To him, war was what hunting and shooting game is to others; a cruel and bloody pastime, when Christians are the quarry! "John the Lorrainer, and I, there are no others to be named with us at the culverin," he would brag.

"We two against an army, give us good cover, and powder and leaden balls enough.

Hey! Master John and I must shoot a match yet, against English targets, and of them there are plenty under Orleans.

But if I make not the better speed, the town will have fallen, or yielded, rescue or no rescue, and of rescue there is no hope at all.

The devil fights for the English, who will soon be swarming over the Loire, and that King of Bourges of ours will have to flee, and gnaw horse's fodder, oats and barley, with your friends in Scotland." This was one of the many ungenerous taunts which the French made often against us Scots, that have been their ancient and leal brethren in arms since the days of King Achaius and Charlemagne.
"The Dauphin," he went on, "for King he is none, and crowned he will never be, should be in Orleans, leading his men; and lo! he is tied to the belt of fat La Tremouille, and is dancing of ballets at Chinon--a murrain on him, and on them that make his music!" Then he fell to cursing his King, a thing terrible to hear, and so to asking me questions about myself.