I was
one of those to see the peril first, and with Bertrand and Guy de
Laval beside me, to charge furiously upon the advancing foe, crying
aloud to others to close round the Maid and bear her away into
safety, whilst we engaged the enemy and gave them time.
That is all I know. All the rest vanishes in the mists. When these
mists cleared away, Bertrand and I were in the home of Sir Guy,
tended by his mother and grandmother--both of whom had seen and
loved well the wonderful Maid--and she was in a terrible prison,
some said an iron cage, guarded by brutal English soldiers, and
declared a witch or a sorceress, not fit to live, nor to die a
soldier's death, but only to perish at the stake as an outcast from
God and man.
Months had passed since the battle of Compiegne. Fever had had me
fast in its grip all that while, and the news I heard on recovery
brought it all back again. Bertrand and Guy were in little better
case. We were like pale ghosts of our former selves during those
winter months, when, hemmed in by snow, we could learn so little
news from without, and could only eat out our hearts in rage and
grief.
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