“Forward, attack!” cried Joan, as she left the tent, waving her banner. The troops advanced, but the apprehensions of the Duke proved to be well founded. The breach was too high. A ladder must be raised. In the meantime, among the daring ones who had rushed forward, was Jean. “Halt, boy,” shouted La Hire, at the same time pulling him back. “I don’t think your skull is tough enough to resist that fellow’s club.” He pointed to the breach. Jean looked up and saw a giant standing in the opening, wielding a massive club, and laughing with fiendish glee as he dashed everything about him to pieces. “Wait a bit,” said La Hire. “I think your namesake, the gunner, can stop that fellow’s laughing.” He was right. The catapult hurled a rock through the air, the giant flung up his arms, and fell backward from the wall, a great shout accompanying his fall. Joan rushed up the ladder shouting “Forward, forward, my brave ones,” but a stone felled her to the earth. “Hurrah!” shouted the English, “the witch is dead.” Their joy was short-lived, however. Fear again seized them, as they not only heard her assuring words to those about her, but saw her prepare to ascend the ladder again. “All right now, boy,” said La Hire, as Jean again rushed forward. “I am with you this time.” They quickly climbed the ladder, but when Jean reached the top some of the English had been thrown down, and others were flying into the city. Among those who had been hurled down was Alexander de la Pole. When the Duke of Suffolk saw his brother fallen, and the French pouring in, he gave up the fight, and, like the others, turned toward the city. “Halt! halt! surrender!” a strong voice shouted. Suffolk stopped and looked at his pursuer. He could have vanquished him with little effort, but he did not consider it chivalrous to take advantage of an enemy. “Who are you?” he asked. “Jean Renault,” was the answer. “Nobleman?” “Yes.” “Knight?” “No.” “Kneel down.” Jean obeyed. The Duke raised his sword, and with the words, “In the name of God and Saint George I dub thee knight,” he dealt him three blows upon the shoulder with the flat of the blade, and then offered him his sword. Jean arose, pressed the Duke’s hand to his lips, and took his sword, saying, “I do not deserve this honor, my Lord Duke, but I am very proud to receive the sword of the first of England’s heroes.” “You are right,” said a deep voice behind him; and, as if in benediction, La Hire laid his mailed hand upon his head. “You are right, say I. All the knighthood of France would begrudge you this sword. By Saint George, I am just as happy as if I had seen that sword in the hand of my own son.” “The noble La Hire’s word,” said the Duke, “is sufficient warrant that my sword will be worthily carried, Sir Jean Renault; there is no stain upon it, guard its purity.” Jean’s feelings overcame him, and he could make no reply.