But reading soon grew a weariness to me, as my life was, and my master coming home, bade me be of better cheer.

“By St. Andrew,” quoth he, “this is no new malady of thine, but well known to leeches from of old, and never yet was it mortal!  Remede there is none, save to make ballades and rondels, and forget sorrow in hunting rhymes, if thou art a maker.  Thou art none?  Nay, nor ever was I, lad; but I have had this disease, and yet you see me whole and well.  Come, lend me a hand at painting in these lilies; it passes not thy skill.”

So I wrought some work whereof I have reason to be proud, for these lilies were carried wheresoever blows and honour were to be won, ay, and where few might follow them.  Meanwhile, my master devised with me about such sights as he had seen on the way, and how great a concourse was on pilgrimage to Puy, and how, if prayers availed, the cause of France was won; “and yet, in England too, wives are praying for their lords, and lasses for their lads in France.  But ours is the better quarrel.”

So that weary day went by, one of the longest that I have known, and other days, till now the leech said that I might go back to the castle, though that I might march to the wars he much misdoubted.  Among the archers I had the best of greetings, and all quarrels were laid by, for, as was said, we were to set forth to Orleans, where would be blows enough to stay the greediest stomach.  For now the Maid had won all hearts, taking some with her piety, and others with her wit and knowledge, that confounded the doctors, how she, a simple wench, was so subtle in doctrine, which might not be but by inspiration.  Others, again, were moved by her mirth and good-fellowship, for she would strike a man-at-arms on the shoulder like a comrade, and her horsemanship and deftness with sword and lance bewitched others, she seeming as valiant and fair as these lady crusaders of whom old romances tell.  And others, again, she gained by bourdes and jests; others by her manners, the fairest and most courtly that might be, for she, a manant’s daughter, bore herself as an equal before the blood of France, and was right dear to the young bride of the fair Duc d’Alencon.  Yet was there about her such a grace of purity, as of one descended from the skies, that no man of them all was so hardy as to speak to her of love, or even so much as to think thereof in the secret of his heart.

So all reported of her, and she had let write a letter to the English at Orleans, bidding them yield to God and the Maid, and begone to their own country, lest a worse thing befall them.  At this letter they mocked, swearing that they would burn her heralds who carried the message.  But the King had named her chief of war, and given her a household, with a good esquire, Jean d’Aulon, to govern it, and all that beseems noble or royal blood.  New armour had been made for her, all of steel and silver, and there was talk of a sword that she had come by in no