“Cool! Why should I be butchered for the sake of a crowd of wretched serfs?”
Bertrand looked at him as though half minded to pick the lad up and shake the terror out of him by sheer strength. But even Bertrand saw how useless it was to argue with such a quivering and sulky tangle of nerves. Young Raguenel was too soft and sensitive a creature to bear the rubs of the age he lived in. The stark fear of death was on him, and he was worse than an hysterical woman for the moment. Even if he were dragged to Josselin that night he would only disgrace himself at Mivoie on the morrow.
Bertrand turned on his heel, and began to march to and fro under the trees. Now and again he looked grimly, yet sorrowfully, at Robin, his eyes full of reproachfulness as he began to realize what the lad’s cowardice might mean. The words that he had spoken to Tiphaïne were sounding in his ears: “Trust me, and I will shield the lad even with my own body.” There was no shirking such a promise, and argue as he would the rough candor of his own conscience had him baffled at every point. What would Tiphaïne think of him if he left this loved but weak-willed brother to be shamed and dishonored in the knowledge of all Brittany? And Stephen Raguenel, that generous old man? The blow would kill him, and bring his white head down into the grave. Bertrand ground his teeth as he realized the bitterness of it all, and felt his own honor tangled in the fatal web of Robin’s fear.
Bertrand trampled the sodden grass till he had worn a muddy track under the beech-trees between Robin and the place where his horse was tethered. Never did Bertrand fight a tougher fight than he fought with himself that day on the road to Josselin. Renunciation, the higher courage, triumphed. Bertrand dashed his hand across his eyes, looked bitterly at the sword he had sharpened so lovingly and at the shield with the Du Guesclin blazonings thereon. Well, there was no help for it; he would sacrifice himself for this miserable boy; he had given Tiphaïne his promise. And as for his oath to Beaumanoir, he would both keep it and break it, and God would know the truth.
With the tussle ended, doubt and indecision had no more power over Bertrand’s will. He made no boast of the deed he was about to do, but marched to it boldly with a set mouth and an unflinching face.
“Off with your armor, lad; there is no time to lose.”
Robin stared as though Bertrand had commanded him to crawl out of his skin.
“Up with you!” and there was a ring of fierceness in the voice. “Strip off your armor; we must change our coats.”
Robin leaned upon one hand, eying Bertrand furtively, and not grasping his meaning for the moment.
“What will you do, messire?” he asked.