Seven years have sped by, and the scene shifts to the ancient cathedral of Rheims. A great concourse of nobles in glittering armour with pennons and banners fills the nave. Trumpets are sounding, and outside the crowd raises cheer upon cheer. The sun streams in through the painted windows, casting rainbow hues on the exultant throng. Ten thousand candles are burning, and the smoke of incense is ascending. At the high altar, clad in the ermine robe of state, kneels the Dauphin of France. An archbishop, wearing his mitre and the splendid robes of his high office, places the crown upon the prince’s head, and anoints him with the sacred oil out of the ancient flask which the priests say came straight from heaven. The Dauphin is king in very deed, and a great shout of joy echoes and re-echoes from the vaulted roof. And now all eyes turn to the striking figure by the side of the newly-made king. You see a noble maiden, clad in knightly armour, and holding a drawn sword in one hand and a white banner in the other. She kneels at her prince’s feet, and tears of joy fall from her eyes as she greets him “King” for the first time. “Now,” she says, “is the will of God fulfilled.” Who is this maiden, and why holds she such an honoured place amidst this noble throng? Let the old chroniclers relate her story. It is one of the most wondrous ever told. What Wallace did for Scotland this maid has done for France. In the year 1429 there was a young girl living in Domremy, a village in the east of France. She was named Joan, and was the daughter of James Darc and Isobel, his wife. Joan was but a country maid that was wont to herd the cattle by day and sew and spin in the evening. She was a strong, handsome girl, nobly formed, with dark hair and lustrous eyes. About her thirteenth year she grew silent and dreamy, and loved to steal away from her companions to the village church, where she knelt for hours together in silent prayer. One day she was standing in her father’s garden when she heard a Voice, and saw a great light. The Voice bade her be diligent in work and prayer, for God had chosen her to save France. She replied that she was but a poor girl who could not ride, or lead soldiers in the wars; but the Voice spoke to her again and again, telling her that she must go. The saints appeared to her, too, and they gave her the same message, and added words of counsel and warning. The Visions and the Voices were with her night and day, and at length she felt that she _must_ do their bidding.