There was a shout from the crowd. Bertrand had swerved, when at full gallop, and drawn aside with his spear raised. Suddenly, on the approaching shield, he had seen the red eagle of the Du Guesclin’s, his father’s arms, and had wheeled aside in time to escape the spear. Sieur Robert drew his horse up heavily upon its haunches, astonished and not a little angry at the way that Bertrand had faltered and refused to tilt with him.
Mocking shouts came from the barriers. The common people were fickleness itself, and were ready to jeer at their late hero as though he had tricked them into praising him beyond his due.
“He is afraid! Sir Turncoat is afraid!”
“Shame, shame, to shirk a gentleman!”
“The fellow’s cowed; he’ll not face the Eagle.”
Bertrand whipped his horse round and rode close up to the barriers, brandishing his spear.
“Who says I am afraid?” he roared.
No one answered him.
“Come out, any of you—rich or poor. Let any man call me coward—and I’ll fight him with axe—or club—with bare fists. Let him only choose.”
This time the crowd cheered him. It was the touch of temper that swayed them back towards applause.