With these reasonings it behoved me to content myself.  The night I passed in prayers for the Maid, and for myself, that I might yet do justice on that devil, or, at least, might see justice done.  But how these orisons were answered shall be seen in the end, whereto I now hasten.

CHAPTER XXVII—­HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN COMPIEGNE, WITH THE END OFTHAT LEAGUER

About all that befell in the besieged city of Compiegne, after that wicked day of destiny when the Maid was taken, I heard for long only from the Jacobin brothers, and from one Barthelemy Barrette.  He was a Picardy man, more loyal than most of his country, who had joined the Maid after the fray at Paris.  Now he commanded a hundred of her company, who did not scatter after she was taken, and he was the best friend I then had.

“The burgesses are no whit dismayed,” said he, coming into my chamber after the day of the Ascension, which was the second after the capture of the Maid.  “They have sent a messenger to the King, and expect succour.”

“They sue for grace at a graceless face,” said I, in the country proverb; for my heart was hot against King Charles.

“That is to be seen,” said be.  “But assuredly the Duke of Burgundy is more keen about his own business.”

“How fare the Burgundians?” I asked, “for, indeed, I have heard the guns speak since dawn, but none of the good fathers cares to go even on to the roof of the church tower and bring me tidings, for fear of a stray cannon-ball.”

“For holy men they are wondrous chary of their lives,” said Barthelemy, laughing.  “Were I a monk, I would welcome death that should unfrock me, and let me go a-wandering in Paradise among these fair lady saints we see in the pictures.”

“It is written, Barthelemy, that there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.”

“Faith, the more I am fain of it,” said Barthelemy, “and may be I might take the wrong track, and get into the Paradise of Mahound, which, I have heard, is no ill place for a man-at-arms.”

This man had no more faith than a paynim, but, none the less, was a stout carl in war.

“But that minds me,” quoth he, “of the very thing I came hither to tell you.  One priest there is in Compiegne who takes no keep of his life, a cordelier.  What ails you, man? does your leg give a twinge?”

“Ay, a shrewd twinge enough.”

“Truly, you look pale enough.”

“It is gone,” I said.  “Tell me of that cordelier.”

“Do you see this little rod?” he asked, putting in my hand a wand of dark wood, carven with the head of a strange beast in a cowl.

“I see it.”

“How many notches are cut in it?”

“Five,” I said.  “But why spoil you your rod?”

“Five men of England or Burgundy that cordelier shot this day, from the creneaux of the boulevard where the Maid,” crossing himself, “was taken.  A fell man he is, strong and tall, with a long hooked nose, and as black as Sathanas.”