“How comes he in arms?” I asked.

“Flavy called him in from Valenciennes, where he was about some business of his own, for there is no greater master of the culverin.  And, faith, as he says, he ‘has had rare sport, and will have for long.’”

“Was there an onfall of the enemy?”

“Nay, they are over wary.  He shot them as they dug behind pavises. {36} For the Duke has moved his quarters to Venette, where the English lay, hard by the town.  And, right in the middle of the causeway to Margny, two arrow-shots from our bridge end, he is letting build a great bastille, and digging a trench wherein men may go to and fro.  The cordelier was as glad of that as a man who has stalked a covey of partridges.  ‘Keep my tally for me,’ he said to myself; ’cut a notch for every man I slay’; and here,” said Barthelemy, waving his staff, “is his first day’s reckoning.”

Now I well saw what chance I had of bringing that devil to justice, for who would believe so strange a tale as mine against one so serviceable in the war?  Nor was D’Aulon here to speak for me, the enemy having taken him when they took the Maid.  Thinking thus, I groaned, and Barthelemy, fearing that he had wearied me, said farewell, and went out.

Every evening, after sunset, he would come in, and partly cheer me, by telling how hardily our people bore them, partly break my heart with fresh tidings of that devil, Brother Thomas.

“Things go not ill, had we but hope of succour,” he said.  “The Duke’s bastille is rising, indeed, and the Duke is building taudis {37} of oaken beams and earth, between the bastille and our boulevard.  The skill is to draw nearer us, and nearer, till he can mine beneath our feet.  Heard you any new noise of war this day?”

“I heard such a roar and clatter as never was in my ears, whether at Orleans or Paris.”

“And well you might!  This convent is in the very line of the fire.  They have four great bombards placed, every one of them with a devilish Netherland name of its own.  There is Houpembiere,—­that means the beer-barrel, I take it,—­and La Rouge Bombarde, and Remeswalle and Quincequin, every one shooting stone balls thirty inches in girth.  The houses on the bridge are a heap of stones, the mills are battered down, and we must grind our meal in the city, in a cellar, for what I can tell.  Nom Dieu! when they take the boulevard we lose the river, and if once they bar our gates to the east, whence shall viands come?”

“Is there no good tidings from the messenger?”

“The King answers ever like a drawer in a tavern, ‘Anon, anon, sir!’ He will come himself presently, always presently, with all his host.”

“He will never come,” I said.  “He is a . . . "

“He is my King,” said Barthelemy.  “Curse your own King of Scots, if you will.  Scots, by the blood of Iscariot, traitors are they; well, I crave your pardon, I spake in haste and anger.  Know you Nichole Cammet?”