Poor Roland’s escape, however, was a case of “out of the frying-pan into the fire;” for, as he darted into the doorway, he came like a battering-ram against Alain de St. Yvon himself (the eldest of Bertrand’s three overbearing cousins, who was just coming out to learn the cause of all this uproar), driving his head into the young noble’s chest with such force as to hurl him back against the wall.
“Base-born dog!” roared the enraged Alain, in the courteous style usual with gentlemen to their inferiors in that “chivalrous” age, “I will teach thee to thrust thy vile carcass in my way! Ho there, fellows! seize this cur, and scourge him till his hide be as tattered as his wits!”
The men-at-arms (with whom the poor jester was a prime favourite) were unwillingly advancing to obey, when a voice broke in from behind, deep and menacing as the roll of distant thunder—
“Who dare talk of scourging my father’s servant in his own castle, without leave given or asked? Let any man lift a hand on him, and he shall have to do with me!”
There, in the midst of them, stood Bertrand du Guesclin, with his swarthy face all aglow, and his small, deep-set eyes flaming like live coals.
For a moment Alain himself stood aghast, for never till now had his despised cousin asserted himself like this; and his two brothers, Raoul and Huon (who had just come upon the scene), were equally astounded. There was a brief pause of indecision, and then the young bully’s native insolence broke forth anew.
“Who bade thee interfere, thou mis-shapen cub?” cried he, fiercely. “Thou shalt see thy brother-fool get his deserts forthwith, and all the more because thou pleadest for him. Ho, Charlot! give yon whining cur a taste of thy whip.”
The man he addressed (a thickset, savage-looking groom that he had brought with him to the castle) stepped forward with a grin of cruel glee on his coarse, low-browed face; but as he neared his victim, young Du Guesclin threw himself between, and grimly motioned him back.
“An thou lov’st thy life, forbear!” said he, in the low, stern tone of one who fully meant what he said; “I will not warn thee twice.”
Had the fellow been in his right senses, one glance at Bertrand’s face would have been warning enough. But he was rarely sober at that time of day, and all his natural insolence was aroused by this challenge from one whom he had always looked upon as a mere cipher in the household.