“Bertrand, they are ashamed of you?”
“Well, I am not a pretty fellow; I have no manners; but, by Holy Samson, I swear that I can fight!”
Tiphaïne turned her face away, her right hand caressing Dame Jake’s head, her left fingering the moss and lichen on the stone.
“But you will come to Rennes,” she said, suddenly. “You are braver than Olivier. I don’t like Olivier; he is a conceited fellow.”
Bertrand stood twisting the bridle round his wrist.
“I am eighteen,” he said, “and there is no man here—nor in Rennes, for that matter—who can wrestle with me. But I have no armor and no clothes.”
“Are you ashamed, Bertrand?”
“Ashamed!” and he flushed. “I would fight any man who made a mock of me.”
Tiphaïne held out her hand to him, looking up steadily into his face.
“I like you, Bertrand,” she said; “you are strong, and you can tell the truth. I will speak to Madame Jeanne—no, I will go to Sieur Robert.”