y the bridge of Blois. To this she said nay, that she could not leave
her men out of her sight, lest they fell to sin again, and all her pains
were lost. But, with many prayers, her confessor Pasquerel joining in
them, she was brought to consent. So the host, with priests and banners,
must set forth again to Blois, while the Maid, and we that were of her
company, crossed the river in boats, and so rode towards the town. On
this way (the same is a road of the old Romans) the English held a strong
fort, called St. Loup, and well might they have sallied forth against us.
But the people of Orleans, who ever bore themselves more hardily than any
townsfolk whom I have known, made an onfall against St. Loup, that the
English within might not sally out against us, where was fierce fighting,
and they took a standard from the English.

So, at nightfall, the Maid, with the Bastard and other captains at her
side, rode into the town, all the people welcoming her with torches in
hand, shouting Noel! as to a king, throwing flowers before her horse's
feet, and pressing to touch her, or even the harness of her horse, which
leaped and plunged, for the fire of a torch caught the fringe of her
banner. Lightly she spurred and turned him, and lightly she caught at
the flame with her hand and quenched it, while all men marvelled at her
grace and goodly bearing.

Never saw I more joy of heart, for whereas all had feared to fall into
the hands of the English, now there was such courage in them, as if
Monseigneur St. Michael himself, or Monseigneur St Aignan, had come down
from heaven to help his good town. If they were hardy before, as indeed
they were, now plainly they were full of such might and fury that man
might not stand against them. And soon it was plain that no less fear
had fallen on the English. But the Maid, with us who followed her, was
led right through the great street of Orleans, from the Burgundy gate to
the gate Regnart, whereby the fighting was ever most fell, and there we
lodged in the house of the Treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, Jacquet
Boucher. Never was sleep sweeter to me, after the two weary marches, and
the sounds of music and revelry in the street did not hum a moment in my
ears, before I had passed into that blessed world of slumber without a
dream.

But my waking next day brought instantly the thought of my brother Robin,
concerning whom I had ever feared that he fell with the flower of
Scotland, when t