Verily it is a solemn place for a Christian man to think on, and I was gazing thereupon, as in a dream, when one plucked my sleeve, and turning, I saw Randal Rutherford, all his teeth showing in a grin.
"Welcome," he cried.

"You have made good speed, and the beginning of a fray is better than the end of a feast.

And, by St.Boswell, to-morrow we shall have it, lad! The King came in to-day--late is better than never--and to-morrow we go with the Maid, to give these pock-puddings a taste of Scottish steel." "And the Maid, where is she, Randal ?" "She lodges beyond the Paris gate, at the windmill, wherefrom she drove the English some days agone." "Wherefore not in the town ?" I asked.
"Mayhap because she likes to be near her work, and would that all were of her mind.

And mayhap she loves not the sight of the wenches whom she was wont to drive from the camp, above all now that she has broken the Holy Sword of Fierbois, smiting a lass with the flat of the blade." "I like not the omen," said I.
"Freits follow them that freits fear," said Randal, in our country speech.

"And the Maid is none of these.