But blood runs tardy in the cold dawn; my thoughts were chilled, and I deemed, to speak sooth, that I carried my death within me, from my old wound, and, even if unhurt, could scarce escape out of that day’s labour and live.  I said farewell to life and the sun, in my own mind, and to Elliot, thinking of whom, with what tenderness she had nursed me, and of her mirth and pitiful heart, I could scarce forbear from weeping.  Of my brother also I thought, and in death it seemed to me that we could scarcely be divided.  Then my thought went back to old days of childhood at Pitcullo, old wanderings by Eden banks, old kindness and old quarrels, and I seemed to see a vision of a great tree, growing alone out of a little mound, by my father’s door, where Robin and I would play “Willie Wastle in his castle,” for that was our first manner of holding a siege.  A man-at-arms has little to make with such fancies, and well I wot that Randal Rutherford troubled himself therewith in no manner.  But now there came an iron footstep on the stairs, and the Maid’s voice rang clear, and presently there arose the sound of hammers on rivets, and all the din of men saddling horses and sharpening swords, so I went forth to join my company.

Stiff and sore was I, and felt as if I could scarce raise my sword-arm; but the sight of the Maid, all gleaming in her harness, and clear of voice, and swift of deed, like St. Michael when he marshalled his angels against the enemies of heaven, drove my brooding thoughts clean out of mind.  The sun shone yellow and slanting down the streets; out of the shadow of the minster came the bells, ringing for war.  The armed townsfolk thronged the ways, and one man, old and ill-clad, brought to the Maid a great fish which he had caught overnight in the Loire.  Our host prayed her to wait till it should be cooked, that she might breakfast well, for she had much to do.  Yet she, who scarce seemed to live by earthly meat, but by the will of God, took only a sop of bread dipped in wine, and gaily leaping to her selle and gathering the reins, as a lady bound for a hunting where no fear was, she cried, “Keep the fish for supper, when I will bring back a goddon {25} prisoner to eat his part.  And to-night, gentle sir, my host, I will return by the bridge!”—­which, as we deemed, might in no manner be, for an arch of the bridge was broken.  Thereon we all mounted, and rode down to the Burgundy gate, the women watching us, and casting flowers before the Maiden.  But when we won the gate, behold, it was locked, and two ranks of men-at-arms, with lances levelled, wearing the colours of the Sieur de Gaucourt, were drawn up before it.  That lord himself, in harness, but bareheaded, stood before his men, and cried, “Hereby is no passage.  To-day the captains give command that no force stir from the town.”

“To-day,” quoth the Maid, “shall we take Les Tourelles, and to-morrow not a goddon, save prisoners and slain men, shall be within three leagues of Orleans.  Gentle sir, bid open the gate, for to-day have I work to do.”