and petted him and caressed him, and laid the memory of that old hard
speech of his to rest. Laid it to rest until she should be dead. Then he
would remember it again--yes, yes! Lord, how those things sting, and
burn, and gnaw--the things which we did against the innocent dead! And we
say in our anguish, "If they could only come back!" Which is all very
well to say, but, as far as I can see, it doesn't profit anything. In my
opinion the best way is not to do the thing in the first place. And I am
not alone in this; I have heard our two knights say the same thing; and a
man there in Orleans--no, I believe it was at Beaugency, or one of those
places--it seems more as if it was at Beaugency than the others--this man
said the same thing exactly; almost the same words; a dark man with a
cast in his eye and one leg shorter than the other. His name was--was--it
is singular that I can't call that man's name; I had it in my mind only a
moment ago, and I know it begins with--no, I don't remember what it
begins with; but never mind, let it go; I will think of it presently, and
then I will tell you.

Well, pretty soon the old father wanted to know how Joan felt when she
was in the thick of a battle, with the bright blades hacking and flashing
all around her, and the blows rapping and slatting on her shield, and
blood gushing on her from the cloven ghastly face and broken teeth of the
neighbor at her elbow, and the perilous sudden back surge of massed
horses upon a person when the front ranks give way before a heavy rush of
the enemy, and men tumble limp and groaning out of saddles all around,
and battle-flags falling from dead hands wipe across one's face and hide
the tossing turmoil a moment, and in the reeling and swaying and laboring
jumble one's horse's hoofs sink into soft substances and shrieks of pain
respond, and presently--panic! rush! swarm! flight! and death and hell
following after! And the old fellow got ever so much excited; and strode
up and down, his tongue going like a mill, asking question after question