“I see it.”
“How many notches are cut in it?”
“Five,” I said. “But why spoil you your rod?”
“Five men of England or Burgundy that cordelier shot this day, from the creneaux of the boulevard where the Maid,” crossing himself, “was taken. A fell man he is, strong and tall, with a long hooked nose, and as black as Sathanas.”
“How comes he in arms?” I asked.
“Flavy called him in from Valenciennes, where he was about some business of his own, for there is no greater master of the culverin. And, faith, as he says, he ‘has had rare sport, and will have for long.’”
“Was there an onfall of the enemy?”
“Nay, they are over wary. He shot them as they dug behind pavises. [{36}] For the Duke has moved his quarters to Venette, where the English lay, hard by the town. And, right in the middle of the causeway to Margny, two arrow-shots from our bridge end, he is letting build a great bastille, and digging a trench wherein men may go to and fro. The cordelier was as glad of that as a man who has stalked a covey of partridges. ‘Keep my tally for me,’ he said to myself; ‘cut a notch for every man I slay’; and here,” said Barthélemy, waving his staff, “is his first day’s reckoning.”
Now I well saw what chance I had of bringing that devil to justice, for who would believe so strange a tale as mine against one so serviceable in the war? Nor was D’Aulon here to speak for me, the enemy having taken him when they took the Maid. Thinking thus, I groaned, and Barthélemy, fearing that he had wearied me, said farewell, and went out.
Every evening, after sunset, he would come in, and partly cheer me, by telling how hardily our people bore them, partly break my heart with fresh tidings of that devil, Brother Thomas.