He lifted himself into the saddle, setting his teeth as his wound twinged, and, turning his horse, rode out from the yard. Robin stood like one in a stupor. It was only when the eagle of the Du Guesclins flashed out to meet the sunset that he gave a shrill cry and sprang after Bertrand, holding out his hands.
“Bertrand! Bertrand!”
Du Guesclin did not turn his head. Robin ran on and caught him by the stirrup.
“Bertrand, forgive me; I will tell the truth—”
“Back, lad, back.”
“Bertrand!”
Du Guesclin clapped in the spurs, and, bending down, tore Robin’s hand from the stirrup.
“We have thrown the dice,” he said, “and the throw must count. Go back to La Bellière; the truth is safe with me.”
He cantered off, leaving Robin alone before the inn, mute and miserable as he thought of the lies he had made for his own mouth.