I stood still, my heart very hot with anger, and said no word, while his
grip closed on me.

"Leave hold," I cried at last, and I swore an oath, may the Saints
forgive me,--"I will not go!"

He loosed his grasp on me, and struck one hand hard into the other.

"That I should see this, and have to tell it!" he said, and stepping to
the table, he drank like one thirsty, and then fell to pacing the
chamber. He seemed to be thinking slowly, as he wiped and plucked at his
beard.

"What is it that ails you?" he asked. "Look you, this onfall and
stratagem of war may not miscarry. Perdition take the fool, it is safe!"

"Have I been seeking safety since you knew me?" I asked.

"Verily no, and therefore I wonder at you the more; but you have been
long sick, and men's minds are changeful. Consider the thing, nom Dieu!
If there be no two lights shown from the mill, we step back silently, and
all is as it was; the English have thought worse of their night onfall,
or the Carmelite's message was ruse de guerre. But if we see the two
lights, then the hundred English are attempting the taking of the mill;
the St. Denis Gate is open for their return, and we are looked for by our
Armagnacs within Paris. We risk but a short tussle with some drowsy pock-
puddings, and then the town is ours. The Gate is as strong to hold
against an enemy from within as from without. Why, man, run to Louis de
Coutes, and beg a cast suit of the Maid's; she has plenty, for she is a
woman in this, that dearly she loves rich attire."

"Randal," I said, "I will go with you, and the gladdest lad in France to
be going, but I will go in my own proper guise as a man-at-arms. To wear
the raiment of the Blessed Maid, a man and a sinner like me, I will in
nowise consent; it is neither seemly nor honourable. Take your own way,
put me under arrest if you will, and spoil my fortunes, and make me a man
disgraced, but I will not wear her holy raiment. It is not the deed of a
gentleman, or of a Christian."

He plucked at his beard. "I am partly with you," he said. "And yet it
were a great bourde to play off on the English, and most like to take
them and to be told of in ballad and chronicle, like one of Wallace's
onfalls. For, seeing the Pucelle, as they will deem, in our hands, they
will think all safe, and welcome us open armed. O Norman, can we do
nothing? Stop, will you wear another woman's short kirtle over your
cuisses and taslet? She shall be