“Sorry! That is generous—indeed! See, there lies my best friend, my dog Brunet, slashed to death by the swords of your men. My castle gate has been broken by you, my father’s house pillaged!”
Her words came quickly, yet with the clear ring of an armorer’s hammer upon steel. She was still wroth with him, and, with good reason, grieved also by the falling of his manhood into such a life.
Bertrand could not meet her eyes.
“What can I say to you, madame?”
She dropped her arm and looked at him in silence, her face aglow, her breath drawn deeply.
“Messire Bertrand! Messire Bertrand!”
The change of tone was wonderful, piercing through to the man’s heart. He hung his head, knowing too well what was passing in her mind.
“I am what I am,” he said, sullenly.
“Yet—you remember Rennes?”
“What good is it, madame, to remember what one cannot keep.”