icardy. Miracles have come to pass. Orleans has been saved,
and there is now a great army behind Charles. In a little while we shall
drive the English from Paris, and presently into the sea. There is
hope now and a clear road for us Frenchmen. We have heard the terrible
English 'Hurra' grow feeble, and 'St. Denis' swell like a wind in
heaven. For God has sent us the Maid...."

The girl had risen and was walking with quick, short steps from hearth
to open window.

"Tell me of this maid," she commanded.

"Beyond doubt she is a daughter of God," said de Laval.

"Beyond doubt. But I would hear more of her."

Her tone was ominously soft, and the young man was deceived by it. He
launched into a fervid panegyric of Jeanne of Arc. He told of her doings
at Orleans, when her standard became the oriflamme of France, and her
voice was more stirring than trumpets; of her gentleness and her wisdom.
He told of his first meeting with her, when she welcomed him in her
chamber. "She sent for wine and said that soon she would drink it with
me in Paris. I saw her mount a plunging black horse, herself all in
white armour, but unhelmeted. Her eyes were those of a great captain,
and yet merciful and mild like God's Mother. The sight of her made the
heart sing like a May morning. No man could fear death in her company.
They tell how..."

But he got no farther. The girl's face was pale with fury, and she tore
at her gold neck-chain till it snapped.

"Enough of your maid!" she cried. "Maid, forsooth! The shame of her has
gone throughout the land. She is no maid, but a witch, a light-of-love,
a blasphemer. By the Rood, Sir Guy, you choose this instant between me
and your foul peasant. A daughter of Beaumanoir does not share her lover
with a crack-brained virago."

The young man had also gone pale beneath his sunburn. "I will not
listen," he cried. "You blaspheme a holy angel."

"But listen you shall," and her voice quivered with passion. She marched
up to him and faced him, her slim figure as stiff as a spear. "This very
hour you break this mad allegiance and conduct me home to Beaumanoir.
Or, by the Sorrows of Mary, you and I will never meet again."

De Laval did not speak, but stood gazing sadly at the angry loveliness
before him. His own face had grown as stubborn as hers.

"You do not know what you ask," he said at length. "You would have me
forswear my God, and my King, and my manhood."

"A fig for such manhood," she cried with