Then I must lean on her shoulder, as, indeed, I still had cause to do, and so, right heedfully, she brought me into the painting-chamber.  There, upon great easels, were stretched three sheets of “bougran,” {21} very white and glistering—­a mighty long sheet for the standard, a smaller one, square, for the banner, and the pennon smaller yet, in form of a triangle, as is customary.

The great standard, in the Maiden’s wars, was to be used for the rallying of all her host; the pennon was a signal to those who fought around her, as guards of her body; and about the banner afterwards gathered, for prayer and praise, those men, confessed and clean of conscience, whom she had called and chosen.

These cloths were now but half painted, the figures being drawn, by my master’s hands, and the ground-colours laid; but some portions were quite finished, very bright and beautiful.  On the standard was figured God the Father, having the globe in His hand; two angels knelt by Him, one holding for His blessing the lily of France.  The field was to be sown with fleurs-de-lys, and to bear the holy names:  Jhesu—­Maria.  On the banner was our Lord crucified between the Holy Virgin and St. John.  And on the pennon was wrought the Annunciation, the angel with a lily kneeling to the Blessed Virgin.  On the standard, my master, later, fashioned the chosen blazon of the Maid—­a dove argent, on a field azure.  But the blazon of the sword supporting the crown, between two lilies, that was later given to her and her house, she did not use, as her enemies said she did, out of pride and vainglory, mixing her arms with holy things, even at Rheims at the sacring.  For when she was at Rheims, no armorial bearings had yet been given to her.  Herein, then, as always, they lied in their cruel throats; for, as the Psalmist says, “Quare fremuerunt gentes?”

All these evil tongues, and all thought of evil days, were far from us as we stood looking at the work, and praising it, as well we might, for never had my master wrought so well.  Now, as I studied on the paintings, I well saw that my master had drawn the angel of the pennon in the likeness of his own daughter Elliot.  Wonderful it was to see her fair face and blue eyes, holy and humble, with the gold halo round her head.

“Ah, love,” I said, “that banner I could follow far, pursuing fame and the face of my lady!”

With that we fell into such dalliance and kind speech as lovers use, wholly rapt from the world in our happiness.

Even then, before we so much as heard his step at the door, my master entered, and there stood we, my arm about her neck and hers about my body, embracing me.

He stood with eyes wide open, and gave one long whistle.

“Faith!” he cried, “our surgery hath wrought miracles!  You are whole beyond what I looked for; but surely you are deaf, for my step is heavy enough, yet, me thinks, you heard me not.”