Tinteniac, grave and restrained, put a chair for her before the window and turned the shutter so as to keep the sun from shining on her face.
“You do me honor,” he said; “if I can help you, show me how.”
He moved back to the cushioned seat in the broad window, the sunlight shining on the richness of his dress and showing the silver in his hair. He was a man who a woman would come to when in trouble, for, of all the knights of Brittany, Tinteniac held the noblest record.
“Sire, let me tell the truth to you: my father lies half dead in the room beyond us, and my brother Robin has hid himself in the cloisters of Lehon.”
She was looking steadily at Tinteniac, trying to read how much he knew, but his face was a sympathetic blank to her, devoid of subtlety or pretended innocence.
“Pardon me, madame, you seem to think me wiser than I am.”
“You fought, sir, at Mivoie.”
“True, and your brother Robin saved my life.”
“It was not my brother, sire.”
Tinteniac started.