“And what thinks De Baudricourt of her mission?  Does he ever speak of it?”

“Not often; and yet I know that he has not forgotten it.  For ofttimes he does sink into a deep reverie; and disjointed words break from him, which tell me whither his thoughts have flown.

“At the first he did say to me, ’Let the girl go home; let us see if we hear more of her.  If this be but a phantasy on her part; if she has been fasting and praying and dreaming, till she knows not what is true and what is her own imagining, why, time will cure her of her fancies and follies.  If otherwise—­well, we will see when the time comes.  To act in haste were to act with folly.’

“And so he dismissed the matter, though, as I say, he doth not forget it, and I think never a day comes but he thinks on it.”

“And while the Lord waits, the English are active!” cried Sir Guy with a note of impatience in his voice.  “They are already threatening Orleans.  Soon they will march in strength upon it.  And if that city once fall, why what hope is there even for such remnants of his kingdom as still remain faithful south of the Loire?  The English will have them all.  Already they call our King in mockery ‘the King of Bourges;’ soon even that small domain will be reft away, and then what will remain for him or for us?  If the visions of the maiden had been true, why doth not the Lord strike now, before Salisbury of England can invest the city?  If Orleans fall, all is lost!”

“But Jeanne says that Orleans shall be saved,” spoke Bertrand in a low voice, “and if she speaks sooth, must not she and we alike leave the times and seasons in the hand of the Lord?”

Sir Guy shrugged his shoulders, and gave me a shrewd glance, the meaning of which I was at no loss to understand.  He thought that Bertrand’s head had been something turned, and that he had become a visionary, looking rather for a miracle from heaven than for deliverance from the foe through hard fighting by loyal men marching under the banner of their King.  Truth we all knew well that little short of a miracle would arouse the indolent and discouraged Charles, cowed by the English foe, doubtful of his own right to call himself Dauphin, distrustful of his friends, despairing of winning the love or trust of his subjects.  But could it indeed be possible that such a miracle could be wrought, and by an instrument so humble as a village maid—­this Jeanne d’Arc?

But the time had come when we must say adieu to our comrade, and turn ourselves back to Vaucouleurs, if we were not to be benighted in the forest ere we could reach that place.  We halted for our serving men to come up; and as we did so Bertrand said in a low voice to Sir Guy: 

“I pray you, Seigneur de Laval, speak no word to His Majesty of this maid and her mission, until such time as news may reach him of her from other sources.”

“I will say no word,” answered the other, smiling, and so with many friendly words we parted, and Bertrand and I, with one servant behind us, turned our horses’ heads back along the road by which we had come.