To Bertrand the apple-boughs seemed more white against the blue, the grass more green, the gold of the meadows deeper than golden wine. She came near to him, halted, and looked into his face so steadily, and with such an outflashing of her woman’s soul, that he felt like one dazed by some bright light.
“Messires, it has been spread abroad that Bertrand du Guesclin did not fight at Mivoie.”
She spoke as though flinging a challenge at their feet, her voice slow but very quiet. The eyes of the whole company were fixed upon her face, for the strange stateliness of her manner seemed to promise some great confession.
Dubois and his brother in arms bowed to her like men who were half in doubt as to what attitude to assume.
“Madame, we were with the Sire de Beaumanoir at Mivoie—”
“And you did not see the Du Guesclin eagle?”
They admitted the enigma, and were the more puzzled by the expression of consent upon her face.
“Perhaps, messires, you remember my brother’s arms—a silver fesse on a field of blue, the shield of Sir Robin Raguenel, of La Bellière, near Dinan?”
“Assuredly.” And they waited to hear more.
“And yet, messires, my brother was not at Mivoie. His heart had failed him, and he had broken troth. You would have found him hiding in the woods near Loudeac.”