And, with that blessing on his lips, the stern old spearman sank back and died.
“He is gone!” said Lady Tiphaine, looking down with a sigh on the rugged face that would never move again. “Truer heart never beat; God rest his soul. Noble knight,” she added, turning to her rescuer, “to whom I have too long delayed owning a debt of gratitude that I can never repay, art thou in very deed Sir Bertrand du Guesclin, who did his devoir so manfully in the tournament at Rennes two years agone, and overthrew all comers?”
“Knight am I none as yet,” said the future hero of Brittany, with a slight flush; “but I am he of whom thou art pleased to speak so far beyond his deserving. Tell me, I pray, art thou a lady of mortal birth, or that holy one whose name was my war-cry even now?”
“Nay, give not such honour to mine unworthy self; I am of mortal birth, and they call me Tiphaine de Raguenel. Why tak’st thou me for one from heaven?”
“Because,” said the young noble, solemnly, “I saw thee, years agone, in a dream sent from God.”
Then he told briefly the strange vision that had presented to him, on the memorable night of his first meeting with the pilgrim-monk, a lady whose appearance matched in every point her who now stood beside him, trampling down a dragon with a human face, which was that of the slain pirate at their feet!
“And then,” he ended, “meseemed this lady who wore thy semblance set a laurel wreath on my head, and hailed me as the champion of France.”
Into the girl’s large bright eyes, as he spoke, crept a shadow of sudden awe; but with it came a glow of deep and solemn joy.
“And when was this vision?” she asked eagerly.
“On the Eve of St. John, five years since.”