But you are weary; will you get you to your chamber, or
sit in the garden under the mulberry-tree, and I shall bring you out a
cup of white wine."

Weary I was indeed, and the seat in the garden among the flowers seemed a
haven most desirable. So thither I went, leaning on her shoulder, and
she returned to bring the wine, but was some while absent, and I sat deep
in thought. I was marvelling, not only as to what my mistress would next
do, and when I should see her again (though that was uppermost in my
mind), but also concerning the strange words of the Maid, that I alone
should be with her when all forsook her and fled. How might this be, and
was she not to be ever victorious, and drive the English forth of France?
To my thinking the Maid dwelt ever in two worlds, with her brethren of
Paradise, and again with sinful men. And I have often considered that
she did not always remember, in this common life, what had befallen her,
and what she knew when, as the Apostle says, she "was out of the body."
For I have heard her say, more than once, that she "would last but one
year, or little more," and, again, she would make plans for three years
to come, or four, which is a mystery.

So I was pondering, when I looked up, and saw Charlotte standing in the
entrance between the court and garden, looking at me and smiling, as she
shaded her eyes with her hand from the sun, and then she ran to me
lightly as a lapwing.

"They are coming down the street, looking every way for our house, your
lady and her father," she said, putting the wine-cup into my hand. "Now
is it war or peace?" and she fled back again within the house.

My heart stood still, for now everything was on the fall of the dice.
Would this mad girl be mocking or meek? Would she anger my lady to my
ruin with her sharp tongue? For Charlotte was of a high temper, and wont
to rule all the house by reason of her beauty and kind wild ways. Nor
was Elliot the meekest of women, as well I knew, and a word, nay a smile,
or a glance of mockery, might lightly turn her heart from me again for
ever. Oh! the lot of a lover is hard, at least if he has set all his
heart on the cast, as I had done, and verily, as our Scots saw runs,
"women are kittle cattle." It is a strange thing that one who has
learned not to blench from a bare blade, or in bursting of cannon-balls
and flight of arrows, should so easily be daunted where a weak girl is
concerned; yet so it was in my case.