Taking no leave of king or Council (although it seems probable that Charles knew of and consented to her departure), receiving no direction from saint or angel, she rode out from Sully with her "military household," four or five lances, among them her brothers and the ever-faithful D'Aulon. At Lagny she found a little band of men-at-arms who were ready to fight for France; they joined forces, and rode on toward Paris. There, the Maid always knew, lay the key of the situation; there, at what Philip of Burgundy called "the heart of the mystical body of the kingdom," the final blow must be struck. The chronicles have little or nothing to say about this journey; we know that about Easter, April 16th, she came to Melun, and that the city, hearing of her approach, rose suddenly upon its Anglo-Burgundian garrison, drove them out of town, and opened wide its gates to the Maid. Here was good fortune indeed. Joan crossed the Seine, and entered the town amid general rejoicings. However it might be in Royal Councils, the heart of France still honored and loved its Pucelle. After such deep and manifold humiliations, Joan might well have been strengthened in spirit as she stood on the ramparts of Melun on a certain day in Easter week. Among the many pictures of her, I like to conjure up this one; to see her standing there, leaning on her lance (she was on sentry duty), looking out toward that "Isle of France" on whose edge she now stood; no "isle" in reality, but the quaintly-named province whose heart was Paris. I can see her uplifted look, her kindling eyes, can almost hear the deep-drawn breath of high resolve and dedication. And then the blow fell. She had always known that her time was short, that she had been given little more than a year to fulfill her task; knew moreover, only too bitterly well, how much of the short time had been frittered away in spite of all her efforts; yet she had hoped against hope that she might be permitted to finish her allotted task. The Voices, I have said, had been confused of late; hinting at coming danger, but specifying nothing. Now, as she stood on the rampart of Melun that April day, they suddenly broke the silence, speaking loud and clear. No one but herself may tell the story; hear her tell it to her judges, a year later: "As I was on the ramparts of Melun, St. Catherine and St. Margaret warned me that I should be captured before Midsummer Day; that so it must needs be; nor must I be afraid and astounded; but take all things well, for God would help me. So they spoke, almost every day. And I prayed that when I was taken I might die in that hour, without wretchedness of long captivity; but the Voices said that so it must be. Often I asked the hour, which they told me not; had I known the hour I would not have gone into battle."[65]