There was stir and ardor everywhere. The men were down tightening up girths and looking to each other’s armor. Guicheaux and Hopart were unlading one of the pack-horses and hoisting up the peasant onto the beast’s back. Bertrand had drawn his sword and was feeling the edge thereof. Of a truth, God had given him his opportunity. He would save Tiphaïne—yes, or lose his life in the adventure.
A hand touched his bridle. It was Arletta’s. She was looking up wistfully, jealously, into Bertrand’s face.
“Take me with you, lording.”
“No, no, Letta, this is no woman’s business.”
“I can ride with the best—”
“Yes, you have spirit, child; but we shall have our stomachs full of fighting before night. Stay with Gwen and Barbe. You will be safe here.”
Arletta went white under her black hair, and then red as fire. Her eyes flashed, her bosom heaved.
“Lording, I will go with you—yes, yes, though you ride to save madame. I know your heart, I know your heart!”
A wave of color swept over Bertrand’s face. He looked hard at Arletta, who was clinging to his bridle with both hands.
“What! Jealous, Letta? For shame, for shame!”