Dame Jeanne looked at Olivier and beckoned him forward.
“Here is your champion, herald,” she said. “Olivier, the Sieur de Beaumanoir needs your sword.”
Jean de Xaintré stared at the lady and glanced, with a grim twinkle, at Olivier, who looked as though he were not so ready to deserve his mother’s pride.
“Your pardon, madame”—and Xaintré laughed—“Bertrand du Guesclin is our man. Greeting, old friend; you have not forgotten Jean de Xaintré.”
Jeanne du Guesclin bit her lips.
“What—Bertrand!”
“Madame, who but Bertrand, the best son you ever bore!”
Bertrand had risen and was standing with one hand on his father’s shoulder, knowing that his chance had come at last. The hall, with its crowd of faces, seemed blurred to him for the moment. Yet he saw Hopart and Guicheaux squealing and flapping their caps in the faces of Olivier’s men.
“I am here, old comrade. Give me the Marshal’s orders.”
Jeanne, white and angry, glared at him, and put her arm about Olivier.