"No--I don't understand it. You are so little. So little and slender.
When you had your armor on, to-day, it gave one a sort of notion of it;
but in these pretty silks and velvets, you are only a dainty page, not
a league-striding war-colossus, moving in clouds and darkness and
breathing smoke and thunder. I would God I might see you at it and go
tell your mother! That would help her sleep, poor thing! Here--teach me
the arts of the soldier, that I may explain them to her."

And she did it. She gave him a pike, and put him through the manual
of arms; and made him do the steps, too. His marching was incredibly
awkward and slovenly, and so was his drill with the pike; but he didn't
know it, and was wonderfully pleased with himself, and mightily excited
and charmed with the ringing, crisp words of command. I am obliged
to say that if looking proud and happy when one is marching were
sufficient, he would have been the perfect soldier.

And he wanted a lesson in sword-play, and got it. But of course that
was beyond him; he was too old. It was beautiful to see Joan handle the
foils, but the old man was a bad failure. He was afraid of the things,
and skipped and dodged and scrambled around like a woman who has lost
her mind on account of the arrival of a bat. He was of no good as
an exhibition. But if La Hire had only come in, that would have been
another matter. Those two fenced often; I saw them many times. True,
Joan was easily his master, but it made a good show for all that, for
La Hire was a grand swordsman. What a swift creature Joan was! You would
see her standing erect with her ankle-bones together and her foil arched
over her head, the hilt in one hand and the button in the other--the old
general opposite, bent forward, left hand reposing on his back, his
foil advanced, slightly wiggling and squirming, his watching eye boring
straight into hers--and all of a sudden she would give a spring forward,
and back again; and there she was, with the foil arched over her head as
before. La Hire had been hit, but all that the spectator saw of it was
a something like a thin flash of light in the air, but nothing distinct,
nothing definite.

We kept the drinkables moving, for that would please the Bailly and the
landlord; and old Laxart and D'Arc got to feeling quite comfortable, but
without being what you could call tipsy. They got out the presents which
they had been buying to carry home--humble things and cheap, but they