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He stood prepared: nor now with heedless rage The champions fought, for either knew full well His foeman's prowess: now they aim the blow Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms Yield to the strong-driven edge; the blood streams down Their batter'd mail. With swift eye Conrade mark'd The lifted buckler, and beneath impell'd His battle-axe; that instant on his helm The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow It broke. "Yet yield thee, Englishman!" exclaim'd The generous Frank; "vain is this bloody strife: Me should'st thou conquer, little would my death Avail thee, weak and wounded!" "Long enough Talbot has lived," replied the sullen chief: "His hour is come ; yet shalt not thou survive To glory in his fall!" So, as he spake, He lifted from the ground a massy spear, And came again to battle. Now more fierce The conflict raged, for careless of himself, And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd The well-thrust javelin, there he swung around His guardian shield: the long and vain assault Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil, He bare his buckler low for weariness; The buckler, now splinter'd with many a stroke, Fell piecemeal; from his riven arms the blood Stream'd fast: and now the Frenchman's battle-axe Came unresisted on the shieldless mail. But then he held his hand. "Urge not to death This fruitless contest!" he exclaim'd: "oh chief! Are there not those in England who would feel Keen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance Who trembles for thy safety, or a child Needing a father's care!" Then Talbot's heart Smote him. "Warrior!" he cried, " if thou dost think That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence, And save thyself: I loathe this useless talk."

So saying, he address'd him to the fight, Impatient of existence: from their arms Fire flash'd, and quick they panted; but not long Endured the deadly combat. With full force Down through his shoulder even to the chest, Conrade impell'd the ponderous battle-axe; And at that instant underneath his shield Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl, Even in his death rejoicing that no foe Should live to boast his fall. Then with faint hand Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow Wiping the cold dews ominous of death. He laid him on the earth, thence to remove, While the long lance hung heavy in his side, Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe He lay, the herald of the English Earl With faltering step drew near, and when he saw His master's arms, "Alas! and is it you, My lord?" he cried. "God pardon you your sins! I have been forty years your officer, And time it is I should surrender now The ensigns of my office!" So he said, And paying thus his rite of sepulture, Threw o'er the slaughter'd chief his blazon'd coat.

Then Conrade thus bespake him: "Englishman, Do for a dying soldier one kind act! Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompense It pleaseth thee to ask." The herald soon, Meeting the mission'd Virgin, told his tale. Trembling she hasten'd on, and when she knew The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand, And press it to her heart. "I sent for thee, My friend!" with interrupted voice he cried, "That I might comfort this my dying hour With one good deed. A fair domain is mine; Let Francis and his Isabel possess That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile, Struggling for utterance; then with breathless speed, And pale as him he mourn'd for, Francis came, And hung in silence o'er the blameless man, Even with a brother's sorrow: he pursued, "This, Joan, will be thy care. I have at home An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus: Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose!" So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth, And died without a groan. By this the scouts, Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain Of Patay had arrived, of late so gay With marshall'd thousands in their radiant arms, And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun. And blazon'd shields and gay accoutrements, The pageantry of war; but now defiled With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms, And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins His victor army. Round the royal flag, Uprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock, Proffering their eager service. To his arms, Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force Compell'd, the embattled towns submit and own Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain; Yenville and Mehun yield; from Sully's wall Hurl'd is the banner'd lion: on they pass, Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates, And by the mission'd Maiden's rumor'd deeds Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims Feel their own strength; against the English troops With patriot valor, irresistible, They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord Present the city keys. The morn was fair When Rheims reechoed to the busy hum Of multitudes, for high solemnity Assembled. To the holy fabric moves