“Yes, sire.”
“Take this traitor’s sword and break it across your knee.”
Gretry received it from Carro de Bodegat’s hands, set one foot upon the point, and bent the blade up over his knee. But being a mere youngster and of fragile build, the steel proved too tough for such strength as he possessed.
Carro de Bodegat started from the pile of fagots, and, taking the sword from Gretry, looked insolently into Bertrand’s face.
“It is a pity that such a sword should have been wasted, sir,” he said.
“God knows that it was not wasted, Messire Carro de Bodegat.”
“And God knows that Bertrand du Guesclin has told the truth!”
There was a sharp movement among the crowded figures, a sudden turning of all faces towards the shadows cast by the apple-trees. De Bodegat, with Bertrand’s sword held crosswise across his thigh, swung round on his heel like a man who has been called a liar by some stranger in a crowd.
The circle of armed men broke and parted before his eyes, giving a glimpse of the dark trunks of the apple-trees and the green depths of the orchard grass.
Bertrand, looking like a man in Hades who beholds the shining figure of the risen Christ, saw Tiphaïne standing under the trees, where the sun poured through the white boughs, making her hair glow like a halo of gold.