When Croquart recognized the Sieur de Tinteniac by his shield, and also saw the lady beside him with hair that took a sheen from the sun, he dropped his ferocity as though it had been his butcher’s cleaver and assumed an air which he believed to possess all the aristocratic gentleness of those sentimental heroes who never existed.
“Halt, sirs!”
He waved his men back with his sword and rode on at a trot towards Tinteniac and the Vicomte’s daughter. The spirit of ostentation pervaded even the salute he gave them.
“God’s grace to you, madame, and to you—sire. Am I to be honored by taking you as my prisoners?”
Tinteniac was trying to fathom the new-comer’s identity, for Croquart carried no proper device upon his shield.
“There has been no word spoken of surrender,” he said.
The Fleming bowed in the saddle.
“Then the Sieur de Tinteniac will honor me by meeting me with his sword.”
Tinteniac’s handsome face betrayed no hesitation.
“I am known to you, messire?”