Jeanne was of course at the head of her men, and only for a moment did she permit them to pause before the set-back. Calling loudly for faggots and beams to bridge the moat she descended into the dry fosse, then climbed out again to the shelving ridge which divided the two trenches. Some of the men ran for the bundles of wood and bridging material, while the others followed her to the ridge. Dismay again seized them as the wide deep moat full to the brim with water stretched before them. But Jeanne was not daunted. Handing her standard to a man at her side, she took a lance and tested the water amid a shower of arrows and stones. "Surrender," she called to the men on the walls. "Surrender to the King of France." "Witch! Evil One!" they shouted in answer. By this time the soldiers had brought bundles of wood, faggots, and whatever would help to fill the moat, Jeanne calling encouragingly to them the while. Presently they were enabled to struggle across, and the charge began. At this instant, as had been arranged, a great commotion was heard in the city, the loyalists running through the streets and shouting: "All is lost! The enemy has entered." It was hoped that this would help the King's troops without the gates. The people in the churches, panic-stricken, rushed to their homes, shutting their doors behind them, but there was nothing gained. The garrison kept their heads, and their numbers at the gates and on the ramparts were increased. The firing now became very heavy; the artillery bellowed and the guns roared in answer. There were shouts of men, and words of order. And through the rattle of guns, the whizzing rush of stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and steel harness, the hundreds of war cries there sounded the wonderful, silvery tones of a girl's voice, clear as a clarion call: "On! On, friends! They are ours." On the shelving ridge between the two ditches stood the Maid, her white armour gleaming in the sunshine, a shining figure, exposed to every shot and missile. Hour after hour she stood, in the heat of the fire, shouting directions to her men, urging, cheering them while always the struggle raged around her, her banner floating over her head. Suddenly a mighty shout of joy went up from the men on the walls. Three times the roar rent the din of battle. For the Witch had fallen, pierced through the thigh by a bolt from a crossbow. Undismayed, Jeanne struggled to her feet, when the man at her side who bore her standard was hit in the foot. Lifting his visor to pull the arrow from the wound he was struck between the eyes, and fell dead at the maiden's feet. Jeanne caught the standard as he fell, but for a moment her own strength failed her, and she sank beside the standard bearer. When her men would have borne her out of the battle she would not consent, but rallied them to the charge. Then slowly, painfully, she crept behind a heap of stones, and soon the dauntless voice rang out: