"_On ne passe pas!_" and the Maid ranges herself beside those steadfast figures immovable; and "They" do not pass. Shuttle and Loom to their proper places once more; back to May 22nd, 1430! Joan was right. Her little troop was enough, for no one molested them, the enemy not having yet reached that neighborhood. They came to Compiègne about sunrise of May 23rd, and once more were joyfully received. How Joan spent that last fateful day we know not from any chronicle; we may be sure that she prayed, and heard mass if mass were to hear; we may hope she had some rest, for she needed it sorely. We may well believe, too, that she listened for her Voices, hoping for counsel and--if it might be--cheer; but the Voices were silent. She was alone now. Nevertheless, she said afterward, had the heavenly counsellors bidden her go out, saying plainly that she would be captured, she would still have gone. In another mood, it is true, after imprisonment, and with death close upon her, she thought that had she known the hour, she might have kept her chamber during it; but the first is the true mood, for all who know her. At five in the afternoon she rode out to attack the nearest Burgundian outpost, at the village of Margny, opposite the bridge-head on the northern side of the river. Boldly she rode her gray charger, in full armor, wearing a surcoat of scarlet and gold, followed by her four or five hundred men-at-arms, horse and foot. The enemy, taken by surprise, scattered in disorder. All might have gone well, had not John of Luxembourg, commander of Flemings at Clairoix hard by, chosen this moment to visit the Burgundian captain in charge of Margny. Seeing the skirmish, and his brother officer in difficulties, he dashed to the rescue, sending back meanwhile to his own camp for reinforcements. Another moment and the tide had turned. The French were surrounded, set upon, cut down, routed. The Maid tried desperately to rally them; cried her brave battle cry, waved her shining standard. What mortal could do, she did. "Beyond the nature of woman," says Chastellain, the Burgundian chronicler, "she did great feats, and took great pains to save her company from loss, staying behind them like a captain, and like the bravest of the troop." Twice she charged the men of Luxembourg and drove them back. In vain! the hour was come. She was alone now, save for her brothers, d'Aulon, and the faithful few, her bodyguard. These could not save her. Round her, like hounds about a deer at bay, leaped and shouted the Burgundian soldiers, all eager for the rich quarry. She was dragged from her horse, beaten to earth. D'Aulon and the rest tried to help her up, but were overwhelmed by numbers and made prisoners, every man of them. "Yield thee, Pucelle!" cried a dozen voices, as a dozen brawny hands clutched the slight form and held it fast, fast. Joan raised herself, and looked round on her exulting foes, conquered yet unafraid.