“Gentlemen, close round; I order you to arrest a traitor.”
Bertrand’s hand went to his sword. Carro de Bodegat had already seized his bridle.
“Bertrand du Guesclin, surrender.”
“Surrender! In God’s name, no!” and he struck at Bodegat with his fist, broke loose, and made a plunge forward to be free. Half a dozen men closed round him like Saracen galleys about a sturdy ship. His sword was struck down, the shaft of a spear thrust between the hind legs of his horse, bringing the beast to earth, with Bertrand pinned by the right knee. Before he could break loose De Bodegat and four others heaped themselves on him and soon had him helpless and flat upon his back.
“Off, fools!—I surrender.”
“Let him up, sirs!” and Dubois bent forward in the saddle, still holding Croquart’s head by the hair.
The men rose from him, and Bertrand, sullen and angry, scrambled slowly to his feet.
“Which of you calls me a traitor?” and he swung round and looked from man to man. “Answer me; I am to be heard. You, De Bodegat? By Heaven, you have not the courage!”
Dubois’s mounted figure, haughty and splendid with its opulence of armor and sweeping plume, moved forward and overtopped Bertrand with an air of towering and seigniorial strength.
“Messire du Guesclin, what of the Oak of Mivoie?”