“I jest not with men’s lives,” said the knight, simply. “As I have said, so shall it be.”
“As thou wilt,” said the other, rising slowly from the ground. “Follow me.”
Away they went through the black depths of the wood, the outlaw keeping beside his companion’s horse with a long, swinging stride.
On their way, the knight, seeing that his guide looked hungry and worn, shared his own scanty stock of food with him; and ere long (as often happened in that wild age with men who had just stood sword-point to sword-point) the two became quite confidential, and were soon talking as frankly as old friends.
At last the knight hinted to his new acquaintance that a stout fellow like himself might be better employed in defending his country against her foes, than in robbing peaceful travellers.
“So have I ofttimes thought,” said the outlaw; “but in all this land is but one knight under whom I would serve—to wit, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin.”
“And why under him specially?” asked the cavalier.
“Because,” said the robber, with bitter emphasis, “he is the only noble who careth for us common folk, whom all the rest scorn and trample down; and also because he once saved the life of my poor brother, who is now a saint in heaven.”
“Ay? How came that about?” asked the other, in a tone of undisguised interest.
The bandit, visibly pleased, told how his brother, a half-witted lad of the Rennes district, had once been attacked in the forest by a huge wolf; how Du Guesclin, then a mere boy, had slain the brute with his own hand; how the pilgrim-monk, Brother Michael, had appeared at that moment, and had bidden the simpleton follow him; and how the latter had thenceforth been his constant attendant.