Here André raised his hand for peace.
“If you do that,” he said quietly, “you will only be playing into their nets. It will mean the destruction of us all.”
The Count flung himself into a chair.
“There’s one last fight in me yet, André,” he growled in his heavy voice. “I’ll summon a thousand archers from the countryside. I’ll find the castle where they have him prisoner. We’ll storm it and burn it to the ground.”
But André, who ever was on the side of wisdom, saw the folly of his intentions.
“If you do,” he warned, “it will only be a signal for an attack. The armies of France will sweep us from our homes.”
He took two or three paces to and fro in the room and returned to me. There was a smile of sadness on his face as he spoke.
“The Black Prince of England is our only hope,” he said.
“He is ravaging the western coast of France,” I told him. “It is his presence there that holds the King in check.”
He opened his mouth to answer but the long whine of one of the dogs out of doors interrupted him. We kept silent until the sound died away. Then he took up a tinder and went to the hearth.