A few miles from the strong town of Bourges, on the summit of a
considerable elevation, was a château or castle, even then showing
some signs of antiquity. It was not a very large and magnificent
dwelling, consisting merely of the outer walls with their flanking
towers, one tall, square tower, and one great mass stretching out into
the court, and rising to the height of two stories. In a small, plain
chamber, containing every thing useful and convenient, but nothing
very ornamental, sat a young gentleman of three or four-and-twenty
years of age, covered with corselet and back piece, but with his head
and limbs bare of armor. Two men, however, were busily engaged fitting
upon him the iron panoply of war. One was kneeling at his feet,
fastening the greaves upon his legs; the other stood behind, attaching
the pauldrons and pallets. On a table hard by stood a casque and
plume, beside which lay the gauntlets, the shield, and the sword; and
near the table stood a lady, somewhat past the middle age, gazing
gravely and anxiously at the young man's countenance.
But there was still another person in the room. A young girl of some
six or seven years of age had climbed up upon the gentleman's knee,
and, was making a necklace for him of her arms, while ever and anon
she kissed him tenderly.
"You must come back, Jean--you must come back," she said; "though dear
mother says perhaps you may never come back--you must not leave your
own little Agnes. What would she do without you?"
Jean Charost embraced her warmly, but he did not speak; for there were
many emotions in his heart which he feared might make his voice
tremble. Few who had seen him six or seven years before would have
recognized in that tall, powerful young man, the slim, graceful lad
who was secretary to the unfortunate Duke of Orleans; nor was the
change, perhaps, less in his mind than in his person, for although he
was of that character which changes slowly, yet all characters change.
The oak requires a hundred years; the willow hardly twenty; and as one
layer or circle grows upon another in the heart of the tree, so do new
feelings come over man's spirit as he advances from youth to age. Each
epoch in human life has the things pertaining to itself. The boy can
never divine what the man will feel; the man too little recollects
what were the feelings of the boy.
However, the change in Jean Charost, in consequence of the
circumstances in which he had been placed, was somewhat different from
that which might have been expected. He had become tenderer rather
than harder in the last seven years, more flexible rather than more
rigid. Till between seventeen and eighteen years of age, hard
necessities, constant application, the everlasting dealing with
material things, the guard which he had been continually forced to put
upon himself--knowing that not only his own future fate might be
darkened, but the happiness and deliverance of a parent might be lost
by one false step--had all tended to give him an unyouthful sternness
of principle and of demeanor, which had perhaps saved him from many
evils, but had deprived him of much innocent enjoyment.
Since the death of the Duke of Orleans, however, acting altogether as
his own master, seeing more of the general world, and with his mind
relieved from the oppressive cares and anxieties which may be said to
have frozen his youth, he had warmed, as it were, in the sunshine, and
all the more gentle things of the heart had come forth and blossomed.
I know not whether the love of that dear, beautiful child had not
greatly aided the change--whether his tenderness for her, and her
adoring fondness for him, had not called out emotions, natural but
latent, and affections which only wanted something to cling round.
Whenever he returned from any of the scenes of strife and trouble in
which he embarked with the rest, one of his first thoughts was of
Agnes. When he approached the gates of the old castle, his eyes were
always lifted to see her coming to meet him. When he sought a time of
repose in the plain and unadorned halls of his father, no gorgeous
tapestry, no gilded ceiling, no painted gallery could have ornamented
the place so well as the smiles of that sweet, young face. The balmy
influence of innocent childhood was felt by him very strongly.
He was very indulgent toward her. His mother said he spoiled her. But
he used to laugh joyfully, and declare that nothing could spoil his
little Agnes; and, in truth, with him she was ever gentle and docile,
seeming to love obedience to his lightest word.
And now he was going to leave her--to leave all he held most dear in
life for a long much--for a fierce strife--for a struggle on which the
fate of France depended. He was not without hope, he was not without
confidence; but if almost all men feel some shade of dread when
parting from a well-loved home on any ordinary occasion--if a chilling
conviction of the dreary uncertainty of all earthly things comes upon
them even--what must have been his sensations when he thought of all
that might happen between the hours of parting and returning?
But the trumpet had sounded throughout the land. Every well-wisher of
his country was called upon to forget his domestic ties, and selfish
interests, and private quarrels, and arm to repel an invader. The
appeal was to the hearts of all Frenchmen, and he must go. Nay more,
he had taxed his utmost means, he had mortgaged the very bequest of
the Duke of Orleans, he had done every thing--but impoverish his
mother--in order to carry with him as many men as possible to swell
the hosts of France.
The last piece of his armor was buckled on--Martin Grille took up the
casque--a cup of wine was brought, and Jean Charost embraced his
mother and the child.
"How hard your breast is, Jean," said the little girl.
"None too hard," said the mother. "God be your shield, my son. He is
better than sword or buckler."
"Amen!" said Jean Charost, and left them.
Now let us change the scene once more, for this must be a chapter of
changes. Stand upon this little hill with me, beside the great oak,
and let us look on, as day breaks over the fair scene below us. See
how beautifully the land slopes away there on the north, with the
wooded heights near Blangy, and the church steeple on the rise of the
hill, and the old castle hard by. How the light catches upon it, even
before the day is fully risen! Even that piece of marshy ground,
sloping gently up into a meadow, with a deep ditch cut here and there
across it, acquires something like beauty from the purple light of the
rising sun. There is a little coppice there to the westward, with a
wind-mill, somewhat like that at Creçy, waving its slow arms on the
gentle morning breeze. How peaceful it all looks; how calm. Can this
narrow space, this tranquil scene, be the spot on which the destiny of
a great kingdom is to be decided in an hour?
So, perhaps, thought a man placed upon the hill near Blangy, as he
looked in the direction of Azincourt, one half of the steeple of which
could be seen rising over the slope. Soon, however, that quiet scene
became full of life. He saw a small body of some two hundred men run
rapidly along under cover of the coppice, bending their heads, with no
apparent arms, except what seemed an ax slung upon the shoulder of
each. They carried long slim wands in their hands, it is true; but to
the eye those wands were very unserviceable weapons. They reached the
edge of a ditch upon the meadow, and there they disappeared. A loud
flourish of martial music followed, and soon after, from behind the
wood, came on, in steady array, a small body of soldiery. They could
not have numbered more than one or two thousand men at the very most,
and little like soldiers did they look, except in the even firmness of
their line. There was no glittering steel to be seen. Casque and
corselet, spear and banner were not there. Not even the foot-soldier's
jack and morion could be descried among them; but, tattered,
travel-worn, and many of them bare-headed, they advanced, with heavy
tramp and steady countenance, in the same direction which had been
taken by the others. The same long wands were in their hands, and each
bore upon his shoulder a heavy, steel-pointed post, while a short
sword or ax hung upon the thigh, and a well-stored quiver was within
reach of the right hand. Before them rode a knight on horseback, with
a truncheon in his hand, and behind them still, as they marched on,
sounded the war-stirring trumpet.
The face of the man who stood there and watched was very pale, either
with fear or some other emotion, and every now and then he approached
a tree to which three horses were tied--one of which was fully
caparisoned for war--examined the bridles, and saw that all was right,
as if he were anxious that every thing should be ready, either for
strife or flight. While he was thus employed, two other men came up,
slowly climbing the hill from the eastward; but there was nothing in
the appearance of either to give any alarm to him who was watching
there. The one was a round, short personage, with a countenance on
which nature had stamped cheerful good-humor, though his eyes had now
in them an expression of wild anxiety, which showed that he knew what
scene was about to be enacted below. The other was a tall, gaunt man,
far past the middle age, but his face betrayed no emotion. It was
still and pale as that of death, and changed not even after they had
reached a point where the whole array of the field was set out before
them. His brow, however, wore a heavy frown; but that expression
seemed habitual, and not produced by any transitory feeling. Both the
strangers were habited in the long, gray gown of the monk, with a
girdle of plain cord, and the string of beads attached; besides which,
the elder man carried in his hand a staff, and a large ebony crucifix.
The moment their heads rose above the slope, so that they could see
over into the plain beyond, the younger and the stouter man stopped
suddenly, with a look of some alarm, as if the moving mass of soldiery
had been close to him. "Jesu Maria!" he exclaimed; "are those the
English, brother Albert? I did not know they were half to near."
The other answered nothing, and his countenance changed not while his
eye ran over the whole country beneath him, with the calm, deliberate,
marking look of a man who had beheld such scenes before.
Suddenly, on the right, over the tops of the trees, rose up a dense
cloud of smoke, which, rolling in large volumes into the air, became
tinged with a dark red hue, and speckled with sparks of fire.
"What is that? what is that?" cried the younger monk. "That must be
some place on fire at Aubain."
"No, no," replied the other, speaking for the first time; "that is
much nearer. It is either at Teneur, or at the farm of our priory of
St. George. Can the English king have thrown out his right wing so far
in order to take our army on the flank? If so, one charge would ruin
him. But no; he is too wise for that. It must be a stratagem to
deceive the Constable."
As he spoke, the first comer moved away from the horses and joined
them, saying, "God help us! this is a terrible scene, good fathers."
The elder monk gazed at him with his motionless countenance, but
answered nothing; and the younger one replied, much in his own tone,
"A terrible scene, indeed, my son--a terrible scene, indeed! I know
not whether it be more so to stand as a mere spectator, and witness
such a sight as will soon be before us, or to mingle in the fray, and
lose part of its horrors by sharing in its fury."
"Oh, I have no doubt which," answered the other. "My mind is quite
made up on that subject."
"You may be a man of war," replied the other. "Indeed, these armed
horses seem to speak it."
"No. I am a man of peace," rejoined the first-comer. "Those horses are
my master's, not mine; and the fighting is his too. But he knows my
infirmity, and leaves me here out of arrow-shot. The boy who was with
me has run down the hill, to be nearer to our lord; but I, as in duty
bound, stay where he placed me. I should like very much to know,
however, what is the name of that farm-house and the two or three
cottages there, at the edge of the meadow, with the deep ditch across
it."
"That is called Tramecourt," replied the younger monk. "It is but a
small hamlet; and I heard this morning that our riotous soldiers had
driven all the people out of it, and eaten up all their stores. Why do
you ask, my son?"
"Because I saw but now some two or three hundred men, coming from the
side of Blangy, run down by the willows there, and disappear in the
ditch."
"God's retribution!" said the elder monk, gravely. "Had not the
soldiery driven out the peasantry, there would have been men to bear
the news of the ambush."
"Think you it is an ambush, then?" asked the younger monk.
"Beyond doubt," replied the other; "and he who would do a good service
to the army of France would mount yon horse, ride down toward
Azincourt, and carry the tidings to the constable."
As he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon their lay companion, who seemed a
little uneasy under their gaze. He fidgeted, pulled the points of his
doublet, and then said, sturdily, "Well, I can not go. I must stay
with the horses."
"Are you a coward?" asked the elder monk, in a low, bitter tone.
"Yes," replied the man, nonchalantly. "I am a desperate coward--have
been so all my life. I have a reverent regard for my own skin, and no
fondness for carving that of other people. If men have a peculiar
fancy for poking holes in each other's bodies, I do not quarrel with
them for it. Indeed, I do not quarrel with any one for any thing; but
it is not my taste: it is not my trade. Why should I make eyelet-holes
in nature's jerkin, or have myself bored through and through, like a
piece of timber under an auger?"
"Well, my son, wilt thou let me have a horse, that I may ride down and
tell the constable?" asked the shorter of his two companions.
"There is hardly time," said the elder monk. "See, here comes a larger
body of archers from the side of Blangy, and I can catch lance heads
and banners rising up by Azincourt. The bloody work will soon begin."
"I would fain try, at all events," cried the other. "Man, wilt thou
let me have a horse? I will bring him back to thee in half an hour, if
ever I come back alive myself."
"Take him, take him," answered the other. "I am not the man to stop
you. How could I resist two monks and three horses. Not the
destrier--not the battle-horse. That is my lord's. Here, take the
page's. Let me help thee on, father. Thou art so fat in the nether end
that thou wilt never get up without a ladder. One time I was as bad a
horseman as thyself, and so I have compassion on thy foibles. Have
thou some upon mine."
The monk was soon settled in the saddle, and away he went down the
hill, showing himself a better horseman, when once mounted, than the
other had given him credit for.
As soon as he was gone, the elder monk fixed his eyes once more upon
his companion, and said, in a low voice, "Have I not seen thee
somewhere before?"
"I can't tell," answered the other. "I have seen you, I fancy; but if
so, you gave no sign of seeing me, either by word or look. However, I
am Martin Grille, the valet of the good Baron de Brecy. Perhaps that
may give your memory a step to climb upon."
"It needs no step," answered the other. "I am all memory. Would to God
I were not."
"Ay, now you look more as you did then, though not half so mad
either," said Martin Grille. "You are older, too, and your cowl makes
a difference."
"And there is a difference," replied the monk, in a tone of deep
sadness. "Penitence and prayer, remorse and anguish--sated revenge,
perhaps--a thirst assuaged--a thirst such as no desert traveler ever
knew, quenched in blood and tears; all these have changed me. The fire
has gone out. I am nothing but the ashes of my former self."
"Rather hot ashes, even yet," answered Martin Grille, "if I may judge
by what you said about my cowardice just now. But look, look, good
father. What will become of our fat brother there? Why he is riding
right before that strong body of lances coming up from Blangy."
"He does not see them," answered the other, gravely. "He may reach the
constable, even yet; for lo, now! there comes the power of France over
the hill; and England on to meet her. By the holy rood! they make a
gallant show, these great noblemen of France. Why, what a sea of
archery and men-at-arms is here, with plumes and banners, lance and
shield, and pennons numberless. I have seen many a stricken fight, and
never but at Poictiers saw fairer array than that."
"Why, they will sweep the English from the face of the earth," said
Martin Grille. "If that be all King Henry's power, it is but a morsel
for the maw of such a monster as is coming down from Azincourt."
The monk turned toward him, and shook his head. "You know not these
Englishmen," he said, with a sigh. "When brought to bay, they fight
like wolves. I have heard my father tell of Creçy; and at Poictiers I
was a page. On each field we outnumbered them as here, and at
Poictiers we might have had them on composition had it pleased the
king. But we forced them to fight, and fight they did, till the
multitude fled before a handful, and order and discipline did what
neither numbers nor courage could effect. Look you now, how skillfully
this English king has chosen his place of battle, unassailable on
either flank, showing a narrow front to his enemy, so as to render
numbers of no avail. God send that they may not prove destructive."
"Ah, he is too late!" replied Martin Grille who had been watching the
course of the other monk, who was riding straight toward the head of
the ditch, where he had seen the archers conceal themselves. "He is
too late, I fear."
His exclamation was caused by sudden movements observable in both
armies. The English force had been advancing slowly in three bodies,
each looking but a handful as compared with the immense forces of
France, but in firm and close array, with little of that ornament and
decoration which gilds and smoothes the rugged reality of war; but
with many instruments of music playing martial airs, and seeming to
speak of hope and confidence.
The French, on the other hand, who had lain quiet all the morning, as
if intending to wait the attack of the enemy, had just spread out upon
the slope in face of Azincourt, divided likewise into three vast
bodies, with their wings overlapping, on either side, the flank of the
English force. Splendid arms and glittering accoutrements made the
whole line shine and sparkle; but not a sound was heard from among
them, except now and then the shout of a commander. At the moment of
Martin Grille's exclamation, the advanced guard of the French had
assumed a quicker pace, and were pouring down upon the English
archery, as they marched up through a somewhat narrow space, inclosed
between low thick copse, hedges, and swampy ground. This narrow field
forked out gradually, becoming wider and wider toward the centre of
the French host; and the English had just reached what we may call the
mouth of the fork, with nearly fifteen thousand French men-at-arms,
and archers before them, under the command of the constable in person.
Slowly and steadily the Englishmen marched on, till within half
bow-shot of the French line, headed by old Sir Thomas of Erpingham,
who rode some twenty yards before the archery, with a page on either
side, and nothing but a baton in his hand. When near enough to render
every arrow certain of its mark, the old knight waved his truncheon in
the air, and instantly the whole body of foot halted short. At the
same moment, each man planted before him the spiked stake which he
carried in his hand, and laid an arrow on the string of his bow. A
dead silence prevailed along each line, unbroken except by the tramp
of the advancing French. Sir Thomas of Erpingham looked along the
line, from right to left, and then exclaimed, in a loud, powerful
voice, "Now strike!" throwing his truncheon high into the air, and
dismounting from his horse. Instantly, from the ditch on the left
flank of the French, rose up the concealed archers, with bows already
drawn; and well might Martin Grille exclaim that the monk was too
late. The next instant, from one end of the English line to the other,
ran the tremendous cheer which has so often been the herald of victory
over land and sea; and the next, a flight of arrows as thick as hail
poured right into the faces of the charging enemy. Knights and
squires, and men-at-arms bowed their heads to the saddle-bow to avoid
the shafts; but on they still rushed, each man directing his horse
straight against the narrow front of the English, and pressing closer
and closer together, so as to present one compact mass, upon which
each arrow told. Nor did that fatal flight cease for an instant.
Hardly was one shaft delivered before another was upon the string,
and, mad with pain, the horses of the French cavalry reared and
plunged among the crowd, creating as much destruction and disarray as
even the missiles of their foe.
All then became a scene of strange confusion to the eyes of Martin
Grille. The two opposing forces seemed mingled together. The English,
he thought, were forced back, but their order seemed firmer than that
of the French line, where all was struggling and disarray. Here and
there a small space in one part of the field would become
comparatively clear, and then he would see a knight or squire dragged
from his horse, and an archer driving the point of his sword between
the bars of his helmet. The figure of the monk was no longer to be
discerned, for he had long been enveloped in the various masses of
light cavalry and camp-followers which whirled around the wings of the
French army--of little or no service in the battle to those whom they
Served, and only formidable to an enemy in case of his defeat.
The monk, who stood beside Martin Grille, remained profoundly silent,
though his companion often turned his eye toward him with an inquiring
look, as if he would fain have asked, "How, think you, goes the
strife?" But, though no words were uttered, many were the emotions
which passed over his countenance. At first all was calm, although
there was a straining of the eye beneath the bent brow, like that of
the eagle gazing down from its rocky eyrie on the prey moving across
the plain below. Then came a glance of triumph, as some two or three
hundred of the French men-at-arms dashed on before their companions,
and hurled themselves upon the English line, in the vain effort to
break the firm array of the archery. But when he saw the troops
mingling together, and the heavy pressure of the French chivalry one
upon the other, each impeding his neighbor, and leaving no room for
any one but those in the front rank to strike a blow, his brow grew
dark, his eye anxious, and his lip quivered. For a moment more, he
continued silent; but then, when he saw the English arrows dropping
among the ranks of his countrymen, the horses rearing and falling with
their riders, to be trampled under the feet of those who pressed
around--some, maddened with pain, tearing through all that opposed
them, and carrying terror and confusion into the main body
behind--some urged by fearful riders at the full gallop from a field
which they fancied lost, because it was not instantly won, he could
bear no more, but exclaimed, sharply and sternly, "They will lose the
day!"
"But all that vast number coming down the hill have not yet struck a
stroke," cried Martin Grille.
"Where can they strike?" said the monk, sternly. "Were the field
cleared of their friends, they might yet do something with their foes.
See, the banner of Alençon is down, and where is that of Brabant? I
see it no more."
He gazed for a moment more, and then exclaimed, "On my life! they are
flying--flying right into the centre of the main battle, to carry the
infection of their fear with them!"
As he spoke, two or three horsemen, in mad haste, galloped up the hill
directly toward them, and Martin Grille sprang to the side of the
horses, unfastened one of them, and put his foot in the stirrup.
"Fool! they will not hurt thee," said the monk "'Tis their own lives
they seek to save;" and, stretching out his arms across the path by
which the men-at-arms were coming, he exclaimed, fiercely,
"Cowards--cowards! back to the battle for very shame!"
But they galloped on past him, one with an arrow through his shoulder,
and one with the crest of his casque completely shorn off. The third
struck a blow with a mace at the monk as he passed, but it narrowly
missed him; and on he too rode, with a bitter curse upon his lips.
By this time it was no longer doubtful which way the strife would go
between the advance-guard of the French and that of the English army.
The former was all in disarray, and parties scattering away from it
every instant, while the latter was advancing steadily, supported by a
large body of pikes and bill-men, who now appeared in steady order
from behind some of the tall trees of the wood. Just then, through the
bushes which lay scattered over the bottom of the slope, a group was
seen coming up the hill, so slowly that their progress could hardly be
called flight. At first neither Martin Grille nor the monk could
clearly perceive what they were doing, for the branches, covered with
thin, dry October leaves, partly intercepted the view. Soon, however,
they emerged upon more open ground, and three or four men on foot
appeared, closely surrounding a caparisoned horse, which one of them
led by the bridle, while another, walking by the stirrup, seemed to
have his arm around the waist of the rider. An instant after, a
mounted man in a gray gown appeared from among the bushes, paused by
the side of the little party, and was seen pointing upward toward the
hill.
"Brother Albert and a wounded knight," said the monk, taking a step or
two forward.
"Good Lord! I hope it is not my young master," cried Martin Grille,
clasping his hands together. "Oh, if he would but stay at home and
keep quiet! I am sure his mother would bless the day."
The monk hardly listened to him, for he was gazing with an eager and
anxious look upon the group below; then, suddenly turning to the
varlet, he asked, in a sharp, quick tone, "Has thy young lord any
children?"
"None of his own," answered Martin Grille; "but one whom he has
adopted--a fairy little creature, as beautiful as a sunbeam, whom they
call Agnes. He could not love her better were she his own."
"God will bless him yet," said the monk; and then added, sharply, "Why
stand you here? It is your lord; go down and help." And he himself
hurried down the slope to meet the advancing party.
With his casque cleft open by an ax, an arrow through his right arm, a
spear-hole in his cuirass, and the blood dropping over his coat of
arms, Jean Charost, supported by one of his retainers, on whose
shoulder his head rested, was borne slowly up the hill. His face could
not be seen, for his visor was closed, but there was an expression of
deep sadness on the faces of the two or three men who surrounded him,
which showed that they thought the worst had befallen.
"Is he dead?" asked the old monk, looking at the man who led the
horse.
"I can't tell, father," replied the soldier, gruffly. "He has not
spoken since we got him out of the fray. Here is one who has done his
duty, however. Oh, if they had all fought as he did!"
"I think he is not dead," said the other monk, riding up. "You see his
hand is still clasped upon the rein, and once, I thought, he tried to
raise his head."
"Bear him on--bear him on behind the trees," cried the older man, "and
get the horses out of sight. He is not dead--his hand moves. How goes
it, my son? How goes it? Be of good cheer."
A low groan was the only reply; but that was sign sufficient that life
was not extinct, and Jean Charost was carried gently forward to a spot
behind the trees, well concealed from the field of battle. The old
monk, before he followed, paused to take one more look at the bloody
plain of Azincourt. By this time, the main body of the French army was
in as great disorder as the advanced-guard, while the English forces
were making way steadily with the royal banner floating in the air.
"All is lost," murmured the monk. "God help them! they have cast away
a great victory."
When he reached the little spot to which Jean Charost had been
carried, the men were lifting him gently from his horse, and laying
him down on the dry autumnal grass. His casque was soon removed; but
his eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and uneven. There was
a deep cut upon his head; but that which seemed robbing him of life
was the lance wound in his chest, and, with hurried hands, the two
monks unclasped the cuirass and back-piece, and applied themselves to
stanch the blood.
"It has gone very near his heart," said the elder monk.
"No, no," replied the other; "it is too far to the side. You
understand fighting better than I, Brother Albert, but I know more
surgery than you. Here, hold your hand firmly here, one of you men,
and give me up that scarf. Some one run down to the brook and get
water. Take his bassinet--take his bassinet. We must call him out of
this swoon before it is too late."
Martin Grille seized up his master's casque, and impulsively ran away
toward the brook, which took its rise about two thirds of the way down
the hill. When he came in sight of the battle-field, however, he
stopped suddenly short, with all his old terrors rushing upon him; but
the next instant love for his young lord overcame all other
sensations, and he plunged desperately down the slope, and filled the
bassinet at the fountain.
"Help me, Martin! help me!" said a voice near; and looking up, he saw
the young page, who had followed his lord down the hill.
"Here, boy, come along," cried Martin Grille. "What, are you hurt, you
young fool?"
"Yes, sorely," replied the boy. "While trying to cover the baron, the
first time he was thrown from his horse, they hacked me with their
swords. But I shall never see him again; he is dead now."
"Give me your hand--give me your hand," cried Martin Grille. "He is
not dead; so take good heart. But I must hurry back with this water;
so put forth what strength you have left."
Dragging the page along with one hand, and holding the bassinet in the
other, Martin contrived to climb the hill again, and reach the spot
where De Brecy lay. The younger monk immediately took a handful of the
water, and dashed it in the wounded man's face. A shudder passed over
him, and then he opened his eyes and looked faintly round.
"Now some drops of this sovereign balsam," said the younger monk,
taking a vial from his pocket. "Open your lips, my son, and let me
drop it in."
He had to repeat his words before the wounded man comprehended them;
but when the drops had been administered, a great change took place
very rapidly. The light came back into Jean Charost's eyes, and he
said, though faintly, "Where am I? Who has won?"
"How goes it, my son--how goes it?" asked the elder monk, bending over
him, with his cowl thrown back.
"But feebly, father," answered Jean Charost. "Hah! is that you?"
"Even so," answered the monk. "But cheer up; you shall not die. We
will take you to our priory of St. George of Hesdin, and soon give
you health again."
"Alas!" said Jean Charost, raising his hand feebly, and letting it
drop again, "I have no strength to move. But how goes the battle? If
France have lost, let me lie here and die."
"We can not tell," answered the younger monk. "The battle still rages
fiercely. Here, hold this crucifix in your hand, and let me examine
the wound. 'Tis not bleeding so fast," he continued. "Take some more
of these drops; they will give you strength again."
"Ah, Perot; poor boy!" said Jean Charost, suffering his eyes to glance
feebly round till they rested upon the page, who was leaning against a
tree. "Attend to him, good father. He must be wounded sorely. He saved
my life when first I was dashed down by that blow upon my head."
"Take this first yourself," rejoined the monk, "or the master will go
where the page will not like to follow."
Jean Charost made no resistance; and the monk then turned to the young
boy, examined and bound up his wounds, and administered to him
likewise some of the elixir in which he seemed to put so much faith.
Nor did it seem undeserving of his good opinion; for again the effect
upon Jean Charost was very great, and he said, in a stronger voice,
"Methinks I shall live."
"Can we not contrive to make some litter?" said the elder monk,
looking to the men who had aided their young lord up the hill.
"We will try," said one of them; and taking an ax which hung upon his
shoulder, he began to cut down some of the sapling trees. Ere the
materials were collected, however, to make a litter, there came a
sound of horses feet going at a slow trot, and an instant after a
small party of horse appeared.
"Ha! who have we here?" cried the man at their head. "A French knight,
wounded! God save you, sir. I trust you will do well; but you must
surrender, rescue or no rescue, and give your faith thereon."
As he spoke, he dismounted and approached the little group, holding
out his hand to Jean Charost.
"There is no help for it," answered the wounded man, giving him his
hand. "Rescue or no rescue, I do surrender."
"Your name is the next thing," replied the English officer.
"Jean Charost, Baron de Brecy," replied the young man. "I pray you
tell me how goes the battle?"
"It is over, sir," answered the Englishman. "God has been pleased to
bless our arms. Your men will surrender, of course."
With them, too, there was no help for it, as there were some twenty or
thirty spears around the them; and when they had given their pledge,
the officer, an elderly man, turned again to Jean Charost, saying, in
a kindly tone, "You are badly hurt, sir, and I am sure have done your
_devoir_ right knightly for your king and country. I can not stay to
tend you; but these good fathers will have gentle care of you, I am
sure. When you are well, inquire for the Lord Willoughby. You will not
find him hard to deal with. The parole of a gentleman with such wounds
as these is worth prison bars of three inch thickness;" and thus
saying, he remounted his horse and rode away.