet unfulfilled?
It was hard to believe it, and yet we could not but fear; wherefore our hearts were heavy within us during that long hour which followed.
And the battle?
It was raging still, but the heart of it seemed to be lacking.

The English were crying out that the White Witch was dead, taunting their foes with being led by a woman, and asking them where she was gone to now.
Dunois came hurrying up for news of her.

The Maid roused herself and beckoned to him to come to her where she lay, and asked him of the battle.

Dunois told her that the courage of the men seemed failing, that he thought of sounding the retreat.
For a few moments she lay still; her eyes bent full upon the blinding blue of the sunny sky.

Then she spoke: "Sound no retreat, my General," she spoke, "but give the men a breathing space.