ter my long lying in a
chamber, stirred me like wine. The May sun shone warm, yet cooled with a
sweet wind of the west. The room was full of women and maids, all
waiting to throw flowers before the Maid, whom they dearly loved.
Everything had a look of holiday, and all was to end in joy and great
victory. So I laughed with the girls, and listened to a strange tale,
how the Maid had but of late brought back to life a dead child at Lagny,
so that he got his rights of Baptism, and anon died again.

So we fleeted the time, till about the fifth hour after noon, when we
heard the clatter of horses on the bridge; and some women waxed pale. My
own heart leaped up. The noise drew nearer, and presently She rode
across and forth, carrying her banner in the noblest manner, mounted on a
grey horse, and clad in a rich hucque of cramoisie; she smiled and bowed
like a queen to the people, who cried, "Noel! Noel!" Beside her rode
Pothon le Bourgignon (not Pothon de Xaintrailles, as some have falsely
said), her confessor Pasquerel on a palfrey; her brother, Pierre du Lys,
with his new arms bravely blazoned; and her maitre d'hotel, D'Aulon. But
of the captains in Compiegne no one rode with her. She had but her own
company, and a great rude throng of footmen of the town that would not be
said nay. They carried clubs, and they looked, as I heard, for no less
than to take prisoner the Duke of Burgundy himself. Certain of these men
also bore spades and picks and other tools; for the Maid, as I deem,
intended no more than to take and hold Margny, that so she might cut the
Burgundians in twain, and sunder from them the English at Venette. Now
as the night was not far off, then at nightfall would the English be in
sore straits, as not knowing the country and the country roads, and not
having the power to join them of Burgundy at Clairoix. This, one told me
afterwards, was the device of the Maid.

Be this as it may, and a captain of hers, Barthelemy Barrette, told me
the tale, the Maid rode gallantly forth, flowers raining on her, while my
heart longed to be riding at her rein. She waved her hand to Guillaume
de Flavy, who sat on his horse by the gate of the boulevard, and so,
having arrayed her men, she cried, "Tirez avant!" and made towards
Margny, the foot-soldiers following with what speed they might, while I
and Father Francois, and others in the chamber, strained our eyes after
them. All the windows and roofs of the houses an