“I like not the omen,” said I.

“Freits follow them that freits fear,” said Randal, in our country speech.  “And the Maid is none of these.  ‘Well it was,’ said she, ’that I trusted not my life to a blade that breaks so easily,’ and, in the next skirmish, she took a Burgundian with her own hands, and now wears his sword, which is a good cut and thrust piece.  But come,” he cried, “if needs you must see the Maid, you have but to walk to the Paris gate, and so to the windmill hard by.  And your horse I will stable with our own, and for quarters, we living Scots men-at-arms fare as well as the dead kings of France, for to-night we lie in the chapel.”

I dismounted, and he gave me an embrace, and, holding me at arms’-length, laughed—­

“You never were a tall man, Norman, but you look sound, and whole, and tough for your inches, like a Highlandman’s dirk.  Now be off on your errand, and when it is done, look for me yonder at the sign of ’The Crane,’” pointing across the parvise to a tavern, “for I keep a word to tell in your lug that few wot of, and that it will joy you to hear.  To-morrow, lad, we go in foremost.”

And so, smiling, he took my horse and went his way, whistling, “Hey, tuttie, tattie!”

Verily his was the gladdest face I had seen, and his words put some heart into me, whereas, of the rest save our own Scots, I liked neither what I saw, nor what I heard.

I had but to walk down the street, through elbowing throngs of grooms, pages, men-at-arms, and archers, till I found the Paris Gate, whence the windmill was plain to behold.  It was such an old place as we see in Northern France, plain, strong, with red walls which the yellow mosses stain, and with high grey roofs.  The Maid’s banner, with the Holy Dove, and the Sacred Name, drooped above the gateway, and beside the door, on the mounting-stone, sat the boy, Louis des Coutes, her page.  He was a lad of fifteen years, merry enough of his nature, and always went gaily clad, and wearing his yellow hair long.  But now he sat thoughtful on the mounting-stone, cutting at a bit of wood with his dagger.

“So you have come to take your part,” he said, when we had saluted each the other.  “Faith, I hope you bring good luck with you, and more joy to my mistress, for we need all that you can bring.”

“Why, what ails all of you?” I asked.  “I have seen never a hopeful face, save that of one of my own countrymen.  You are not afraid of a crack on your curly pate, are you?”

“Curly or not, my head knows better than to knock itself against Paris walls.  They are thick, and high, and the windows of every house on the wall are piled with stones, to drop upon us.  And I know not well why, but things go ill with us.  I never saw Her,” and he nodded towards the open gateway, “so out of comfort.  When there is fighting toward, she is like herself, and she is the first to rise and the last to lie down.