DUNOIS. What villainous troubadour taught you that doggerel? THE SOLDIER. No troubadour. We made it up ourselves as we marched. We were not gentlefolks and troubadours. Music straight out of the heart of the people, as you might say. Rum tum trumpledum, Bacon fat and rumpledum, Old Saint mumpledum, Pull his tail and stumpledum: that dont mean anything, you know; but it keeps you marching. Your servant, ladies and gentleman. Who asked for a saint? JOAN. Be you a saint? THE SOLDIER. Yes, lady, straight from hell. DUNOIS. A saint, and from hell! THE SOLDIER. Yes, noble captain: I have a day off. Every year, you know. That’s my allowance for my one good action. CAUCHON. Wretch! In all the years of your life did you do only one good action? THE SOLDIER. I never thought about it: it came natural like. But they scored it up for me. CHARLES. What was it? THE SOLDIER. Why, the silliest thing you ever heard of. I— JOAN [_interrupting him by strolling across to the bed, where she sits beside Charles_] He tied two sticks together, and gave them to a poor lass that was going to be burnt. THE SOLDIER. Right. Who told you that? JOAN. Never mind. Would you know her if you saw her again? THE SOLDIER. Not I. There are so many girls! And they all expect you to remember them as if there was only one in the world. This one must have been a prime sort; for I have a day off every year for her; and so, until twelve o’clock punctually, I am a saint, at your service, noble lords and lovely ladies. CHARLES. And after twelve? THE SOLDIER. After twelve, back to the only place fit for the likes of me. JOAN [_rising_] Back there; You! that gave the lass the cross! THE SOLDIER [_excusing his unsoldierly conduct_] Well, she asked for it; and they were going to burn her. She had as good a right to a cross as they had; and they had dozens of them. It was her funeral, not theirs. Where was the harm in it? JOAN. Man: I am not reproaching you. But I cannot bear to think of you in torment. THE SOLDIER [_cheerfully_] No great torment, lady. You see I was used to worse. CHARLES. What! worse than hell? THE SOLDIER. Fifteen years’ service in the French wars. Hell was a treat after that. _Joan throws up her arms, and takes refuge from despair of humanity before the picture of the Virgin._ THE SOLDIER [_continuing_] Suits me somehow. The day off was dull at first, like a wet Sunday. I dont mind it so much now. They tell me I can have as many as I like as soon as I want them. CHARLES. What is hell like?