In the red glare of the hundred bonfires the whiteness of her armour seemed to take a new lustre.

The rent upon the shoulder could be plainly seen, showing where the arrow had torn its way.

Women sobbed aloud as they looked; men cursed the hand which had shot the bolt; all joined in frantic cheers of joy to see her riding alone, erect and smiling, though with a dreamy stillness of countenance which physical lassitude in part accounted for.
"I thank you, my friends, I thank you," she kept saying, as though no other words would come, save when now and again she would add, "But to God must you give your thanks and blessings.

It is He who has delivered you." It was not far to the house of the Treasurer, and there in the threshold stood the little Charlotte, a great wreath of bay and laurel in her tiny hands.

She was lifted up in her father's strong arms, and ere the Maid was able to dismount from her horse the little one had placed the triumphal wreath upon her fair head.
O, what a shout arose! It was like the mighty burst of some great thunderstorm.