“I go north also,” he said, “to Orleans, if I may, for the foul ‘manants’ and peasant dogs of this country have burned the castle of Alfonse Rodigo, a good knight that held them in right good order this year past.  He was worthy, indeed, to ride with that excellent captain, Don Rodrigo de Villandradas.  King’s captain or village labourer, all was fish that came to his net, and but two days ago I was his honourable chaplain.  But he made the people mad, and a great carouse that we kept gave them their opportunity.  They have roasted the good knight Alfonse, and would have done as much for me, his almoner, frock and all, if wine had any mastery over me.  But I gave them the slip.  Heaven helps its own!  Natheless, I would that this river were between me and their vengeance, and, for once, I dread the smell of roast meat that is still in my nostrils—­pah!”

And here he spat on the ground.

“But one door closes,” he went on, “and another opens, and to Orleans am I now bound, in the service of my holy calling.”

“There is, indeed, cause enough for the shriving of souls of sinners, Father, in that country, as I hear, and a holy man like you will be right welcome to many.”

“They need little shriving that are opposite my culverin,” said this strange priest.  “Though now I carry but an arbalest, the gun is my mistress, and my patron is the gunner’s saint, St. Barbara.  And even with this toy, methinks I have the lives of a score of goddams in my bolt-pouch.”

I knew that in these wild days many clerics were careless as to that which the Church enjoins concerning the effusion of blood—­nay, I have named John Kirkmichael, Bishop of Orleans, as having himself broken a spear on the body of the Duke of Clarence.  The Abbe of Cerquenceaux, also, was a valiant man in religion, and a good captain, and, all over France, clerics were gripping to sword and spear.  But such a priest as this I did not expect to see.

“Your name?” he asked suddenly, the words coming out with a sound like the first grating of a saw on stone.

“They call me Norman Leslie de Pitcullo,” I answered.  “And yours?”

“My name,” he said, “is Noiroufle”—­and I thought that never had I seen a man so well fitted with a name;—­“in religion, Brother Thomas, a poor brother of the Order of the mad St. Francis of Assisi.”

“Then, Brother Thomas, how do you mean to cross this water which lies between you and the exercise of your holy calling?  Do you swim?”

“Like a stone cannon-ball, and, for all that I can find, the cursed water has no bottom.  Cross!” he snarled.  “Let me see you swim.”

I was glad enough to be quit of him so soon, but I noticed that, as I stripped and packed my clothes to carry in a bundle on my head, the holy man set his foot in the stirrup of his weapon, and was winding up his arbalest with a windlass, a bolt in his mouth, watching at the same time a heron that rose from a marsh on the further side of the stream.  On this bird, I deemed, he meant to try his skill with the arbalest.