“Jeanne, messire.”

“I will remember it, Jeanne. Who taught you to be so deft in such matters?”

“My mother, messire.” Jeanne blushed at being so interrogated.

“You have a gentle touch. If my arm does not heal quickly under such ministration it does not belong to Bertrand de Poulengy.”

Jeanne blushed again and withdrew quickly, carrying the basin with her. After placing a tall flagon, the wooden drinking cups, and the knife for cutting the bread upon the table she went to her godmother’s side, and sat down.

As she did so her father and mother entered. Upon her arm Isabeau carried a

large ring of black bread, while Jacques brought another armful of faggots. They were a hard working, devout couple who strove to bring up their children,––of which there were five: three sons, Jacquemin, Jean, and Pierre; and two daughters, Jeanne and Catherine,––to love work and religion. Jacques D’Arc was a doyen; that is, a village elder; the chief man in Domremy after the mayor.

He was of such substance that he was enabled to raise his family in comfort, and to give alms and hospitality to the poor wandering friars, and other needy wayfarers then so common in the land.

“Sit up, messires,” cried Jacques as his wife emptied the contents of the iron pot into a platter which she set on the table. “Eat, for you must be hungry. Ay! and thirsty too, I doubt not.”

“By our Lady, but that hath a welcome sound, honest Jacques,” cried the elder knight, starting up eagerly. “We are both hungry and thirsty. Neither of us has broken his fast since morning, and then the repast was but meagre. Bertrand, man, does not the flavor of that stew assail your nostrils deliciously?”

“It does indeed, Louis. Methinks that I shall do justice to it. The Duke of Lorraine does not regale his prisoners on such fare.”

“You were prisoners to the Duke of Lorraine?” questioned Jacques as he and his

guests drew up to the table. The women and children sat apart waiting to eat later.

“Ay! and have been for these many weary months, Jacques. It seems like a miracle that we did at last escape, but so it has fallen out.”

“Tell of the manner of your taking and escape, if it please you, messire,” spoke Jacques. “’Twill enliven the hour, and we are of the King’s party here.”

“Right well do we know that, Jacques D’Arc, else we would not have tarried here. Domremy is well known to be for the King.”

“Ay! for the King and France. Save for one man the entire village is against the Burgundians and the English invaders.”

“’Tis good to hear such report, Jacques. And now if you wish to hear the tale it pleases me well to tell it. Know then that in August last, I, Louis De Lude, and Bertrand de Poulengy here with six other men-at-arms did set forth from the town of Châlons for that of Tours, being sadly in need of armour. You must know that for armour there be none in all France that can compare with the smiths of Tours. Through fear of being set upon by either the enemy, or marauding bands, we travelled at night, avoiding the frequented roads and the

towns known to be in possession of the hostile party. Thus we went for ten days with no untoward event happening, and on the morning of the eleventh day we

broke into gratulation, for then we came in sight of the walls of Tours.

“The sun was an hour high, and all the gates of the town were open. Through them the country folk were passing with milk and fruit for the market. The sight was a welcome one to travellers weary of the road and road fare. With cries of

pleasure we spurred our horses forward. When within a half league of the city the joyous exclamations died on our lips, for suddenly the gates were closed, leaving us and a few poor market people outside. The country people ran distractedly toward the town, uttering loud outcries as the watchman appeared on the ramparts, shouting something that we were not near enough to understand.

Wondering at the action of the town, and the apparent terror of the people we wheeled, and saw the cause.

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“The frequented road from the town wound a short distance away between two

low hills, and over the green shoulder of one of these a dozen bright points caught and reflected the morning light. Even as we looked the points lifted, and became spears. Ten, twenty, thirty, still they came until we could no longer count them. We turned to make a dash back in the way we had come, and behold!

springing up in front of us were other spears. We were caught; and, outnumbered though we were, there was nothing for it but to fight. And fight we did, for in a moment they were upon us.

“’Tis hard to know just what is happening when one is in the thick of combat.

There were yells and wild cries as the two forces came together in a huddle of

falling or rearing horses, of flickering weapons, of thrusting men, of grapples hand to hand. Who it was fell, stabbed through and through, or who still fought single combat I could not tell. It was over presently, and as I yielded up my sword in surrender I glanced about me; and lo! of our little band but three remained: Bertrand here, Jean Laval, and myself. We had fallen into the hands of Sabbat, the freebooter, the terror of Anjou and Touraine.

“He did not take us to his garrison at Langeaís, but retreated to those same low hills by the road, and there cast us into a pit to be held for ransom. Ransom? In sooth, he deserved none, for he took from us the livres we had for our armour.

One hundred and twenty-five livres tournois did Bertrand and I have each for that purpose, and he took them. Ay! and likewise he robbed our comrades who

were dead. But our armour they left us, because it was old. Three months w 31 e

stayed in that pit waiting for ransom, with bread and water for our daily fare.

And truly it was the bread of sadness and the water of affliction. Jean died of his wounds, but Bertrand and I came through.

“And then it fell upon a day that some of my Lord Duke, Charles of Lorraine’s,

retainers passed by the robbers’ lair on their way from Tours to Lorraine.

Sabbat’s men set upon them even as they had done upon us. But the Duke’s men

worsted them, and carried away not only many freebooters as prisoners but those also who were held captive by the marauders. Finding that Bertrand and I were

Armagnacs, of the King’s party, they took us to the ducal palace at Nancy to be held for ransom. We were thrown into a dungeon there to await the return of the messenger to our friends, but whether money was ever sent either to Duke Charles or to Sabbat we know not. All that we know is that we lay waiting, waiting in that vile dungeon for weary days. So the time went by; long months

that sapped our vigour, but which whetted our appetites for vengeance.

“We were not upon parole, though my Lord Charles had striven to put us there, so we watched for a chance to escape, as is the right of every prisoner. It came at length. Two days ago the old man, who was our keeper, came to us at eventide

bearing the black bread that formed our meals. He had not brought the water, and Bertrand made a cry for it, grumbling loudly because it had not been fetched, saying that he was athirst. It confused the old man, because he had in very truth forgot the water, which he was loath to acknowledge. For this reason he neglected his usual caution of backing out of the dungeon with his face toward

us, and turned his back upon us. Instantly we sprang upon him, and easily overcame him. We bound him with his own garments, and then, possessing ourselves of his keys, went forth boldly. To our amazement we found our way into the courtyard without encountering any one. There were sounds of revelry from the palace, and creeping near we found that it was the anniversary of his birthnight, so Duke Charles held high carnival. It was the night of all nights favorable to an escape.

“The guard was relaxed so, unchallenged, we succeeded in placing a scaling ladder against the ramparts, and up we went. When we had reached the top, however, we were seen, and a shower of arrows were shot at us, wounding Bertrand. Two lance lengths high were the walls, but we dropped from them to

the outside, landing, by God’s grace, on the edge of the moat. We crept close to the walls, and the fast falling darkness hid us from the view of the archers on the top.

“Doubtless they thought that we had fallen into the water, for presently the hue and cry died down, and we heard no sound that denoted that search was being made for us. Then cautiously we crossed the moat, fearful of its waters, but Saint Catherine, the friend of escaping prisoners, was with us, and reaching the other side we went forth free men once more. How we obtained horses and the manner

of coming here have nothing of mark to relate. We did obtain them, and we came. And that, honest Jacques, is the tale. A common one in France.”

“Ay, messire; but too common,” agreed Jacques, shaking his head mournfully.

“Truly, France has fallen upon evil days.”