“Thou liest in thy throat,” said D’Aulon.  “This is a brave man-at-arms, and a loyal.”

“Would that thou wert not beguiled, fair sir, for I have no pleasure in the sin of any man.  But, if thou wilt believe him rather than me, even keep thy belief, and read this written confession of his falsehood.  Of free will, with his own hand, my penitent hereby absolves me from all his slanders.  As Holy Church enjoins, in the grace of repentance he also makes restitution of what he had stolen, namely, all my wealth in this world, the good name of a poor and lowly follower of the blessed Francis.  Here is the scroll.”

With these words, uttered in a voice of sorrowing and humble honesty, the friar stretched out the written sheet of paper to D’Aulon.

“Had I been a false traitor,” he said, “would not her brethren of heaven have warned the blessed Maid against me?  And I have also a written safe-conduct from the holy sister Colette.”

Then I knew that he had fallen into my trap, and, weak as I was, I could have laughed to think of his face, when the words I had written came out in place of the words he had bidden me write.  For a clerk hath great power beyond the simple and unlettered of the world, be they as cunning even as Brother Thomas.

“Nom Dieu! this is another story,” said D’Aulon, turning the paper about in his hands and looking doubtfully at me.  But I smiled upon him, whereby he was the more perplexed.  “The ink is hardly dry, and in some places has run and puddled, so that, poor clerk as I am, I can make little of it”; and he pored on it in a perplexed sort.  “Tush, it is beyond my clerkhood,” he said at last.  “You, Messire Saint-Mesmin,”—­turning to the physician—­“must interpret this.”

“Willingly, fair sir,” said the physician, moving round to the shutter, which he opened, while the cordelier’s eyes glittered, for now there was one man less between him and the half-open door.  I nodded to D’Aulon that he should shut it, but he marked me not, being wholly in amaze at the written scroll of my confession.

The physician himself was no great clerk, and he read the paper slowly, stumbling over the words, as it were, while Brother Thomas, clasping his crucifix to his breast, listened in triumph as he heard what he himself had bidden me write.

“I, Norman Leslie, of—­of Peet—­What name is this?  Peet—­I cannot utter it.”

“Passez outre,” quoth D’Aulon.

“I, Norman Leslie, being now in the article of death”—­here the leech glanced at me, shaking his head mournfully—­“do attest on my hope of salvation, and do especially desire Madame Jeanne La Pucelle, and all Frenchmen and Scots loyal to our Sovereign Lord the Dauphin, to accept my witness that Brother Thomas, of the Order of St. Francis, called Noiroufle while of the world, has been most truly and righteously accused by me of divers deeds of black treason.”