The white folds of the banner still fluttered against the wall, the white armour of the Maid shone dazzling in the sunshine as she dashed forward.

The army to a man sprang forward in her wake with that rush, with that power of confidence against which nothing can stand.
The English shrieked in their astonishment and affright.

The dead had come to life! The White Witch, struck down as they thought by mortal wound, was charging at the head of her armies.

The French were swarming up the scaling ladders, pouring into their tower, carrying all before them.
Fighting was useless.

Nothing remained but flight.