“You expect me to grovel at your feet, messire,” he blurted.
Bertrand flushed under his bassinet.
“I have not asked for your thanks, Robin.”
“No, and I tell you that I have cursed myself because, like a fool, I let you have my arms.”
Bertrand’s face went hard as stone. He looked at Robin, and understood of a sudden that the lad loathed him now that his honor had been saved at Mivoie. He felt himself in Bertrand’s power, and had not the magnanimity to confess that the whole tangled coil was of his own weaving. Bertrand gulped down his scorn as he realized the truth.
“Your courage comes two days late,” said Bertrand, holding his anger back.
Robin whipped round on him like a wild-cat at bay.
“Curse you! Why did you meddle with me? Curse Beaumanoir, curse Bamborough and his English! I should have fought at Mivoie if my damned horse had not fallen lame.”
Bertrand’s lips curled.
“Don’t blame the poor beast, Robin,” he said.