Over golden moors and through winding woodways deep with the glamour of forests in green leaf, Bertrand and TiphaÏne rode homeward towards Dinan.

Since there seemed something sacred in the days to them, they shunned the towns and villages, holding to the wilderness of the woods and moors, as though solitude and the silence thereof had a restfulness for either heart. For Bertrand that season of the world’s awakening had been a season of storm, of weary nights and troubled dawns. He had slain his own self, to find his manhood reincarnated in the second life that had risen for him like a gold cloud out of the east. He was as a man who had much to remember, and much more to foreshadow. The woods and moors had a sudden awe for him, an awe that played like sacred fire upon the solemn summits of the hills.

As a man’s life is, so are his desires. In the making or the marring it is the genius of effort that sets the furnace glowing and strikes with the hammer upon the malleable metal of the soul. No man ever drifted into strength or dreamed into nobleness by lying on a bed with a wine-cup at his elbow. We gather life or lose it. God strikes no balance for us. We may labor blindly, but we must labor—to be men.

As for Bertrand, he had grown young and old in the same breath—young in that he had won the brave ardor of his youth again; old, because he had taken the temper of the world, and learned to behold the conquering good even in the darkness of disloyalty and shame. He had come to true manhood by throwing that same manhood bound and broken at the feet of honor. He had won in thinking that he had lost, triumphed by believing that he could bear defeat.

Therefore he rode beside TiphaÏne, the Child of the White May Bough, the Enchantress of the Aspen Tower, looking upon the beauty of her womanhood without fear, yet with awe. Her face seemed to open the gates of heaven before his eyes. He was content to follow her, hoping that in due season he might hold her hand in his.

The first night they lodged in a little inn upon the road. There was but one guest-chamber in the place, and TiphaÏne slept there, while Bertrand lay awake before the door.

They passed the second night in an open wood, great pine-trees towering to the stars, TiphaÏne asleep on a bed of heather that Bertrand’s hands had gathered and spread. He stood on guard till the dawn came, feeling the dark, whispering wood like some solemn temple where he could keep vigil as a sacred right. TiphaÏne slept, even like a trusting child. Her great faith in him made Bertrand happy, happy as a man who has conquered fame.

He saw the dawn come up, a stealing into the sky of vapors of crimson and of gold. He knew that that evening they would reach La BelliÈre. It was to be the last day of their pilgrimage together.

The sunlight was slanting through the trees, warming the red trunks, when TiphaÏne awoke and saw Bertrand, motionless, a pillar of patience, leaning upon his sword. There was a faint glimmering of sunlight in the eyes that looked at him. Her hair bathed TiphaÏne’s face like some soft autumn color bathing the white face of an autumn flower.

She left the bed of heather, and Bertrand heard the rustle of her footsteps in the grass. He turned, looking like one who has been watching the sunrise and finding the woods dark and mist-fogged after the brightness of the broadening east.

TiphaÏne’s eyes had the strangeness of eyes that are half happy and half sad.

“And I have let you watch all night!”

He looked at her and smiled.

“It has seemed short enough.”

“Then Bertrand du Guesclin is never weary?”

“I had my own thoughts. With some thoughts—a man is never tired.”

The secrets of the heart escape in the uttering of a few simple words. They stood looking at each other, each wishing to be compassionate yet honest. TiphaÏne’s eyes were the first to turn away.

“We shall reach La BelliÈre to-night,” she said.

“Yes, to-night.”

“And I shall see my father.”

Perhaps there was the slightest tremor of regret quivering in her thankfulness. Bertrand was watching TiphaÏne as a strong man watches the light or shadow in the eyes of one he loves.

“Shall I be welcome at La BelliÈre?”

“Welcome?”

“You see, some men are remembered—with bitterness.”

“You misjudge my father.”

“No, but I feel for him.”

“I know it.”

She lifted her face to his with a brave quickening of her womanhood. Instinct told her all that was in Bertrand’s heart.

His hands were opening and shutting upon the hilt of his sword.

“A year ago you know what manner of man I was.”

“I know what manner of man I honor now.”

“You called me a worthless ruffian, and you were right.”

“Forget the words.”

“No, before God, no; they made me turn into a man.”

“And you, Bertrand, have taught me many things in return.”

It was as though she yielded, and yet did not yield.

“TiphaÏne.”

“We owe so much to you, we of La BelliÈre.”

His hands swept out to her, letting the sword fall.

“No, no, do not say that. Am I a man to trade upon my deeds?”

“Bertrand!”

“Forget them, for I should hate myself if you were to look on me as one who had plotted for your gratitude. TiphaÏne, I am just a man. I am thinking of you as the child who rescued me at Rennes.”

His words moved her more deeply than he imagined. She looked into his swarthy and impassioned face, and felt his homage leap up about her like sacred fire.

“If I might speak it?”

She faltered, and her cheeks were red, her eyes mysterious.

“No, no, not now—”

He went near to her, holding out his great, strong hands.

“I am a rough, ignorant fool, but—before God—I know now how to give you homage.”

“Bertrand, I know it—”

“Well—”

“Wait”—and she looked at him, and then at the hands he held to her—“I ask you to see the shadows that I see, the shadows that are darkening my own home.”

“Shadows?”

“Yes”—and her courage came to her—“I am thinking Bertrand, of my father, and of Robin hiding in the cloisters of Lehon.”

He dropped his hands and drew back a step, not harshly or selfishly, but with the reverence of a man who could behold the same vision as her tenderness beheld.

“TiphaÏne, I never had a home.”

“No.”

“They always hated me. And yet—”

“And yet you feel what I feel, the sacredness that watches over home. Bertrand, there is my father; my heart goes out to him; I remember how he looked at me when I told him the truth of Robin’s shame.”

His face was more tender towards her than before.

“He loved the lad.”

“And now he looks to me for all the love he lost at Mivoie. To-night he will kiss me and think me all his own.”

There was no bitterness in Bertrand’s eyes.

“You have a great heart in you.”

“Bertrand, you understand?”

“God bless you, yes.”

She went to him suddenly and took his hands.

“Patience.”

And in her eyes he might have read the dawning truth.