Her words won a murmur of astonishment from the listening men, her very calmness carrying conviction to the hearts of not a few.
“Impossible!”
Carro de Bodegat’s face was honestly impertinent in its unbelief.
“How impossible, messire? Should I confess this shame without a cause?”
“Madame, we saw your brother’s shield, and heard him answer to his name.”
“Then the deceit was the braver in its thoroughness. Know, gentlemen, and Bretons—all, that it was Bertrand du Guesclin who fought in my brother’s stead!”
Her words fell like stones into a pool, making the waters swing into merging circles that spread and melted into a vague suggestion of unrest.
“Messires,” and she looked round at the listening faces with a brave lifting of the head, “I loved my brother, and I was afraid, for he was young and not stiffened into manhood when the news came of the gathering at Mivoie. It was then that Bertrand lodged at La Bellière with us a night, and since he was my friend I gave my brother to him with these words: ‘Look to the lad, because I love him, and because he is our father’s only son.’ Little did I think that Bertrand du Guesclin would set so great a price upon my words, and bear the shame to save a coward.”
She ceased, and looked round her at the faces of those who listened. Only on Carro de Bodegat’s face did she find the unhallowed glimmer of a prurient sneer.
“If this is the truth—”