CHAPTER XXVIII--HOW THE BURGUNDIANS HUNTED HARES, WITH THE END OF THAT.
HUNTING "Tell me, what tidings of him ?" Barthelemy Barrette asked me, on the day after that unbought feast at Royaulieu.
He was sitting in the noonday sun on the bridge of Compiegne, and strange it was to see the place so battered yet so peaceful after five months of war.

The Oise sliding by and rippling on the piers was not more quiet than this bridge of many battles, yet black in places with dried-up blood of men slain.

"Tidings can I find none," I answered.

"He who saw the cordelier last was on guard in the boulevard during the great charge.

He marked Brother Thomas level his couleuvrine now and again, as we ran for the bastille, and cried out to him to aim higher, for that the ball would go amongst us." "You were his target, I make no doubt," said Barthelemy, "but by reason of the throng he had no certain aim." "After we broke into the bastille, I can find no man who has set eyes on him," and I cursed the cordelier for very rage.
"He is well away, if he stays away: you and I need scarce any longer pray for eyes in the backs of our heads.