“Take me up upon your saddle.”
In a moment Bertrand had lifted her with his long arms, and had seated her before him. The townsfolk had fallen back in silence. The child had her father’s arms emblazoned upon her dress, and it was easy to see that she was of gentle birth.
“Messire Bertrand du Guesclin, why do you quarrel with these wretches?”
She looked down upon the rough townsfolk with a scorn that was marvellous in its vividness on the face of one so young. No one mocked at her. Even the women held their tongues when her shrill voice carried over the heads of the people.
“Tiphaïne,” said the lad, “I was a great fool to come to Rennes.”
She put her small hand over his mouth.
“You are unkind,” she said; “was it not I who brought you hither?”
Bertrand had drawn Yellow Thomas free of the crowd. The trumpets were sounding again, and the fickle faces of the people were turned once more towards the lists. In a moment Tiphaïne, Bertrand, and his yellow horse were forgotten.
“Tiphaïne.” He colored to the stubble of his coarse, black hair.
“Yes, Bertrand.”