ore hampered. Jeanne
sounded the great moat with her lance and shouted to throw in faggots.

Inside the town could be heard the roar of cannon, and all along the
streets the citizens were running, half accoutred, to their posts on
the ramparts, knocking over as they went the brats playing about in the
gutters. The chains were drawn across the roadways, and barricades were
begun. Tribulation and tumult filled all the place.

But neither the Brother Joconde nor his Penitents saw aught of it,
forasmuch as they took heed only of eternal things, and deemed the vain
agitation of men to be but a foolish game. They marched through the
streets singing the "Veni creator spiritus," and crying out: "Pray, for
the times are at hand."

Thus they made their way in good array down the Rue Saint-Antoine, which
was densely crowded with men, women, and children. Coming presently to
the Place Baudet, Brother Joconde pushed through the throng and mounted
a great stone that stood at the door of the Hotel de la Truie, which
Messire Florimont Lecocq, the master of the house, used to help him
mount his mule. This Messire Florimont Lecocq was Sergeant at the
Chatelet Prison and a partisan of the English.

So, standing on the great stone, Brother Joconde preached to the people.
"Sow ye," he cried, "sow ye, good folk; sow abundantly of beans, for He
which is to come will come quickly."

By the beans they were to sow, the good Brother signified the charitable
works it behoved them accomplish before Our Lord should come, in the
clouds of heaven, to judge both the quick and the dead. And it was
urgent to sow these works without tarrying, for that the harvest would
be soon. Guillaumette Dyonis, Simone la Bardine, Jeanne Chastenier,
Opportune Jadoin, and Robin the gardener, stood in a ring about the
Preacher, and cried "Amen!"

But the citizens, who thronged behind in a great crowd, pricked up their
ears and bent their brows, thinking the Monk was foretelling the entry
of Charles of Valois into his good town of Paris, over which he was
fain--at any rate, so they believed--to drive the ploughshare.

Meanwhile the good Brother went on with his soul-awakening discourse.

"Oh! ye men of Paris, ye are worse than the Pagans of old Rome."

Just then the mangonels firing from the Porte Saint-Denis mingled their
thunder with Brother Joconde's voice and shook the bystanders'
hearts within them. Some one in the press cried out, "Death! death to
traitors