JOAN. Oh yes: you are right. I will pray: I will tell St Catherine: she will make God give me a west wind. Quick: shew me the way to the church. THE PAGE [_sneezes violently_] At-cha!!! JOAN. God bless you, child! Coom, Bastard. _They go out. The page rises to follow. He picks up the shield, and is taking the spear as well when he notices the pennon, which is now streaming eastward._ THE PAGE [_dropping the shield and calling excitedly after them_] Seigneur! Seigneur! Mademoiselle! DUNOIS [_running back_] What is it? The kingfisher? [_He looks eagerly for it up the river_]. JOAN [_joining them_] Oh, a kingfisher! Where? THE PAGE. No: the wind, the wind, the wind [_pointing to the pennon_]: that is what made me sneeze. DUNOIS [_looking at the pennon_] The wind has changed. [_He crosses himself_] God has spoken. [_Kneeling and handing his baton to Joan_] You command the king’s army. I am your soldier. THE PAGE [_looking down the river_] The boats have put off. They are ripping upstream like anything. DUNOIS [_rising_] Now for the forts. You dared me to follow. Dare you lead? JOAN [_bursting into tears and flinging her arms round Dunois, kissing him on both cheeks_] Dunois, dear comrade in arms, help me. My eyes are blinded with tears. Set my foot on the ladder, and say “Up, Joan.” DUNOIS [_dragging her out_] Never mind the tears: make for the flash of the guns. JOAN [_in a blaze of courage_] Ah! DUNOIS [_dragging her along with him_] For God and Saint Dennis! THE PAGE [_shrilly_] The Maid! The Maid! God and The Maid! Hurray-ay-ay! [_He snatches up the shield and lance, and capers out after them, mad with excitement_]. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SCENE IV _A tent in the English camp. A bullnecked English chaplain of 50 is sitting on a stool at a table, hard at work writing. At the other side of the table an imposing nobleman, aged 46, is seated in a handsome chair turning over the leaves of an illuminated Book of Hours. The nobleman is enjoying himself: the chaplain is struggling with suppressed wrath. There is an unoccupied leather stool on the nobleman’s left. The table is on his right._ THE NOBLEMAN. Now this is what I call workmanship. There is nothing on earth more exquisite than a bonny book, with well-placed columns of rich black writing in beautiful borders, and illuminated pictures cunningly inset. But nowadays, instead of looking at books, people read them. A book might as well be one of those orders for bacon and bran that you are scribbling. THE CHAPLAIN. I must say, my lord, you take our situation very coolly. Very coolly indeed. THE NOBLEMAN [_supercilious_] What is the matter? THE CHAPLAIN. The matter, my lord, is that we English have been defeated. THE NOBLEMAN. That happens, you know. It is only in history books and ballads that the enemy is always defeated.