It was such an old place as we see in Northern France, plain, strong, with red walls which the yellow mosses stain, and with high grey roofs.

The Maid's banner, with the Holy Dove, and the Sacred Name, drooped above the gateway, and beside the door, on the mounting-stone, sat the boy, Louis des Coutes, her page.

He was a lad of fifteen years, merry enough of his nature, and always went gaily clad, and wearing his yellow hair long.

But now he sat thoughtful on the mounting-stone, cutting at a bit of wood with his dagger.
"So you have come to take your part," he said, when we had saluted each the other.

"Faith, I hope you bring good luck with you, and more joy to my mistress, for we need all that you can bring." "Why, what ails all of you ?" I asked.