“Bertrand!” she said, mouthing the words with hardly a sound.
She glanced at Olivier. The sweet fellow had a scowl upon his pretty face.
“Who would have dreamed of it?” he muttered. “Bertrand must have been praying to the devil.”
Tiphaïne was leaning over the balustrading, clapping her hands and smiling till her eyes seemed filled with light. Bertrand had ridden close to the gallery. His face was transfigured as he lifted the bassinet to her on the point of his spear. The child took it between her hands, kissed it, and stood smiling at Bertrand, her hair turned into tawny gold by the sun.
“Was I not right, Bertrand?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered her, “we have earned our triumph, Tiphaïne, you and I.”
And catching sight of Olivier’s sulky face, Bertrand burst out laughing. Tiphaïne turned and saw the reason of his mirth. Her eyes sparkled, her mouth curled with childish triumph.
“Never look so sour, little Olivier,” she said; “some day your brother shall teach you how to play the man.”
And thus it was that the buffoon and the beggar overset the prejudices of the mighty, and that the rough and unpolished pebble changed under Dame Fortune’s wand into a precious stone of splendor and of worth. Bertrand was crowned Lord of the Lists that day. He sat beside Jeanne de Penthièvre at supper, with Tiphaïne laughing and sharing the red wine in his cup. Before them on the board stood the swan of silver, with rubies for eyes, that Bertrand had won at the tourney. He had given it to Tiphaïne, even because she had found his soul for him, and had stood by him when others mocked.