“Your servant, messire—”
“Well?”
“My master has bidden me carry you his good grace—and blessing—”
“What! My father is not out of bed?”
“He prays you to pardon him, messire. He feels the cold, and these raw mornings—”
Bertrand silenced him with a gesture of the hand. His face had lost its brightness for the moment, and there was a frown as of pain upon his forehead.
“Ah, of course, Jean, say no more. And madame?”
“Madame, messire, is at her devotions; she would not be disturbed. In an hour—”
Bertrand turned with a shrug of impatience, picked up his sword, and buckled it on.
“My time is God’s time, Jean,” he said; “carry my respects to my father and my mother—”