his throne again.

The English knew this, if the French did not; and their great King, Harry
the Fifth, when he fell ill of St. Fiacre's sickness, after plundering
that Scots saint's shrine of certain horse-shoes, silver-gilt, said well
that, "go where he would, he was bearded by Scots, dead or alive." But
the French are not a thankful people.

I had no answer very ready to my tongue, so stepped down silent to the
water-edge, and was about taking off my doublet and hose, meaning to
carry them on my head and swim across. But he barred the way with his
staff, and, for me, I gripped to my whinger, and watched my chance to run
in under his guard. For this cordelier was not to be respected, I
deemed, like others 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