“This and none other, messire. For in this garb shall I do that which is commanded.”
So led by the nobleman and followed by the two knights the maiden started for the castle. Up a broad winding path they wended their way to the rocky ridge of hill along which the great walls of the castle, interrupted and strengthened by huge towers, stretched. It was old and great and strong, having been builded when the Romans were lords of the land, and was a favorite seat of English kings before it passed into the hands of the French. From the high drawbridge above the moat, which was twenty feet deep, there was a wide prospect over the town and the valley of the Vienne. Soldiers idled and diced just within the gate, though the dice were scarce discernible in the fast falling darkness. They ceased the play as Jeanne and her attendants came upon the drawbridge, and a murmur ran from lip to lip, for by this time all in Chinon knew of her.
“La Pucelle! La Pucelle! The inspired Maid from Vaucouleurs comes to see the King.”
At this soldiers and sentinels turned to gaze curiously at the girl. Suddenly one started from among his fellows, and came very close to her, peering impudently into her face.
“By all the saints, ’tis a pretty wench!” he cried. “May God send more such witches to Chinon. I––”
But angrily Jean de Metz swept him out of the way.
“Jarnedieu!” cried the soldier wrathfully, using the common oath of his class.
“Oh, dost thou jarnedieu?” cried Jeanne mournfully. “Thou who art so near death?”
Like one turned to stone the man stood, and then, as some of his comrades began to gibe at him, he came to himself and turned upon them in a rage.