“Pierre, is it? So, lad, you fell asleep. We’ll read thee a lesson.”
The Poitevin, scared to death, cringed as his comrades hustled and cuffed him. They were furious with the lad for having deserted his post and left them unguarded against the perils of the night.
“Mercy! Mercy! Messire Bertrand, Messire Bertrand, they are tearing my arms off!”
Hopart smote Pierre on the mouth with the back of his hand.
“Scullion! Crybaby! Jackass!”
“Let him be, men.”
They left him grudgingly, as though they had caught some of the savagery of Broceliande’s wolves. Pierre stood shaking before Bertrand. Then he dropped on his knees and began to snivel, his poltrooning drawing laughter and taunts from Hopart and the rest.
“Get up, man, get up!”
By way of being wisely foolish, the Poitevin grovelled the more, and tried to take Bertrand by the knees.
“Mercy, lording, mercy! I was tired, devilish tired—”