“Truly, Bertrand, she comes from God,” declared De Metz one day upon his return from a town where he had gone in search of food. The party dared not enter the place for fear of detection. The news was broadcast over the country that the inspired Maid of Vaucouleurs was proceeding to the King under escort, and the knights feared an encounter with some band of the enemy. “She has not much money; that I know, yet she gave me alms to give to the poor. And this she does whenever we draw near to a town.”
“She is a saint,” avowed De Poulengy. “I think she must be inspired in very truth, Jean; else how is it that she stands the journey as she does? A little wearied she may be when we 159 stop for rest, but do you note that she starts onward as blithely and gayly as though we had but just set forth?”
“Ay! I have noticed it. ’Tis as though she received manna from Heaven for her recuperation. Through many wild marches I have been, yet this one hath been the most trying. I fear ambuscades, Bertrand, and I would not have harm come to the Maid. I would rather lose life itself than have aught befall her.”
“And I, Jean. But I fear that all of our company do not agree with us. I overheard some words that Richard the Archer had with our two varlets this morning which shows their mind in manner most alarming. They also have noted the marvellous way in which the Maid has withstood the fatigues of the journey, and they declare that a mere maiden could not bear them as she does. In truth, they deem her a witch. We must be on our guard against them lest they try some trick against her.”
“The vile caitiffs! Can they not see that she is one of God’s saints?” exclaimed De Metz wrathfully. “I will go to them. I––”
“Nay, Jean; restrain yourself,” counselled the older man laying his hand lightly on the other’s arm. “Be not too severe in your judgment ’gainst the varlets. Time was, and not so long since, when we too were in doubt concerning the maiden. They may intend no harm, but I deemed it the part of wisdom to put you on guard. Let us say nothing, but watch and wait.”
“You are right, Bertrand.” De Metz spoke more quietly. “They may intend no harm, but ’tis well to be on guard. If 160 they should attempt anything––” He paused, touching his sword significantly.
Poulengy nodded, and the two returned to the camp. As they made night marches they rested by day. For this day they had selected for camp a cove that lay between two shoulders of the winding hills on the banks of a swollen stream. Though a cold rain was falling there was no fire for fear of the enemy. The leafless boughs did little to ward off the rain, and there was not much comfort in the chill woods, so the party ate in silence the cold bread and meat which De Metz had obtained in the town. They but waited for the darkness that they might take to horse again. Richard the bowman was sentinel, and after the comfortless meal they all lay down on the wet ground to get what rest they could. They were aroused by a wild shout from the Archer, who rushed among them, crying:
“The English! The English are upon us!”
Instantly the two knights and the King’s messenger were upon their feet, and drawing their swords, threw themselves quickly before Jeanne. She alone was undisturbed, and merely rose to a sitting posture as the men breathlessly awaited the approach of the enemy. The knights’ servants, Jean de Honecourt and Julien, made as though about to flee when Jeanne spoke in her grave, sweet voice: