He winced over the words, frowning, and looking sorrowful about the eyes.
“Tell them I could not tarry. And my brother Olivier? Curling his pretty beard?”
“I will go and see, messire.”
“No, no; never trouble the sweet lad. It is a mere nothing, man, to the parting of his hair. Good-bye, Jean; forget the mad tricks I played you as a boy.”
He turned, took up his shield, and strode out from the hall, a sense of forlornness chilling his ardor for the moment. Hopart and Guicheaux were waiting for him in the court-yard, holding his horse and spear. Bertrand had refused to take the men with him, preferring solitude, content with his own thoughts. Guicheaux and Hopart ran up to him, still hoping that he would change his purpose.
“Ah, lording, you will crack the English bassinets!”
“Good luck, good luck!”
“Take us, too, messire. We can live on rust and leather.”
Bertrand was glad even of their rude affection. He took out an old brooch and a ring of silver from his shrunken purse, and thrust the largesse into their hands.
“No, no, sirs, I ride alone. Keep these things, and think of Bertrand du Guesclin if he comes not back again.”