There was much talk all down the table of these matters; but the Maid took little part in this.  Her eyes were heavy, and she looked weary and pale.  I doubt not she had spent the night previous in vigil and prayer, as was so often her wont.  When we rose from our repast, she retired into a small inner room reserved for her use, and the little Charlotte went with her.  A curtain, partly drawn, shut off this room from the outer one in which we knights and some of her pages and gentlemen sat talking; and I was just able to see from where I sat that the Maid had laid herself down upon a couch, the little one nestled beside her, and I felt sure by her stillness and immobility that she was soon soundly asleep, taking the rest she sorely needed after the exertions and excitements of the early hours of the day.

Our conversation languished somewhat, for the warmth of the May afternoon made us all drowsy.  We, like the Maid herself, had laid aside our coats of mail, and were enjoying a spell of rest and leisure; and there was silence in both the rooms, when suddenly we—­if indeed we slept—­were awakened by the voice of the Maid speaking in the tones of one who dreams.

“I must up and against the English!” she cried, and at the first word I started broad awake and was on my feet at the door of communication, looking towards her.

She still lay upon the couch, but her eyes were wide open and fixed; her lips moved.

“I hear!  I hear!” she went on, yet still as one who dreams, “I am ready—­I will obey.  Only tell me what I must do.  Is it against the towers I must go, to assail them?  Or is it that Fastolffe comes against us with yet another host?”

Little Charlotte here pulled the Maid by the hand, crying out: 

“What are you saying?  To whom do you speak?  There is nobody here but you and me!”

The Maid sprang to her feet, wide awake now in an instant.  She bent for one moment over the wondering child, and kissed her tenderly, as though to soothe the alarm in the baby eyes.

“Run to your mother, ma mie, for I must off and away on the instant,” then wheeling round with her air of martial command, she called to me and said, “To arms at once!  I must to the front!  French blood is flowing.  They are seeking to act without me.  O my poor soldiers, they are falling and dying!  To horse! to horse!  I come to save them!”

Was she dreaming?  What did it mean?  The town seemed as quiet as the still summer afternoon!  Not a sound of tumult broke the silence of the streets.  Yet the Maid was having us arm her with lightning speed, and Bertrand had rushed off at the first word for her horse and ours.

“I know not what they are doing,” spoke the Maid, “but my voices tell me to fly to their succour!  Ah! why could they not have told me before!  Have I not ever been ready and longing to lead them against the foe?”

She was ready now.  We were all ready, and the echoes of the quiet house awoke beneath our feet as we clattered down the staircase to the courtyard below, where already the horses were standing pawing the ground with impatience, seeming to scent the battle from afar.  The Maid swung herself lightly to the saddle with scarce a touch from me.