Before I reached the gateway they had joined me, which I was glad of, fearing more insolence from the soldiers.  But these men held their peace, looking grave, and even affrighted, being of them who had heard the prophecy of the Maiden and seen its fulfilment.

“Have ye found the body of that man?” said Poulengy to a sergeant-at-arms.

“Nay, sir, we deem that his armour weighed him down, for he never rose once, though that Scot’s head was seen thrice and no more.  Belike they are good, peaceful friends at the bottom of the fosse together.”

“Of what man speak you?” asked the Maiden of Poulengy.

“Of him that blasphemed as we went by an hour ago.  Wrestling with a Scot on some quarrel, they broke the palisade, and—­lo! there are joiners already mending it.  ’Tis old and frail.  The gentle Dauphin is over poor to keep the furnishings of his castle as a king should do.”

The Maiden grew wan as sun-dried grass in summer when she heard this story told.  Crossing herself, she said—­

“Alas!  I warned him, but he died unconfessed.  I will do what I may to have Masses said for the repose of his soul, poor man:  and he so young!”

With that she wept, for she wept readily, even for a less thing than such a death as was that archer’s.

We had now crossed the drawbridge, whereat my heart beat more lightly, and the Maiden told Poulengy that she would go to the house where she lodged, near the castle.

“And thence,” she said, “I must fare into the town, for I have promised to visit a damsel of my friends, one Heliote Poulvoir, if I may find my way thither.  Know you, gentle damsel,” she said to me, “where she abides?  Or perchance you can lead me thither, if it lies on your way.”

“I was even going thither, Pucelle,” I said, mincing in my speech; whereat she laughed, for of her nature she was merry.

“Scots are Heliote and her father, and a Scot are not you also, damsel? your speech betrays you,” she said; “you all cling close together, you Scots, as beseems you well, being strangers in this sweet land of France”; and her face lighted up as she spoke the name she loved, and my heart worshipped her with reverence.

“Farewell,” she cried to Poulengy, smiling graciously, and bowing with such a courtesy as a queen might show, for I noted it myself, as did all men, that this peasant girl had the manners of the Court, being schooled, as I deem, by the greatest of ladies, her friends St. Margaret and St. Catherine.

Then, with an archer, who had ridden beside her from Vaucouleurs, following after her as he ever did, the Maiden and I began to go down the steep way that led to the town.  Little she spoke, and all my thought was to enter the house before Elliot could spy me in my strange disguise.

CHAPTER VII—­CONCERNING THE WRATH OF ELLIOT, AND THE JEOPARDY OF NORMAN LESLIE