“I remember your shield, sire. I saw enough of it at Mivoie to make me respect its master.”
“At Mivoie?”
“Certainly, sire.”
“And you—your name?”
The Fleming threw up the visor of his bassinet with the unction of a hero discovering himself at the dramatic moment. He looked at Tiphaïne as though to watch how she received the impression of his magnificence.
“Sire, I am Croquart the Fleming.”
“Croquart! So; this is fortunate.”
Tinteniac’s face could express haughtiness with the perfect calmness of the aristocrat. Croquart had more looks for the lady than for the man. He saw her color deepen a little and a peculiar shadowiness pass across her eyes.
“No doubt, sire, you have heard of me,” and the fat hand seemed to insinuate the glitter of its rings into Tiphaïne’s notice.
“The Flemish butcher-boy.”