Tinteniac straightened in the saddle with a slight shudder of pain.
“I can bear it longer,” he said, quietly.
“Why, sire, why? Croquart must let you rest.”
“Upon my soul, I will ask him no favor.”
“And upon my soul, sire, in ten minutes you will fall from your horse.”
She pushed past him without further parley and overtook the Fleming, who was biting his beard and looking as ill-tempered as it is possible for a man with an ugly jowl to look. Tiphaïne caught a glimpse of his solid and pugnacious profile before he turned to her with an impatient glint of the eyes.
“Well, madame, what now?”
“The Sieur de Tinteniac’s wounds are still open; he cannot travel farther without a rest.”
“Rest—a soldier asks for rest!”
Tiphaïne’s color deepened. The very arrogance of the man’s impatience fed her hate. She could have laid a whip across Croquart’s face with immense comfort to her self-respect.