“What! You will break your oath?”
The lad’s shoulders only twitched the more, and he buried his face yet deeper in his arms.
“For God’s sake, lad, stand up and play the man. What will they say of you at Dinan?”
It was all useless, useless as trying to turn milk into wine. Robin lay snivelling on the grass, all the manhood gone from him, his fine armor a veritable mockery, his whole body palsied by abject fear. Even Bertrand’s taunts could sting no courage into him. Robin Raguenel was a coward; Bertrand knew the truth.
He stood looking at the lad, disgust and pity warring together on his face. Was this the brother Tiphaïne loved, and for whom he had promised to risk his life! Once more in despair he tried to rouse the lad, yet doubting in his heart that any good would come of it.
“So, Robin”—and he spoke gently—“you will let your father know that you are a coward?”
Robin groaned, but did not stir.
“Well—and your sister, she is proud of you?”
“Mercy, have mercy!” And the taunts only brought forth more snivellings and tears.
“Then you will break your oath to Beaumanoir, messire?”