“Good, good indeed! Why, man, you are thirsting for Passion Sunday to come round.”
“Because we shall win,” said Bertrand, quietly, smiling at the lad and eager to hearten him.
Bertrand had finished his disarming, and, having washed his face and hands in Robin’s laver, stood for him to lead on to the Vicomte’s room. He was troubled now that he was to meet Tiphaïne again, wondering how she would greet him, and whether her father knew what had passed within the Aspen Tower. He followed Robin through the oriel, stroking his chin and bracing his manhood for the meeting.
Tiphaïne was seated before the solar window, with the chess-board between her and the Vicomte. She rose up at once when Bertrand entered, and held out her hands to him with a readiness that made him color.
“Messire, we meet again.”
To Bertrand her voice brought back a hundred memories that gave him pain. He winced a little as he took her hand and felt her clear eyes searching his face. It meant more to Bertrand to meet those eyes than an enemy’s sword would cost him at Mivoie.
“God grant madame is well,” and he bowed to her clumsily and turned to Stephen Raguenel, who had pushed back the chess-table and was rising from his chair.
“Well met at last, Messire du Guesclin. I can thank you with my own lips for the great debt we owe your sword.”
Bertrand guessed that Tiphaïne had saved his honor. He flashed a look at her, and saw by the smile and the shake of the head she gave him that the Vicomte knew nothing of the first spoiling of the Aspen Tower. Bertrand blessed her, yet felt a hypocrite.
“If I have served you, sire, say no more of it.”