In witness whereto, my hand being guided to write, I set my name, Jehanne la Pucelle, this ninth day of May, in the year Fourteen hundred and thirty-one.' "So guide my hand," she said, taking the pen from my fingers; and thus guided, while my tears fell on her hand, she wrote JEHANNE LA PUCELLE.
"Now," quoth she, smiling as of old, "we must seal this missive.

Cut off one lock of my hair with your dagger, for my last gift to my first friend, and make the seal all orderly." I did as she bade, and, bringing a lighted stick from the brazier, I melted wax.

Then, when it was smooth, she laid on it two hairs from the little sundered lock (as was sometimes her custom), and bade me seal with my own signet, and put the brief in my wallet.
"Now, all is done," she said.
"Nay, nay," I said, "to die for thee is more to me than to live in love.
Ah, nay, go forth, I beseech thee!" "With victory shall I go forth, and now I lay my last commands on the last of all my servants.

If in aught I have ever offended thee, in word or deed, forgive me!" I could but bow my head, for I was weeping, though her eyes were dry.
"And so, farewell," she said-- "As thou art leal and true, begone; it is my order, and make no tarrying.
To-morrow I have much to do, and needs must I sleep while these men are quiet.

Say to thy lady that I love her dearly, and bid her hope, as I also hope.