Count Hannibal’s eyes sparkled with joy. “Old dog!” he cried—and he held his hand to the veteran, who brushed it reverently with his lips—“we will go together then! Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!”
“Touches Tavannes!” Badelon cried, the glow of battle lighting his bloodshot eyes. He rose to his feet. “Touches Tavannes! You mind at Jarnac—”
“Ah! At Jarnac!”
“When we charged their horse, was my boot a foot from yours, my lord?”
“Not a foot!”
“And at Dreux,” the old man continued with a proud, elated gesture, “when we rode down the German pikemen—they were grass before us, leaves on the wind, thistledown—was it not I who covered your bridle hand, and swerved not in the mêlée?”
“It was! It was!”
“And at St. Quentin, when we fled before the Spaniard—it was his day, you remember, and cost us dear—”
“Ay, I was young then,” Tavannes cried in turn, his eyes glistening. “St. Quentin! It was the tenth of August. And you were new with me, and seized my rein—”
“And we rode off together, my lord—of the last, of the last, as God sees me! And striking as we went, so that they left us for easier game.”