“There is this to be said,” quoth Father Urquhart, “that the English company is to sally forth by the Port St. Denis, and it is the Port St. Denis that our Armagnacs will be guarding.  Now I speak as a man of peace, for that is my calling.  But how would it be if your hundred men and Norman set forth in the dark, and lay hid not very far from the St. Denis Gate?  Then some while after the lighting of the bale-fires from the windmill, to be lit when the English set on, make straight for the gate, and cry, ‘St. George for England!’ If you see not the bale-fires ere daylight, you will come back with what speed you may; but if you do see them, then—­”

“Father, you have not lived long on the Highland line for nothing,” quoth Robin Lindsay.

“A very proper stratagem indeed,” I said, “but now, gentlemen, there is one little matter; how will Sir Hugh Kennedy take this device of ours?  If we try it and fail, without his privity, we had better never return, but die under Paris wall.  And, even if we hold the gate, and Paris town is taken, faith I would rather affront the fire of John the Lorrainer than the face of Sir Hugh.”

No man spoke, there were not two minds on this matter, so, after some chaffer of words, it was agreed to send Father Urquhart with Randal to show the whole scheme to Sir Hugh, while the rest of us should await their coming back with an answer.  In no long time they were with us, the father very red and shamefaced.

“He gave the good father the rough side of his tongue,” quoth Randal, “for speaking first to me, and not to him.  Happily we were over cunning to say aught of our gathering here.  But when he had let his bile flow, he swore, and said that he could spare a hundred dyvour loons of his command, on the cast of the dice, and, now silence all! not a word or a cry,” here he held up his hand, “we are to take ’fortune of war’!”

Every man grinned gladly on his neighbour, in dead stillness.

“Now,” said Randal, “slip out by threes and fours, quietly, and to quarters; but you, Norman, wait with me.”

CHAPTER XXII—­HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN PARIS TOWN

“Norman, my lad, all our fortunes are made,” said Randal to me when we were left alone.  “There will be gilt spurs and gold for every one of us, and the pick of the plunder.”

“I like it not,” I answered; whereon he caught me rudely by both shoulders, looking close into my face, so that the fume of the wine he had been drinking reached my nostrils.

“Is a Leslie turning recreant?” he asked in a low voice.  “A pretty tale to tell in the kingdom of Fife!”

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.