Jehanne and Alençon and their corps of warriors. Poton with his troop of ragged mercenaries. Gilles de Rais with his glittering circus. Jehanne could not look at Rais. Could not speak to him. She turned her horse and rode away when she saw him coming toward her. "Hail, Pucelle!" he shouted. Jehanne did not respond. It was a clear, windy autumn day. The first real chill was in the air, and Jehanne's horse was frisking and straining to run beneath her. She looked over at Alençon, who rode up grinning alongside her and kicked his horse into a canter, so she urged her horse forward as well. Soon she and Alençon were galloping over the sloping yellow fields, racing through the goldenrod toward the rounded hills; and the sky was very blue and the air smelled of wood smoke and the wind was roaring across her face as she rode, roaring cold and fresh through her hair, and it seemed to her that the old magic was upon them then. That they were righteous and blessed, and on their way to carry out God's holy mission.
