“My poniard?”
“Yes.”
“Upon my soul, messire—”
He had flushed crimson, and was shaking at the knees, nor did Bertrand need to press his guilt. He stood looking at Robin, contemptuous, yet moved to pity, debating inwardly what he should do.
“Well, messire, a nice trick this, laming your own horse! I will get you to Josselin to-night, even if I have to carry you.”
“Bertrand, I—My God, I cannot go, I am not fit!”
He broke down utterly of a sudden, and threw himself upon the grass, burying his face in his arms, and sobbing like a girl. Bertrand had never seen such cowardice before; it was new and strange to him, and the very pitiableness of it shocked his manhood.
“Come, lad, come,” and he bent down and tried to turn him over.
Robin squirmed away like a frightened cur.
“I can’t, I can’t! Don’t jeer at me; let me be!”