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A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air,
And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song
Sung shrill and ceaseless,^[1] 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^[2]
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!"^[3]

                 "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^[4]
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.^[5] 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

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