The old man would have risen; his hands were already on the arms of his chair. Bertrand, a great rush of pity sweeping away his awkwardness, went to him and knelt like a stripling beside the Vicomte’s chair.
“Sire—”
Stephen Raguenel laid his hands upon Bertrand’s shoulders. His eyes had a blind and vacant look. It was the wreck of a face that Bertrand saw gazing into his.
“It is you, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin?”
“It is I, sire.”
“We owe you much, my Tiphaïne and I.”
“Sire, let us not speak of it,” and his mouth quivered, for he saw in the old man’s eyes the yearning of a father for his son.
“No, messire, our honor is with us yet. We give you that gratitude of which God alone can know the depth. Child, is not that so?”
Tiphaïne had slipped behind him, and stood leaning upon the carved back of the chair. Her hands rested on her father’s shoulders. He drew them down with his and looked up wistfully into her face.
“Bertrand braved more than death for us,” she said.