“Croquart! To be sure, sire, Croquart is dead.”
“How! Croquart dead!”
There was a slight swaying of the spears like the swaying of tall ash-trees in a wind.
“Sire, if it please you I saw Croquart’s body lying unburied in the orchard of a farm-house not three miles farther west.”
Dubois was not pleased; nor were De Bodegat and the rest.
“Be careful, my friend, how you tamper with the truth. How did you know that it was Croquart you saw dead?”
Bertrand did not hesitate.
“Sire, by the fox’s brush.”
“Yes.”
“And the ugliness of the Fleming’s face.”