“How fare the Burgundians?” I asked, “for, indeed, I have heard the guns speak since dawn, but none of the good fathers cares to go even on to the roof of the church tower and bring me tidings, for fear of a stray cannon-ball.”
“For holy men they are wondrous chary of their lives,” said Barthélemy, laughing. “Were I a monk, I would welcome death that should unfrock me, and let me go a-wandering in Paradise among these fair lady saints we see in the pictures.”
“It is written, Barthélemy, that there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.”
“Faith, the more I am fain of it,” said Barthélemy, “and may be I might take the wrong track, and get into the Paradise of Mahound, which, I have heard, is no ill place for a man-at-arms.”
This man had no more faith than a paynim, but, none the less, was a stout carl in war.
“But that minds me,” quoth he, “of the very thing I came hither to tell you. One priest there is in Compiègne who takes no keep of his life, a cordelier. What ails you, man? does your leg give a twinge?”
“Ay, a shrewd twinge enough.”
“Truly, you look pale enough.”
“It is gone,” I said. “Tell me of that cordelier.”
“Do you see this little rod?” he asked, putting in my hand a wand of dark wood, carven with the head of a strange beast in a cowl.