“That I should see this, and have to tell it!” he said, and stepping to the table, he drank like one thirsty, and then fell to pacing the chamber.  He seemed to be thinking slowly, as he wiped and plucked at his beard.

“What is it that ails you?” he asked.  “Look you, this onfall and stratagem of war may not miscarry.  Perdition take the fool, it is safe!”

“Have I been seeking safety since you knew me?” I asked.

“Verily no, and therefore I wonder at you the more; but you have been long sick, and men’s minds are changeful.  Consider the thing, nom Dieu!  If there be no two lights shown from the mill, we step back silently, and all is as it was; the English have thought worse of their night onfall, or the Carmelite’s message was ruse de guerre.  But if we see the two lights, then the hundred English are attempting the taking of the mill; the St. Denis Gate is open for their return, and we are looked for by our Armagnacs within Paris.  We risk but a short tussle with some drowsy pock-puddings, and then the town is ours.  The Gate is as strong to hold against an enemy from within as from without.  Why, man, run to Louis de Coutes, and beg a cast suit of the Maid’s; she has plenty, for she is a woman in this, that dearly she loves rich attire.”

“Randal,” I said, “I will go with you, and the gladdest lad in France to be going, but I will go in my own proper guise as a man-at-arms.  To wear the raiment of the Blessed Maid, a man and a sinner like me, I will in nowise consent; it is neither seemly nor honourable.  Take your own way, put me under arrest if you will, and spoil my fortunes, and make me a man disgraced, but I will not wear her holy raiment.  It is not the deed of a gentleman, or of a Christian.”

He plucked at his beard.  “I am partly with you,” he said.  “And yet it were a great bourde to play off on the English, and most like to take them and to be told of in ballad and chronicle, like one of Wallace’s onfalls.  For, seeing the Pucelle, as they will deem, in our hands, they will think all safe, and welcome us open armed.  O Norman, can we do nothing?  Stop, will you wear another woman’s short kirtle over your cuisses and taslet?  She shall be no saint, I warrant you, but, for a sinner, a bonny lass and a merry.  As a gentleman I deem this fair stratagem of war.  If I were your own brother,—­the Saints have his soul in their keeping,—­I would still be of this counsel.  Will you, my lad?”

He looked so sad, and yet withal so comical, that I held out my hand to him, laughing.

“Disguise me as you will,” I said, “I have gone mumming as Maid Marion before now, in the Robin Hood play, at St. Andrews”; and as I spoke, I saw the tall thatched roofs of South Street, and the Priory Gates open, the budding elms above the garden wall of St. Leonard’s, and all the May-day revel of a year agone pouring out into the good town.