their right. These prisoners were property; nobody could deny that.
My dears, if those had been English captives, conceive of the
richness of that booty! For English prisoners had been scarce and
precious for a hundred years; whereas it was a different matter
with French prisoners. They had been over-abundant for a century.
The possessor of a French prisoner did not hold him long for
ransom, as a rule, but presently killed him to save the cost of his
keep. This shows you how small was the value of such a
possession in those times. When we took Troyes a calf was worth
thirty francs, a sheep sixteen, a French prisoner eight. It was an
enormous price for those other animals–a price which naturally
seems incredible to you. It was the war, you see. It worked two
ways: it made meat dear and prisoners cheap.
Well, here were these poor Frenchmen being carried off. What
could we do? Very little of a permanent sort, but we did what we
could. We sent a messenger flying to Joan, and we and the French
guards halted the procession for a parley–to gain time, you see. A
big Burgundian lost his temper and swore a great oath that none
should stop him; he would go, and would take his prisoner with
him. But we blocked him off, and he saw that he was mistaken
about going–he couldn’t do it. He exploded into the maddest
cursings and revilings, then, and, unlashing his prisoner from his
back, stood him up, all bound and helpless; then drew his knife,
and said to us with a light of sarcasting triumph in his eye:
“I may not carry him away, you say–yet he is mine, none will
dispute it. Since I may not convey him hence, this property of
mine, there is another way. Yes, I can kill him; not even the dullest
among you will question that right. Ah, you had not thought of
that–vermin!”
That poor starved fellow begged us with his piteous eyes to save
him; then spoke, and said he had a wife and little children at home.
Think how it wrung our heartstrings. But what could we do? The
Burgundian was within his right. We could only beg and plead for
the prisoner. Which we did. And the Burgundian enjoyed it. He
stayed his hand to hear more of it, and laugh at it. That stung. Then
the Dwarf said:
“Prithee, young sirs, let me beguile him; for when a matter
requiring permission is to the fore, I have indeed a gift in that sort,
as any will tell you that know me well. You smile; and that is
punishment for my vanity; and fairly earned, I grant you. Still, if I
may toy a little, just a little–” saying which he stepped to the
Burgundian and began a fair soft speech, all of goodly and gentle
tenor; and in the midst he mentioned the Maid; and was going on
to say how she out of her good heart would prize and praise this
compassionate deed which he was about to– It was as far as he
got. The Burgundian burst into his smooth oration with an insult
leveled at Joan of Arc. We sprang forward, but the Dwarf, his face
all livid, brushed us aside and said, in a most grave and earnest
way:
“I crave your patience. Am not I her guard of honor? This is my
affair.”
And saying this he suddenly shot his right hand out and gripped the
great Burgundian by the throat, and so held him upright on his feet.
“You have insulted the Maid,” he said; “and the Maid is France.
The tongue that does that earns a long furlough.”
One heard the muffled cracking of bones. The Burgundian’s eyes
began to protrude from their sockets and stare with a leaden
dullness at vacancy. The color deepened in his face and became an
opaque purple. His hands hung down limp, his body collapsed with
a shiver, every muscle relaxed its tension and ceased from its
function. The Dwarf took away his hand and the column of inert
mortality sank mushily to the ground.
We struck the bonds from the prisoner and told him he was free.