“The child came forward as boldly as if it had no fear of our grim faces and bare blades, and, holding out her little hands to us, said pleadingly—
“‘Oh, please come quick to help my father; he is sore hurt!’
“Then I plucked up heart somewhat, seeing that it was but a little maid of mortal mould; and I made shift to ask—
“‘Who is thy father, fair child?’
“‘The Sire Robert de Raguenel,’ she replied.”
“Raguenel!” echoed Du Guesclin. “Then this child was the Demoiselle Tiphaine herself!”
“Even she, and no other. Then she caught my wrist with both her tiny hands, as if to drag me with her by main force, and cried impatiently—
“‘Quick—quick to my father! I have not strength to drag the horse off him myself!’
“We thought of our compact that the Evil One should carry us away if we ever spared knight or noble. We looked at each other, and at the child’s pleading face, and then—we were all hurrying to her father’s aid, one faster than another.”
“Well done! well done!” shouted the boy-noble, excitedly. “And what befell next?”