“Ay, if the good God will arise to work miracles again, such things might be; but how can we look for Him to do so?  What manner of man is the Dauphin of France that he should look for divine deliverance?  ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ so says the proverb; but what of those who lie sunk in lethargy or despair, and seek to drown thought or care in folly and riotous living—­heedless of the ruin of the realm?”

“There is another proverb, good mine uncle, that tells how man’s extremity is God’s opportunity,” quoth Bertrand thoughtfully; “if we did judge of God’s mercy by man’s worthiness to receive the same, we might well sink in despair.  But His power and His goodness are not limited by our infirmities, and therein alone lies our hope.”

De Baudricourt uttered a sound between a snort and a grunt.  I knew not what he thought of Bertrand’s answer; but that brief dialogue aroused within me afresh the desire I had before expressed to see the maid, Jeanne of Domremy; and as the sun upon the morrow shone out bright and clear, after a week of heavy rain storms, we agreed that no better opportunity could we hope for to ride across to the little village, and try whether it were possible to obtain speech with the young girl about whom such interest had been aroused in some breasts.

We spoke no word to De Baudricourt of our intention.  Bertrand knew from his manner that he was thinking more and more earnestly of that declaration on the part of the village maiden that her Lord—­the King of Heaven—­had revealed to her that she must be sent to the Dauphin, to help him to drive out the English from his country, and to place the crown of France upon his head, and that he, Robert de Baudricourt, was the instrument who would be used to speed her on her way.  Bertrand knew that this thought was weighing upon the mind of his kinsman, and the more so as the time for the fulfilment of the prophecy drew nearer.

Autumn had come.  Winter was hard at hand; and before Mid-Lent the promised succour to France was to arrive through the means of this maiden—­this Jeanne d’Arc.

“He is waiting and watching,” spoke Bertrand, as we rode through the forest, the thinning leaves of which allowed the sunlight to play merrily upon our path.  “He says in his heart that if this thing be of God, the Maid will come again when the time draws near; but that if it is phantasy, or if she be deluded of the Devil, perchance his backwardness will put a check upon her ardour, and we shall hear no more of it.  The Abbe Perigord, his Confessor, has bidden him beware lest it be a snare of the Evil One”—­and as he spoke these words Bertrand crossed himself, and I did the like, for the forest is an ill place in which to talk of the Devil, as all men know.

“But for my part, when I think upon her words, and see again the look of her young face, I cannot believe that she has been thus deceived; albeit we are told that the Devil can make himself appear as an angel of light.”