"Were I a monk, I would welcome death that should unfrock me, and let me go a-wandering in Paradise among these fair lady saints we see in the pictures." "It is written, Barthelemy, that there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage." "Faith, the more I am fain of it," said Barthelemy, "and may be I might take the wrong track, and get into the Paradise of Mahound, which, I have heard, is no ill place for a man-at-arms." This man had no more faith than a paynim, but, none the less, was a stout carl in war.
"But that minds me," quoth he, "of the very thing I came hither to tell you.

One priest there is in Compiegne who takes no keep of his life, a cordelier.

What ails you, man?
does your leg give a twinge ?" "Ay, a shrewd twinge enough." "Truly, you look pale enough." "It is gone," I said.

"Tell me of that cordelier." "Do you see this little rod ?" he asked, putting in my hand a wand of dark wood, carven with the head of a strange beast in a cowl.
"I see it." "How many notches are cut in it ?" "Five," I said.

"But why spoil you your rod ?" "Five men of England or Burgundy that cordelier shot this day, from the creneaux of the boulevard where the Maid," crossing himself, "was taken.
A fell man he is, strong and tall, with a long hooked nose, and as black as Sathanas." "How comes he in arms ?" I asked.
"Flavy called him in from Valenciennes, where he was about some business of his own, for there is no greater master of the culverin.