Tinteniac’s eyes flashed as she spoke.
“Madame, I am glad,” he said, “that I stood out for Du Guesclin at the Oak of Mivoie, and you are right in telling me the truth. Both men were friends to me, and I know not how to place my pity.”
“Sire, Robin is dead to us, poor lad! God has taken him; he will not see the scorn that Bertrand might have borne.”
Even her great strength failed her for the moment, and she rose, turning aside, with one hand covering her face. Tinteniac, touched to the heart, remained by the window, suffering her bitterness to pass in silence. The pathos of life seemed very keen to him, held as it was in the proud walls of this noble house. He thought of Robin as he had known the lad of old, and pictured him now, cowering in the cloisters of Lehon.
“Sire, I have one more thing to ask of you.”
She had mastered her weakness, and her eyes shone out on him from the determined pallor of her face.
“Take me to Beaumanoir; let there be no delay. Bertrand du Guesclin shall be cleared from shame.”
Tinteniac went to her and took her hands.
“Child,” he said, “you have chosen the nobler part. Would to God that I could mend this sorrow.”
He kissed her hands and stood back, looking sadly into her face.