“You can take the pieces, Fleming,” and he dropped on his elbow, his face but a hand’s-breadth from the tangled grass.
A strong man’s anguish of exhaustion and defeat has some of the agony of hell in its expression, and to Tiphaïne the shock of Tinteniac’s dramatic overthrow was as vital as though he had been her brother. It wounded her woman’s pride to see this man of the finer fibre crushed at the feet of this brute mass of insolence and strength. She was out of the saddle and facing Croquart before that gentleman had had leisure to exult.
“Messire Croquart”—and her courtesy was sublime, the most perfect weapon she could have chosen—“a Tinteniac can never surrender, a woman can. We are your prisoners.”
The Fleming dropped his battle humor and made her a fat bow.
“I am at your service, madame.”
“That is well spoken, sir. There are wounds to be looked to.”
“Tête Bois, my saddle-bag.”
The man brought it. Croquart, who, despite his undoubted courage, had a peculiar loathing for seeing his own blood flow, always carried wine, oil, and linen with him in the wars.
“Thanks, messire.”
“Madame, it is a privilege to please.”