“We have beaten the English,” he said, quietly.
“Have you?”
“Yes; not a man discovered the trick. The honor of the De Bellières stands as it stood before.”
Probably it was the ring of reproach in Bertrand’s voice that stung the lad through his sullen reserve. He took five sharp paces forward, and stood grimacing, and beating one foot upon the grass.
“So, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin, you flatter yourself that you have done a brave thing!”
Bertrand stared at him.
“I have saved your honor,” he said, bluntly.
“Of course! of course!”
“And heard myself cursed for a coward and a traitor.”
Robin swung round, and began to pad to and fro, his face dead white, his teeth working against his lips. He was mad with Bertrand, mad with himself, mad with fate for having twisted him into such a corner. It never entered his head for the moment that Bertrand had suffered, and would suffer yet more.