Bertrand, his eyes flashing, turned his horse, and, riding past his father, saluting him as he passed, approached De Beaumanoir, who understood the meaning of what had happened. The Marshal came to meet Bertrand, and stood close to him, so that they could speak without being overheard.
“Sire, I cannot tilt against my father.”
“Well said, lad.”
“Carry Sieur Robert du Guesclin my courtesies, and tell him I have a vow upon me not to ride against his family.”
The Marshal nodded.
“And, sire, of your kindness send me another man to smite that I may show these scullions that I am not tired.”
Beaumanoir gave Bertrand his hand, and went to speak with Robert du Guesclin, who was sitting his horse in the centre of the field, not a little incensed against the man who had shirked his challenge. He broke forth into angry accusations as De Beaumanoir approached him, and pointed scornfully at Bertrand with his spear.
“Peace, man!” said the Marshal; “listen to me—”
“The fellow has tricked me.”
“Messire, it is your son.”