Battle of Harlaw runs, and I on the way to Orleans. Thereto he answered,
that he well wished it were so, and, mocking, wished that I were the
Dauphin.

"Not that our Dauphin is a coward, the blood of Saint Louis has not
fallen so low, but he is wholly under the Sieur de La Tremouille, who was
thrust on him while he was young, and still is his master, or, as we say,
his governor. Now, this lord is one that would fain run with the hare
and hunt with the hounds, and this side of him is Burgundian and that is
Armagnac, and on which of the sides his heart is, none knows. At
Azincour, as I have heard, he played the man reasonably well. But he
waxes very fat for a man-at-arms, and is fond of women, and wine, and of
his ease. Now, if once the King ranges up with the Bastard of Orleans,
and Xaintrailles, and the other captains, who hate La Tremouille, then
his power, and the power of the Chancellor, the Archbishop of Rheims, is
gone and ended. So these two work ever to patch up a peace with
Burgundy, but, seeing that the duke has his father's death to avenge on
our King, they may patch and better patch, but no peace will come of it.
And the captains cry 'Forward!' and the archbishop and La Tremouille cry
'Back!' and in the meantime Orleans will fall, and the Dauphin may fly
whither he will, for France is lost. But, for myself, I would to the
saints that I and my lass were home again, beneath the old thorn-tree at
Polwarth on the green, where I have been merry lang syne."

With that word he fell silent, thinking, I doubt not, of his home, as I
did of mine, and of the house of Pitcullo and the ash-tree at the door,
and the sea beyond the ploughed land of the plain. So, after some space
of silence, he went to his bed, and I to mine, where for long I lay
wakeful, painting on the dark the face of Elliot, and her blue eyes, and
remembering her merry, changeful ways.