“It was time,” replied Bertrand, with unconscious pathos; “the toil hath been long and hard, and I would fain rest. Welcome, good Brother Michael; thou wert my best friend when I began life, and meet it is thou shouldst be with me when I leave it. Welcome, noble Sir Hugo; I have lived long enough, since I have lived to see ye two together once more.”
“Captain, dost thou talk of dying?” cried the Breton man-at-arms beside Hugo, clenching his hands in desperation. “What is to become of us without thee? The world would be empty wert thou gone! Wilt thou, whom no foe ever matched, let thyself be borne down by a paltry sickness?”
“Good Thomelin,” said Bertrand, with a faint smile, “there is a champion named Death, whom none can resist, for he is sent by God. Nor think that all will be nought for this land when I am gone; for I know (though I cannot tell how) that, after my death, God shall raise ye up another and a greater champion, who shall free the land from its foes, once and for ever. Now, holy father, lend thine ear to what I have to say.”
What he said was heard by none but the monk himself; but as Brother Michael laid his thin hand in blessing on the dying warrior’s head, the old man’s face was lighted up all at once with a smile so bright and joyous, that he seemed already transfigured by the glory which is not of this world. Then his head was seen to droop, and, without a word, he sank forward till his face rested on Bertrand’s knee.
They sprang to raise him, but too late; the aged monk was dead!
“He goes before me as my guide,” said Du Guesclin, solemnly, “and great honour it is for a sinner like me to pass through the gate of death with the holiest man in France. Sir Alured, give me thy hand once more, and the blessing of a dying man go with thee. Farewell, comrades! love one another, and serve truly our lord the king; and in whatever land ye make war, bear in mind that the servants of the holy church are sacred to you, and see that ye be good and gentle to all women and children, and show great mercy to the poor!”
As the noble words were spoken, the last gleam of sunset faded from the darkening sky, and the sun of that glorious life went down along with it.
Then, amid the gloomy silence that followed, a trumpet-blast came echoing from the besieged town. Presently a growing stir was apparent in the French camp, and all stood to their arms, supposing the English to be making a sally.
But it was not so. A few moments later the ranked men-at-arms fell back to right and left as if making way for some one, and through the hushed camp came, with drooping banners and down-turned lances, the gallant English commandant and his knights, to give up the keys of the fortress to him against whom even the stubborn valour of England had striven in vain.
But when the brave Englishman saw what had come to pass, he broke from the ranks, and, kneeling by the dead man’s side, laid the keys of the town that he had defended so well in the cold hand that would never move again, and said, in a burst of honest, manly sorrow—