raiders, unspeakable hellions, every one?  Why, she has sent for Satan himself—­that is to say, La Hire—­that military hurricane, that godless swashbuckler, that lurid conflagration of blasphemy, that Vesuvius of profanity, forever in eruption.  Does he know how to deal with that mob of roaring devils?  Better than any man that lives; for he is the head devil of this world his own self, he is the match of the whole of them combined, and probably the father of most of them.  She places him in temporary command until she can get to Blois herself—­and then!  Why, then she will certainly take them in hand personally, or I don’t know her as well as I ought to, after all these years of intimacy.  That will be a sight to see—­that fair spirit in her white armor, delivering her will to that muck-heap, that rag-pile, that abandoned refuse of perdition.”

“La Hire!” cried Noel, “our hero of all these years—­I do want to see that man!”

“I too.  His name stirs me just as it did when I was a little boy.”

“I want to hear him swear.”

“Of course, I would rather hear him swear than another man pray.  He is the frankest man there is, and the naivest.  Once when he was rebuked for pillaging on his raids, he said it was nothing.  Said he, ’If God the Father were a soldier, He would rob.’  I judge he is the right man to take temporary charge there at Blois.  Joan has cast the seeing eye upon him, you see.”

“Which brings us back to where we started.  I have an honest affection for the Paladin, and not merely because he is a good fellow, but because he is my child—­I made him what he is, the windiest blusterer and most catholic liar in the kingdom.  I’m glad of his luck, but I hadn’t the seeing eye.  I shouldn’t have chosen him for the most dangerous post in the army.  I should have placed him in the rear to kill the wounded and violate the dead.”

“Well, we shall see.  Joan probably knows what is in him better than we do.  And I’ll give you another idea.  When a person in Joan of Arc’s position tells a man he is brave, he believes it; and believing it is enough; in fact, to believe yourself brave is to be brave; it is the one only essential thing.”

“Now you’ve hit it!” cried Noel.  “She’s got the creating mouth as well as the seeing eye!  Ah, yes, that is the thing.  France was cowed and a coward; Joan of Arc has spoken, and France is marching, with her head up!”

I was summoned now to write a letter from Joan’s dictation.  During the next day and night our several uniforms were made by the tailors, and our new armor provided.  We were beautiful to look upon now, whether clothed for peace or war.  Clothed for peace, in costly stuffs and rich colors, the Paladin was a tower dyed with the glories of the sunset; plumed and sashed and iron-clad for war, he was a still statelier thing to look at.