Under the protection of the Holy Gunmen, Horn mounted his steed and once again set foot on the land of Joan of Arc Castle.
The oppressive clouds still loomed over Joan of Arc Castle, yet the fierce quarrels and battles from the previous day seemed to have vanished.
Ladies wearing veiled hats walked along the streets, notaries in puff-sleeved jackets strolled by with scrolls in hand, and master artisans tucked tools wrapped in leather under their arms as they headed to their workshops.
Across the canal, laborers gathered the remnants of their shattered homes, covering the holes in their doors with ragged cloth, and donned their brimless felt hats again, rolled up their sleeves, and lifted buckets full of wastewater.
If not for the increased number of beggars on the streets, the unwashed bloodstains on the ground, and the dismantled fences, Horn might have thought that nothing had happened.
Led by a sergeant in a surcoat, Horn and his entourage crossed the creaking drawbridge.
