“I will come if Messire Bertrand will give me his hand.”
“Well, that is good!”
“And sit with me at the high table.”
She turned, and with a graciousness that was wonderful in one so young looked at Bertrand and held out her hand.
“Messire Bertrand, you will come with me. I do not wish to go with Olivier.”
Bertrand had risen, oversetting the stool in rising. He held his head high, a slight flush upon his face, his eyes shining, half with tenderness, half with the light of battle. Tiphaïne’s hand was clasped in his. He shouldered Olivier aside, and moved towards the dais, a rough dignity inspired in him by the child’s presence.
“Mother, I have come to take my place at the table.”
Jeanne smiled at him, the smile of cold and unpleased necessity.
“You were long in coming, Bertrand,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he answered. “I was waiting till some one made me welcome.”