Despite the entreaties of his lady, the hardy old knight was already on his feet to make good his words, when the unknown warrior (who still sat erect in his saddle, waiting to see if any new foe would confront him) lowered his lance to him in courteous salute.
“Honoured sir,” said he, speaking for the first time, “for all others I have the lance of a warrior; for thee I have but the reverence of a son!”
And, opening his visor, he revealed to the thunder-struck father the harsh features of his despised son, Bertrand du Guesclin!
To paint the feelings of the beaten Raoul and Huon at this disclosure (Alain being luckily insensible) would be a hopeless task; for the one thing needed to make the shame of this public defeat unbearable was the discovery that it had been inflicted by their scorned cousin, “Ugly Bertrand.”
But the lookers-on, whose enthusiasm had been wrought up to the highest point by the various turns of this strange scene, greeted its dramatic close with cheers that made the air ring, and brought a flush of joy to Bertrand’s swarthy cheek. It was the first recognition of his real value that he had ever had—the first homage paid by the world to a name which was hereafter to fill all Europe with its renown, and to live as long as history itself.
Meanwhile Sir Yvon, having greeted his conquering son with a joyful hug that made every rivet of his armour crackle, led him up to the principal gallery, and, kneeling on one knee, presented him to the Duke and Duchess of Brittany.
“I give thee joy of him,” said the childless sovereign, with a faint sigh. “I would I had such a son to succeed me. Thine is the prize, valiant youth; and my lady shall bind her own favour on thy crest, in token that thou art a true son of our native Brittany.”
“Nay, I claim no prize from your highness,” said Bertrand, with his usual bluntness. “What I did was for honour alone; and all I ask is your highness’s pardon for having presumed to joust at sharp spears with knights, being as yet no knight myself.”
“Nay, if that be all that is amiss, ’tis soon mended,” said Duke John, kindly. “Kneel, brave youth, and take the stroke of knighthood from my hand.”
“From a more honourable hand I could never take it, noble duke,” said the young hero, bowing low; “but, I pray you, let not Bertrand du Guesclin be called a knight of the tilt-yard for accepting, without having seen a stricken field, an honour that most men win with hard blows and much peril.”