Next day was Sunday, and no stroke was struck, but the Bastard of Orleans set forth to bring back the army from Blois.  And on Monday the Maid rode out and under the very walls of the English keeps, the townsfolk running by her rein, as if secure in her company; yet no man came forth against them, which was marvel.  And on the Wednesday, the Maid, with many knights, rode forth two leagues, and met the Bastard of Orleans and all the array from Blois, and all the flocks and herds that were sent to Orleans by the good towns.  Right beneath the forts of the English they rode and marched, with chanting of hymns, priests leading the way, but none dared meddle with them.  Yet a child might have seen that now or never was the chance:  howbeit Talbot and Glasdale and Scales, men well learned in war, let fire not even a single cannon.  It may be that they feared an attack of the Orleans folk on their bastilles, if they drew out their men.  For, to tell the plain truth, the English had not men-at-arms enough for the task they took in hand; but they oft achieve much with but little force, and so presume the more, sometimes to their undoing.  And, till the Maid came, ten of them could chase a hundred of the French.

So the Maid returned, leading the army, and then, being very weary, she went into her chamber, and lay down on a couch to sleep, her esquire, D’Aulon, also resting in the room, where were the lady and a daughter of the house, one Charlotte Boucher.  There was I, devising idly with her page, Louis de Coutes, a boy half Scots by birth, and good-brother to Messire Florent d’Illiers, who had married his sister.  But alas! he was more French than Scots, and later he left the Maid.  But then we were playing ourselves at the door of the house, and all was still, the men-at-arms reposing, as we deemed, after their march.  Then suddenly the Maid ran forth to us, her face white and her eyes shining, and cried to Louis de Coutes, in great anger—­

“Wretched boy, the blood of France is being shed, and you told me no word of it!”

“Demoiselle,” said he, trembling, “I wotted not of it.  What mean you?”

And I also stood in amaze, for we had heard no sound of arms.

“Go, fetch my horse,” she said, and was gone.

I went with him, and we saddled and bridled a fresh courser speedily; but when we reached the door, she stood there already armed, and sprang on the horse, crying for her banner, that De Coutes gave her out of the upper window.  Then her spurs were in her horse’s side, and the sparks flying from beneath his hoofs, as she galloped towards St. Loup, the English fort on the Burgundy road.  Thither we followed her, with what speed we might, yet over tardily; and when we came through crowds of people, many bearing the wounded on litters, there was she, under the wall of that fort, in a rain of arrows, holding up her banner, and crying on the French and Scots to the charge.  They answered with a cry,