“Blindly?”
“No—not blindly.”
“And why—not blindly?”
“Because”—and his strong face warmed to her—“because I can swear you are what you seem to be. Because I know what I myself have been. Because I have learned what honor is, and to know the face that cannot give a lie.”
“Then I am the same Tiphaïne who carried the white May-bough into Rennes?”
“Need you ask that?”
His faith was the more precious to her now that she knew what such a faith was worth. She turned aside, still holding the sword, and looked out over the meadows like one who wonders at the mystery of a moonlit sea. Some measure of awe had fallen on her in the presence of this silent and patient man who had learned to suffer—even to the death.
“Bertrand,” she said, at last, “I have a great longing in me for La Bellière and for my home.”
He bowed his head, watched her, and waited.
“The Sieur de Tinteniac and these men will carry the news to Beaumanoir at Josselin. Is it your wish that I should go to Josselin with them?”