g supine at the feet of the English
conqueror; licking his hand, as a dog licks that of his master,
lost to all sense of shame that an English infant in his cradle (so
to speak) should rule through a regent the fair realm of France,
whilst its own lawful King, banished from his capital and from half
his kingdom, should keep his Court at Bourges or Chinon, passing
his days in idle revelry, heedless of the eclipse of former
greatness, careless of the further aggressions threatened by the
ever-encroaching foe.

Was Orleans to fall next into the greedy maw of the English
adventurers? Was it not already threatened? And how could it be
saved if nothing could rouse the King from his slothful
indifference? O for the days of Chivalry!--the days so long gone
by!

Whilst I, Jean de Novelpont, was musing thus, a curious look
overshadowed the face of Bertrand de Poulengy, our comrade and
friend, with whom, when we had said adieu to Sir Guy a few miles
farther on, I was to return to Vaucouleurs, to pay a long-promised
visit there. I had been journeying awhile with Sir Guy in Germany,
and he was on his way to the Court at Chinon; for we were all of
the Armagnac party, loyal to our rightful monarch, whether King or
only Dauphin still, since he had not been crowned, and had adopted
no truly regal state or authority; and we were earnestly desirous
of seeing him awaken from his lethargy and put himself at the head
of an army, resolved to drive out the invaders from the land, and
be King of France in truth as well as in name. But so far it seemed
as though nothing short of a miracle would effect this, and the
days of miracles, as Sir Guy had said, were now past and gone.

Then came the voice of Bertrand, speaking in low tones, as a man
speaks who communes with himself; but we heard him, for we were
riding over the thick moss of the forest glade, and the horses'
feet sank deep and noiseless in the sod, and our fellows had fallen
far behind, so that their laughter and talk no longer broke upon
our ears. The dreamy stillness of the autumn woodlands was about
us, when the songs of the birds are hushed, and the light falls
golden through the yellowing leaves, and a glory more solemn than
that of springtide lies upon the land.

Methinks there is something in the gradual death of the year which
attunes our hearts to a certain gentle melancholy; and perchance
this was why Sir Guy's words had lacked the ring of hopeful bravery
that was natur