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A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air, And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song Sung shrill and ceaseless, as the dews of night Descended. On their way the travellers wend, Cheering the road with converse, till at length They mark a cottage lamp, whose steady light Shone though the lattice; thitherward they turn. There came an old man forth; his thin gray locks Moved to the breeze, and on his wither'd face The characters of age were written deep. Them, louting low with rustic courtesy, He welcomed in; on the white-ember'd hearth Heapt up fresh fuel, then with friendly care Spread out his homely board, and fill'd the bowl With the red produce of the vine that arch'd His evening seat; they of the plain repast Partook, and quaff'd the pure and pleasant draught.

"Strangers, your fare is homely," said their Host, "But such it is as we poor countrymen Earn with our toil: in faith ye are welcome to it! I too have borne a lance in younger days; And would that I were young again to meet These haughty English in the field of fight; Such as I was when on the fatal plain Of Agincourt I met them."

"Wert thou then A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat?" Exclaim'd the Bastard. "Didst thou know the Lord Of Orleans?" "Know him?" cried the veteran, "I saw him ere the bloody fight began Riding from rank to rank, his beaver up, The long lance quivering in his mighty grasp. His eye was wrathful to an enemy, But for his countrymen it had a smile Would win all hearts. Looking at thee, Sir Knight, Methinks I see him now; such was his eye, Gentle in peace, and such his manly brow." "No tongue but speaketh honor of that name!" Exclaim'd Dunois. "Strangers and countrymen Alike revered the good and gallant Chief. His vassals like a father loved their Lord; His gates stood open to the traveller; The pilgrim when he saw his towers rejoiced, For he had heard in other lands the fame Of Orleans. — And he lives a prisoner still! Losing all hope because my arm so long Hath fail'd to win his liberty!"

He turn'd His head away, hiding the burning shame Which flush'd his face. "But he shall live, Dunois," The mission'd Maid replied; "but he shall live To hear good tidings; hear of liberty, Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm Achieved in well-won battle. He shall live Happy; the memory of his prison'd years Shall heighten all his joys, and his gray hairs Go to the grave in peace."

"I would fain live To see that day," replied their aged host: "How would my heart leap to behold again The gallant, generous chieftain! I fought by him, When all our hopes of victory were lost, And down his batter'd arms the blood stream'd fast From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd us in, Fierce in unhoped for conquest: all around Our dead and dying countrymen lay heap'd; Yet still he strove; — I wonder'd at his valor! Tiiere was not one who on that fatal day Fought bravelier."

"Fatal was that day to France," Exclaim'd the Bastard; "there Alençon fell, Valiant in vain; there D'Albert, whose mad pride Brought the whole ruin on. There fell Brabant, Vaudemont, and Marie, and Bar, and Faquenberg, Our noblest warriors; the determin'd foe Fought for revenge, not hoping victory, Desperately brave; ranks fell on ranks before them; The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd Their conquerors!"

"Yet believe not," Bertram cried, "That cowardice disgraced thy countrymen! They, by their leader's arrogance led on With heedless fury, found all numbers vain, All effort fruitless there; and hadst thou seen, Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid; From his hersed bowmen how the arrows flew Thick as the snow-flakes and with lightning force; Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a chief, Could never be subdued.

"But when the field Was won, and they who had escaped the fight Had yielded up their arms, it was foul work To turn on the defenceless prisoners The cruel sword of conquest. Girt around I to their mercy had surrender'd me. When lo! I heard the dreadful cry of death. Not as amid the fray, when man met man And in fair combat gave the mortal blow; Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound, Saw their stern victors draw again the sword, And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hands, And bade them think upon their plighted faith, And pray'd for mercy in the name of God, In vain: the King had bade them massacre, And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts They drove the weapon. Then I look'd for death. And at that moment death was terrible, — For the heat of fight was over; of my home I thought, and of my wife and little ones In bitterness of heart. But the brave man, To whom the chance of war had made me thrall, Had pity, loosed my hands, and bade me fly. It was the will of Heaven that I should live Childless and old to think upon the past, And wish that I had perish'd!"

The old man Wept as he spake. "Ye may perhaps have heard Of the hard siege that Roan so long endur'd. I dwelt there, strangers; I had then a wife, And I had children tenderly beloved, Who I did hope should cheer me in old age And close mine eyes. The tale of misery