“How gorgeous is the standard in the sun,” said Gerard “and how brave are the leaders with velvet and feathers, and steel breastplates like glassy mirrors!”
When they came near enough to distinguish faces, Denys uttered an exclamation: “Why, 'tis the Bastard of Burgundy, as I live. Nay, then; there is fighting a-foot since he is out; a gallant leader, Gerard, rates his life no higher than a private soldier's, and a soldier's no higher than a tomtit's; and that is the captain for me.”
“And see, Denys, the very mules with their great brass frontlets and trappings seem proud to carry them; no wonder men itch to be soldiers;” and in the midst of this innocent admiration the troop came up with them.
“Halt!” cried a stentorian voice. The troop halted. The Bastard of Burgundy bent his brow gloomily on Denys: “How now, arbalestrier, how comes it thy face is turned southward, when every good hand and heart is hurrying northward?”
Denys replied respectfully that he was going on leave, after some years of service, to see his kindred at Remiremont.
“Good. But this is not the time for't; the duchy is disturbed. Ho! bring that dead soldier's mule to the front; and thou mount her and forward with us to Flanders.”
“So please your highness,” said Denys firmly, “that may not be. My home is close at hand. I have not seen it these three years; and above all, I have this poor youth in charge, whom I may not, cannot leave, till I see him shipped for Rome.
“Dost bandy words with me?” said the chief, with amazement, turning fast to wrath. “Art weary o' thy life? Let go the youth's hand, and into the saddle without more idle words.”
Denys made no reply; but he held Gerard's hand the tighter, and looked defiance.
At this the bastard roared, “Jarnac, dismount six of thy archers, and shoot me this white-livered cur dead where he stands—for an example.”