They had been on the march an hour next morning, following the winding forest ways under Guicheaux’s guidance, when Hopart and several others who held the van came plump upon a couple of peasants squatting beside a miserable fire. In the centre of a clearing stood a rude hut built of logs and thatched with whin and heather. The grass was all trampled and muddy about the place, as though a number of horses had been tethered for the night.

At the first glimpse of the free lances and Hopart’s red face under its iron war-hat, the men by the fire skipped up like rabbits and bolted for the woods. The free companions gave chase, hallooing to the peasants to stop, and spattering them with maledictions as they still continued to run. The slimmer of the two gained the undergrowth and dived into it like a bird into a bush. Hopart, however, came thundering down on the other, who was lumbering along on a lame leg, toppled him over by thrusting his spear between his knees, and, rolling from the saddle, had the gentleman in hand. He was a stupid, hairy-faced clod, with a pendulous lower lip and a scar across one cheek. They brought him to Bertrand, who had ridden in with Arletta, and set him in the midst before the captain’s horse.

Bertrand, who had been struggling with his conscience since the rising of the sun, looked round the clearing, noticed the trampled grass, and promptly fell to questioning the lame boor Hopart had brought to earth.

“Hallo, Jacques Bonhomme, whose hut is that?”

The peasant indicated his own person with his thumb.

“Yours, eh? And who have you been lodging? A large party by the look of the grass. Speak up! We are Breton men, and we are not here to steal.”

The man’s face brightened a little as he scratched his chin and looked cunning.

“Maybe you are of the Montfort party, lording?”

“Maybe we are, maybe we are not. Who have you had camped here for the night?”

“Monk Hanotin, Croquart’s bully.”

“Who? Say that again.”

“Monk Hanotin, lording, and twenty men. They’ve thove my old sow, bad blood to them, burned my sticks of furniture, and taken all the meal I had in the tub.”

Bertrand was frowning at the man, while Hopart and the rest listened in silence.

“Thank the saints, Jacques, that they took nothing else. Croquart’s men! The devil! And how long have they been gone?”

The man pulled the hairs in his shaggy beard.

“Maybe an hour, maybe less.”

“We saw nothing of them. They are ahead of us, eh?”

“No, lording, they went west.”

“And we rode east. Well, what do you know, anything?”

There was more hair-pulling, more screwing up of the peasant’s sleepy but cunning eyes, as though he were trying to tune his wits to Bertrand’s temper.

“I heard something, lording, of the business they have in hand.”

“You did! Tell us.”

“When they were kicking me and making me burn my own stools and table I heard Monk Hanotin talking. They are for the Vicomte de BelliÈre’s tower, the Aspen Tower we call it in these parts. I reckon they mean to pluck it as they plucked my poor hens.”

Bertrand straightened in the saddle, a flash of fierceness crossing his face, as though one of his men had called him a coward. Bending forward, he held his poniard at the peasant’s throat, while Hopart and another gripped him by the arms and shoulders.

“Swear, Jacques Bonhomme! Swear, swear!”

The man looked stupidly into Bertrand’s eyes as though fascinated.

“Swear, lording?”

“That you have spoken the truth.”

The fellow shook off Hopart’s grip and crossed himself.

“By Holy Jesu, Our Lady, and St. Ives,” he said, “I swear!”

Bertrand clapped his poniard back into its sheath.

“Good,” he said. “God see to it, for your throat’s sake, that you are not a liar. How many men had Hanotin with him?”

“Twenty, I should say, lording—English, Flemings, Gascons—cut-purses enough.”

Bertrand’s upper lip tightened. He was alive again to the last sinew.

“Jacques, you know the forest ways?”

“Yes, lording.”

“Bring us to the Vicomte de BelliÈre’s tower before Hanotin and his rogues break in.”

“Lording, I will do my best if you will bring back my old sow.”

Bertrand stood in the stirrups and called his men round him.

“Come, who is for robbing a brother thief? Shout, all of you, for Bertrand du Guesclin and Brittany!”

And shout they did, ready as Bertrand to strike a blow at Hanotin, Croquart the Fleming’s man. Guicheaux gave tongue to the common will.

“Lead on, lording, we will follow.”

“Well said, comrade,” quoth Hopart, “I’d give a knight’s ransom to stick my poniard in Hanotin’s belly.”

There was stir and ardor everywhere. The men were down tightening up girths and looking to each other’s armor. Guicheaux and Hopart were unlading one of the pack-horses and hoisting up the peasant onto the beast’s back. Bertrand had drawn his sword and was feeling the edge thereof. Of a truth, God had given him his opportunity. He would save TiphaÏne—yes, or lose his life in the adventure.

A hand touched his bridle. It was Arletta’s. She was looking up wistfully, jealously, into Bertrand’s face.

“Take me with you, lording.”

“No, no, Letta, this is no woman’s business.”

“I can ride with the best—”

“Yes, you have spirit, child; but we shall have our stomachs full of fighting before night. Stay with Gwen and Barbe. You will be safe here.”

Arletta went white under her black hair, and then red as fire. Her eyes flashed, her bosom heaved.

“Lording, I will go with you—yes, yes, though you ride to save madame. I know your heart, I know your heart!”

A wave of color swept over Bertrand’s face. He looked hard at Arletta, who was clinging to his bridle with both hands.

“What! Jealous, Letta? For shame, for shame!”

She burst out weeping of a sudden, all her woman’s nature rushing out in tears.

“Take me, lording, I am your servant. No, I’ll not stay while you are fighting. Lording, lording!”

She leaned against his horse’s shoulder, and tried to clasp him with her arms. Bertrand was frowning and gnawing at his lip. His mood had changed; the sullen repinings of the night were past. He felt his sword sharp, his arm mighty.

“Well, you shall come,” he said.

“Lording, I am your servant.”

She kissed his hands and sprang away, smiling dimly through her tears. Yet her heart was not quiet despite her victory. Why was Bertrand so fierce and eager to fly at Hanotin’s throat? Was it because he was of the English party, or because—And Arletta clinched her fists and shivered.

So Bertrand and his men turned back towards the Aspen Tower, leaving the two women in the hut, with Simon and the Poitevin to guard them and the baggage-cattle. Bertrand took the lead once more, and loitered no longer like a sick stag behind the herd. Guicheaux had Jacques Bonhomme on a horse beside him, keeping a fast hold on the bridle, and improving the fellow’s loyalty by grimly reminding him that some one’s back would be the worse for their stirrup-straps if the Aspen Tower were not reached before night. The men were blithe and full of fettle. Monk Hanotin and his free lances were gentlemen of parts—brilliant rogues, so far as devilry could carry them. They did not ride with empty saddles. The peasant swore that they had the spoil of half a dozen castles and manors on their pack-horses.

As for Bertrand, the whole tone of life was changed in him since he had turned back from that patch of open land in Broceliande’s heart. The mopes had fallen away; he had a deed in view; the day was justified by its endeavor. Some strange stroke of chance had beaten him back towards the woman who had shown him his own soul. He was riding to save TiphaÏne—TiphaÏne, the child who had made a man of him at Rennes. He recalled her as he had known her then—sweet, winsome, passionate, generous in her championing of his ugliness. He saw her as she had stood but yesterday on the altar steps, brave, scornful, haloed round with a lustre of gold. All the deep pathos of the scene smote home to him—dead Brunet’s body, the pest-stricken home, old Jehanot shivering behind the hangings. Why, he had been no better then than this bully of Croquart’s, this Hanotin whom he was thirsting to slay! Great God, how a man might discover his true self in the likeness of another!

Bertrand awoke over the peril of the child he had loved of old. He was as hot to save her as though he were still her champion at Rennes. TiphaÏne in Hanotin’s ruffian hands! Bertrand set his teeth and raged at the thought of it. He must reach the Aspen Tower before the patched gate fell.

Arletta rode at Bertrand’s side that morning, biting her red lips, and tasting the bitterness of her own reflections. A woman is quick in the telling of a man’s moods, and his actions speak for him in lieu of words. With Arletta jealousy was an ever-smouldering passion. It lurked at all times behind her pale and sinful face, and in the restless deeps of her troubled eyes. She had been known to stab fat Gwen in the arm because the woman had dared to laugh at Bertrand before his men. Arletta could brook no rivalry in this poor, honorless conceit of hers. She loved Bertrand, loved him like a mother, a mistress, and a slave—was proud of his great strength and of the truth that he belonged to her.

Yet Arletta had kept a vision of madame of the Aspen Tower, concerning whom her lord had been so glum and silent. She hated TiphaÏne with her whole soul. A woman soon grasps the character of a sister woman, and to Arletta TiphaÏne stood for every contrast that could make Bertrand see her as she was. Untarnished pride and haughty purity! The thin, white-faced light of love, with her jet-black hair and sinuous ways, knew how steep was the slope between TiphaÏne and herself. She had seen her but for a moment, but that moment was sufficient. Bertrand, her master, had humbled himself before this lady of the tower, and to Arletta there had been a reflected bitterness in Bertrand’s homage. She was but a poor sparrow-hawk compared to this gerfalcon, whose splendid pinions had never been imped by the hand of man.

About noon they halted by a stream to water the horses and make a meal. Arletta could see how Bertrand chafed and fretted at the delay, how hot and fierce he was to come up with Hanotin and his free lances, whose tracks showed in the wet grass. Arletta would have rejoiced if half the horses had fallen lame; but no, there was to be no slackening of the chase that day. Bertrand was in the saddle, inexorably eager, and shouting to his men:

“Forward! forward!”

The brown thickets swam by them as they cantered on through shadow and through sunlight. The sun sank low, hurling his slanting showers of gold over the bosom of Broceliande. Every forest monarch seemed afire, touched with a glory that was not of earth. The pungent scent of the rotting leaves rose up like invisible incense before the reddening altar of the west. Another league and they would be on the brink of the valley, and near the tower that Arletta hated.

Bertrand called a halt. He was a man who never racked his wits for strategy or battle craft. Like a good hawk, he “waited on” till the quarry rose in view; courage and strength of pinion did the rest. The horses steamed in the frosty air. The men sat silent, images in steel, listening for any sound that might break the silence. They were close on the valley, close on Monk Hanotin and his scum of Gascons, English, and Flemings.

From afar came the faint crying of a horn, wild and wailing, like the voice of the dying day.

“Hear them, hear them, brave dogs!”

Hopart was biting at his beard and setting back his shoulders, as though to feel their weight.

“Blow, brother Hanotin!” he growled. “We will be with thee before dark.”

They drew together under the trees, their eyes on Bertrand, who was holding his breath and listening. The rough fellows had confidence in him. There would be no bungling where Bertrand led.

“Ready, sirs?”

A growl and a loosening of swords came in response.

“Good. Keep your tongues quiet. We must hold to the trees till we have the tower in sight.”

He was spurring on his horse when he remembered Arletta, and drew rein again with an impatient frown.

“Here, one of you look after the girl. Keep her safe in the woods till we have finished.”

Arletta, jealous and very miserable, held out her hands to him with a sharp cry.

“Lording, I am not afraid—”

“What devil’s nonsense now! Back, I say! Am I to be obeyed?”

Arletta looked at Bertrand’s face, and slunk away as though he had smitten her. TiphaÏne of the tower had all his tenderness. She only cumbered him, and his passionate impatience hurt her heart.

“Off! I can look to myself,” she said, as one of the men came to take her bridle. “Go forward and fight; I’ll be a clog on none of you.”

Another furlong and they neared the valley, pushing on cautiously under the trees. Bertrand and Guicheaux rode ahead, speaking not a word, but keeping their eyes fixed on the woodways before them. Soon the sky broadened into a pillared arch of gold. The great trees gave back, showing the valley and the aspens glimmering about the tower.

“Yonder are their horses.”

Guicheaux was pointing with his spear, his thin face working with excitement.

“We have them, lording! We have them on the hip!”

Bertrand peered down the valley under his hand. He saw some thirty horses picketed on the edge of the aspen wood. Only two men were guarding them. Where were the rest?

He gave a shout, and drew his sword.

“Listen, they are breaking in!”

From the valley came the confused cries of men hurrying to the assault, and Bertrand could hear the dull crash of blows given upon the gate. A confused shimmer of steel showed under the black bulk of the tower as Hanotin’s men thronged across the causeway.

“On—on!”

Bertrand was already galloping down the slope into the gold mist that drowned the meadows.