“It is for God to save him, my son, not for me,” said the monk, the grand calm of whose face was ruffled by a sudden quiver, like the fall of a stone into a deep, still pool. “Doth his sickness, then, continue to gain on him?”
“So sorely, father,” said the rough spearman, with a tell-tale tremor in his deep voice, “that—the—physicians—say——”
Here the brave man fairly broke down.
“Let us press on, my sons,” cried Michael; “we have no time to lose.”
Nor had they, in truth, if they had known all.
The English garrison of the town had stoutly resisted Du Guesclin’s attacks, hoping to hold it till they were relieved. But of this there was little hope (the English having now been driven fairly out of the central provinces of France by Du Guesclin and his comrade, De Clisson), and at last the English commandant agreed to surrender if not relieved within six days. But during this interval Bertrand’s illness gained on him so rapidly that it was doubtful if he would live to witness the triumph he had won.
The sixth evening was fast fading into night, when Du Guesclin (whose couch had been brought into the open air at his own request) was seen to lift his head as if listening intently, and then he said faintly to those around—
“Raise me up, friends; here cometh one with whom I must speak.”
Sure enough, a few moments later (to the amazement of all present) appeared in the distance Alured de Claremont and Brother Michael, the gallant steed that bore them having kept ahead of the rest, despite its double burden. Hugo and the attendants followed, while Alured, leaping down and aiding the monk to dismount, took the dying man’s hand, and said in a tone of bitter grief—
“Bertrand du Guesclin! is it thus we meet again?”