“And think of his luck!” burst out Noel, with his eyes full of tears.  “Always the pet child of luck!

“See how it followed him and stayed by him, from his first step all through, in the field or out of it; always a splendid figure in the public eye, courted and envied everywhere; always having a chance to do fine things and always doing them; in the beginning called the Paladin in joke, and called it afterward in earnest because he magnificently made the title good; and at last—­supremest luck of all—­died in the field! died with his harness on; died faithful to his charge the Standard in his hand; died—­oh, think of it—­with the approving eye of Joan of Arc upon him!

“He drained the cup of glory to the last drop, and went jubilant to his peace, blessedly spared all part in the disaster which was to follow.  What luck, what luck!  And we?  What was our sin that we are still here, we who have also earned our place with the happy dead?”

And presently he said: 

“They tore the sacred Standard from his dead hand and carried it away, their most precious prize after its captured owner.  But they haven’t it now.  A month ago we put our lives upon the risk—­our two good knights, my fellow-prisoners, and I—­and stole it, and got it smuggled by trusty hands to Orleans, and there it is now, safe for all time in the Treasury.”

I was glad and grateful to learn that.  I have seen it often since, when I have gone to Orleans on the 8th of May to be the petted old guest of the city and hold the first place of honor at the banquets and in the processions—­I mean since Joan’s brothers passed from this life.  It will still be there, sacredly guarded by French love, a thousand years from now—­yes, as long as any shred of it hangs together. [1] Two or three weeks after this talk came the tremendous news like a thunder-clap, and we were aghast—­Joan of Arc sold to the English!

Not for a moment had we ever dreamed of such a thing.  We were young, you see, and did not know the human race, as I have said before.  We had been so proud of our country, so sure of her nobleness, her magnanimity, her gratitude.  We had expected little of the King, but of France we had expected everything.  Everybody knew that in various towns patriot priests had been marching in procession urging the people to sacrifice money, property, everything, and buy the freedom of their heaven-sent deliverer.  That the money would be raised we had not thought of doubting.

But it was all over now, all over.  It was a bitter time for us.  The heavens seemed hung with black; all cheer went out from our hearts.  Was this comrade here at my bedside really Noel Rainguesson, that light-hearted creature whose whole life was but one long joke, and who used up more breath in laughter than in keeping his body alive?  No, no; that Noel I was to see no more.  This one’s heart was broken.  He moved grieving about, and absently, like one in a dream; the stream of his laughter was dried at its source.