Methinks she had spoken to Bertrand, to me, and to Sir Guy de Laval with more freedom respecting her voices and her visions than to any others, save, perhaps, the King himself, of whom she had ever said she had revelations for his ear alone.

She would talk to us of things which for the most part she kept locked away in her own breast; and now when I did ask her what it was that had robbed her cheek of its colour, and wrapped her in a strange trance of grave musing, she passed her hand across her eyes, and then looked at me full, with a strange intensity of gaze.
"If I only knew! If I only knew myself!" she murmured.
"Did your voices speak to you, mistress mine?
I have seen you fall into such musing fits before this, when something has been revealed; but then your eyes have been bright with joy--this time they were clouded as with trouble." "It was when the Duke spoke of other victories," she said, dreamily; "I seemed to see before me a great confusion as of men fighting and struggling.

I saw my white banner fluttering, as it were, victoriously; and yet there was a darkness upon my spirit.

I saw blackness--darkness--confusion; there was battle and strife--garments rolled in blood.

My own white pennon was the centre of some furious struggle.