of the Order of St. Francis, and all men of Holy
Church.

"Answer a civil question," he said, "before it comes to worse: Armagnac
or Burgundy?"

"Armagnac," I answered, "or anything else that is not English. Clear the
causeway, mad friar!"

At that he threw down his staff.

"I go north also," he said, "to Orleans, if I may, for the foul 'manants'
and peasant dogs of this country have burned the castle of Alfonse
Rodigo, a good knight that held them in right good order this year past.
He was worthy, indeed, to ride with that excellent captain, Don Rodrigo
de Villandradas. King's captain or village labourer, all was fish that
came to his net, and but two days ago I was his honourable chaplain. But
he made the people mad, and a great carouse that we kept gave them their
opportunity. They have roasted the good knight Alfonse, and would have
done as much for me, his almoner, frock and all, if wine had any mastery
over me. But I gave them the slip. Heaven helps its own! Natheless, I
would that this river were between me and their vengeance, and, for once,
I dread the smell of roast meat that is still in my nostrils--pah!"

And here he spat on the ground.

"But one door closes," he went on, "and another opens, and to Orleans am
I now bound, in the service of my holy calling."

"There is, indeed, cause enough for the shriving of souls of sinners,
Father, in that country, as I hear, and a holy man like you will be right
welcome to many."

"They need little shriving that are opposite my culverin," said this
strange priest. "Though now I carry but an arbalest, the gun is my
mistress, and my patron is the gunner's saint, St. Barbara. And even
with this toy, methinks I have the lives of a score of goddams in my bolt-
pouch."

I knew that in these wild days many clerics were careless as to that
which the Church enjoins concerning the effusion of blood--nay, I have
named John Kirkmichael, Bishop of Orleans, as having himself broken a
spear on the body of the Duke of Clarence. The Abbe of Cerquenceaux,
also, was a valiant man in religion, and a good captain, and, all over
France, clerics were gripping to sword and spear. But such a priest as
this I did not expect to see.

"Your name?" he asked suddenly, the words coming out with a sound like
the first grating of a saw on stone.

"They call me Norman Leslie de Pitcullo," I answered. "And yours?"

"My name," he said, "is Noiroufle"--and I thought that never ha