At last they were all sound on sleep, one man’s hand yet clutching a pile of my gold that now and again would slip forth and jingle on the stone floor.

Now all this time she had never stirred, but lay as she had lain, her face downwards, her arms above her neck.

Stealthily I took the chain and the key from about the neck of the sleeping lourdaud, and then drew near her on tiptoe.

I listened, and, from her breathing, I believe that she slept, as extreme labour and weariness and sorrow do sometimes bring their own remede.

Then a thought came into my mind, how I should best awake her, and stooping, I said in her ear—­

“Fille De!”

Instantly she turned about, and, sitting up, folded her hands as one in prayer, deeming, belike, that she was aroused by the voices of her Saints.  I kneeled down beside the bed, and whispered—­“Madame, Jeanne, look on my face!”

She gazed on me, and now I saw her brave face, weary and thin and white, and, greater than of old, the great grey eyes.

“I said once,” came her sweet voice, “that thou alone shouldst stand by me when all had forsaken me.  Fair Saints, do I dream but a dream?”

“Nay, Madame,” I said, “thou wakest and dost not dream.  One has sent me who loves thee, even my lady Elliot; and now listen, for the time is short.  See, here I have the master-key, and when I have unlocked thy bonds . . . "

“Thou hast not slain these men?” she asked.  “That were deadly sin.”

“Nay, they do but sleep, and will waken belike ere the fresh guard comes, wherefore we must make haste.”

“When I have freed thee, do on thy body, above thy raiment, this doublet of mine, for it carries the cross of England, and, I being of little stature, you may well pass for me.  Moreover, this cloak and its hood, which I wore when I came in, will cover thee.  Then, when thou goest forth give the word ‘Bedford’ to the sentinels; and, to the porter in the gate, show this written pass of John Grey’s.  He knows it already, having seen it this night.  Next, when thou art without the castle, fare to the hostelry called ‘The Rose and Apple,’ which is nearest the castle gate, and so straight into the stable, where stand two steeds, saddled and bridled.  Choose the black, he is the swifter.  If the hostler be awake, he expects me, and will take thee for me; mount, with no word, and ride to the eastern port.  There show to the gate ward this signet of Sir Thomas Grey, and he will up with portcullis and down with drawbridge, for he has often done no less for me and that signet.

“Then, Madame, ride for Louviers, and you shall break your fast with the Bastard and La Hire.”  Her white face changed to red, like the morning light, as on that day at Orleans, before she took Les Tourelles.

Then the flush faded, and she grew ashen pale, while she said—­

“But thou, how shalt thou get forth?”