I was devoured by a bitter anger, considering how my lady had used me, and what was most sore of all, reflecting that I could no longer hold her for a thing all perfect, and almost without touch of mortal infirmity.  Nay, she was a woman like another, and unjust, and to deem thus of her was to me the most cruel torment.  We could never forgive each the other, so it seemed to me, nor be again as we had been.  And all the next day no message came for me, and I kept myself quiet, apart in my chamber.  Lest they who read mock at me in their hearts, and at my lady, let them remember how young we both were, and how innocent of other experience in love.  For the Roman says that “the angers of lovers are love’s renewal,” as the brief tempests of April bring in the gladness of May.  But in my heart it was all white sleet, and wind, and snow unseasonable, and so I lay, out of all comfort, tossing on my bed.

I heard the watchmen call the hours through the night, and very early, having at length fallen on sleep, I was wakened by a messenger from the Maid.  It was her page, Louis de Coutes, most richly attired, but still half asleep, grumbling, and rubbing his eyes.

“My mistress bids you come with me instantly,” he said, when we had saluted each other, “and I have brought a litter and men to carry it.  Faith, if I lay in it, I should be asleep ere ever they had borne me ten paces.  What a life it is that I lead!  Late to bed and up by prime, so busy is my mistress; and she lives as it were without sleep, and feeds on air.”

Here he threw himself down in a great chair, and verily, by the time I had washed and attired myself, I had to shake him by the shoulder to arouse him.  Thus I was carried to the Maid’s lodging, my heart beating like a hammer with hopes and fears.

We found her already armed, for that day she was to ride to Jargeau, and none was with her but her confessor.  She gave me the best of greetings, and bade me eat bread and drink wine.  “And soon,” she said, “if you recover the quicker, I trust to give you wine to drink in Paris.”

She herself dipped a crust in wine and water, and presently, bidding her confessor, Pasquerel, wait for her in the little oratory, she asked me how I did, and told me what fear she had been in for me, as touching Brother Thomas, when she learned who he was, yet herself could not return from the field to help me.

“But now,” said she, smiling with a ravishing sweetness, “I hear you are in far greater peril from a foe much harder and more cruel—­ma mie Elliot.  Ah! how you lovers put yourselves in jeopardy, and take me from my trade of war to play the peacemaker!  Surely I have chosen the safer path in open breach and battle, though would that my war was ended, and I sitting spinning again beside my dear mother.”  Hereon her face grew more tender and sad than ever I had seen it, and there came over me forgetfulness of my private grief, as of a little thing, and longing to ride at the Maiden’s rein, where glory was to be won.