She grew frightened at her first wound, and only threw off the touch of womanly fear when she heard the signal for retreat.
Yet more womanly was the purity with which she passed through the brutal warriors of a mediaeval camp.

It was her care for her honour that led her to clothe herself in a soldier's dress.

She wept hot tears when told of the foul taunts of the English, and called passionately on God to witness her chastity.

"Yield thee, yield thee, Glasdale," she cried to the English warrior whose insults had been foulest as he fell wounded at her feet; "you called me harlot! I have great pity on your soul." But all thought of herself was lost in the thought of her mission.

It was in vain that the French generals strove to remain on the Loire.