One March day a man wrapped in a heavy riding-cloak with the hood turned back over his shoulders sat looking out over the sea from the cliffs of Cancale. Behind him a shaggy pony was cropping the grass, lifting its head to gaze ever and again at its master, motionless against the gray March sky. A northeast wind blustered over the cliffs, the sea, sullen and venomous, running high about the islands off Cancale. The great waves came swinging in to fly in white clouds of spray over the glistening black rocks that came and went like huge sea-monsters spouting in the water. Across the bay St. Michael’s glimmered beneath a chance storm-beam of the sun, while the shores of Normandy were dim and gray between sea and sky.

It was Bertrand, throned like some old Breton saint, with the waves thundering on the rocks beneath him and the gulls wailing about the cliffs. He sat there motionless, fronting the wind, his sword across his knees, as though watching and waiting for some sail he knew would come. The strong and ugly face might have caught the spirit of the granite land. Rock, sea spume, and the storm wind everywhere; a few twisted trees struggling in the grip of the wind. Bertrand, solemn, gray-eyed, motionless, akin to the rocks that lay around.

Two months had passed since Bertrand had come to Gleaquim by the northern sea, where his kinsfolk had kept Christmas in the old house where the Du Guesclins had had their rise. He had disbanded his free companions at Rennes, maugre their dismay and their unwillingness to leave him. The men’s rough loyalty had touched Bertrand, and taught him that even the saddest dogs could love their master. Guicheaux had even cast himself at Bertrand’s feet, swearing that he would go with him to the ends of the earth. It was with a husky voice that Bertrand had answered them, bade them choose a new captain and fight for Blois. He had left them bemoaning the obstinacy of his will, to discover, some twenty miles from Rennes, that Guicheaux and Hopart were following on his heels. Moved by their homage, he had taken them with him to Plessis-Bertrand, in Hakims valley by the sea.

There had been no great joy in Bertrand’s home-coming. His father, failing in years and health, had grown querulous and miserly, while Dame Jeanne adored Olivier as foolishly as ever. Julienne and the other girls were at a convent in Rennes. Two of the boys were lodged with their aunt in the same town, and Gaheris had gone as a page into the Sieur de Rohan’s household. There had been but a poor welcome for the prodigal, who brought no spoil or honor with him—nothing but a solemn face and two hungry followers. Sieur Robert had received him with no outburst of pride. His mother pursed up her lips, and questioned him as to what he had done with the money he had had to start him in the wars. Olivier strutted and swaggered in his finer clothes, made love to his mother’s serving-women, and sneered openly at his brother, asking him how many ale-houses he had captured and how many millers’ ransoms he had won. Even in the kitchen there were brawlings and discord, for Hopart and Guicheaux drubbed Olivier’s men for lauding up their master and belittling Bertrand’s courage.

As for the Champion of Rennes, he kept a tight mouth and a flinty face, took all the trivial taunts without a word, feeling it good that life should run roughly with him for a season. Vain, vaporing Olivier and proud, cold-eyed Jeanne knew nothing of the deep workings of that quiet man’s heart. He never spoke to them of the near past, and told them nothing of what he had learned and suffered. They thought him sour, surly, dull in the head. Thus, even in a home, kinsfolk are as strangers and outlanders together, and the mother knows not the heart of the son.

A great change was working in Bertrand—one of those uprisings that occur, perhaps, but once in the course of a strong man’s life. The recklessness, the passionate abandonment of youth were past—likewise the first peevish curses of disappointed manhood. Bertrand had learned to humble himself, to look round him, and to think. He had grappled with the truths and falsities of life, and searched out the flaws in his own heart with that dogged devotedness that was part of his nature. No easy and emotional religiosity inspired him, but rather the grim spirit of an old Stoic, striving after the best for the nobleness thereof. Yet the change was not without its tender tones. Almost unconsciously Bertrand had set up TiphaÏne in his heart, while beside her, yet more in the shadow, Arletta’s white and wistful face seemed to plead with him out of the past. Those who had known him of old, saving Olivier and his mother, wondered at the new gentleness, the air of patience, that had mellowed the rough and violent boy whom they remembered.

Bertrand was much alone that winter. It was a season of rest for him, a girding up of the loins, a tightening of the muscles of the heart. Nearly every day, in rain and sunshine, he would ride down to the sea, and sit there on the cliffs, with the ever-changing sky above him and the ever-restless waters at his feet. To Bertrand there was something bracing in this solitude and in the unbelittled magnificence of sea and shore. It was in those lonely days that he learned to know the true courage, that nobler quietude that smiles at defeat. And with the humility that had come upon him a deep and solemn peace seemed poured like divine wine into his mouth. The conviction grew in him that the higher life was yet before his face. Even as the grand old Hebrews trusted in the Eternal One with a faith that made them terrible, so Bertrand believed, with all the simple instinctiveness of his soul, that the powers above had work for him to do. The day would come for him, when or how he knew not yet. He was content to rest and tarry for a season, perfecting the self-mastery that was to make of him a man.

Bertrand mounted his rough pony and rode homeward that March day with the sun going down amid a mass of burning clouds. His heart was tranquil in him despite the wailing of the wind, the moaning of the trees, and the bleak stretch of moorland and of waste. He saw the peasants returning from their labor, and smiled at the sight. The patience of these lowly tillers of the fields seemed to comfort him. He had begun to think more of them of late than the mere pomp of chivalry and the glamour of arms. They suffered, these brown-faced, round-backed peasants, and Bertrand’s heart went out to them as he thought of their hard lives and the heaviness they bore.

The servants were trooping into supper when Bertrand rode into the old court-yard and saw the hall windows warm with torch-light. He stabled his pony, fed the beast with his own hands, and washed at the laver in the screens before going in to supper. Sieur Robert and his wife were already at the high table, with Olivier, the young fop, lolling against the wall. His lips curled as he saw Bertrand enter, for he hated his brother, and feared him in his heart.

Bertrand went to serve and carve at the high table. He had taken the task on him of late with that quiet thoroughness that made him what he was. It was proper, he thought, for him to serve before those who had begotten him, even though he had known no great kindness at their hands. Olivier would sneer and smile at Bertrand’s newly inspired filial courtesy. He was a selfish fool himself, and loathed stirring himself, even for the mother who would have given him her head.

“Hallo there! those roast partridges look fat. Bring the dish, brother; this north wind blows hunger into a man.”

Bertrand brought the dish without a word, and Olivier helped himself, pleased with the honor of being waited on by his brother.

“Give us some Grenarde, Bertrand. Thanks. And the spice-plate. Ah, madame, you keep to ypocrasse. Bertrand, my mother would drink ypocrasse.”

Olivier had long lorded it over both his parents with the easy insolence of a favored son. Bertrand poured out a cup of ypocrasse for Dame Jeanne, and, having carved for his father, and given him a tankard of cider, sat down to eat in turn. Olivier, who was greedy despite his daintiness, left Bertrand in peace awhile, only deigning to talk when he had ended his hunger.

“Well, Brother Bertrand, how are the pigs to-day?”

This question had become a nightly witticism with Olivier since a certain morning two weeks ago, when he had found his brother helping the swineherd to drive his hogs.

Bertrand kept silence and went on with his supper. Olivier, after staring at him, took a draught of wine, wiped his mouth, and called for water and a napkin that he might wash. Bertrand rose and brought them from the buffet below the great window.

“Thanks, good brother.”

The patronage would have set Bertrand’s face aflame not many months ago. He left Olivier waving his white hands in the air, and carried the bowl and napkin to his father, and then to Dame Jeanne, who thanked him with a slight nod of the head.

“Mother, I am thinking of joining the Countess at Rennes this year.”

Olivier was forever on the point of sallying on imaginary quests, and thrilling his mother’s heart with the threat of daring untold perils. He had been to the wars but once in his life, when an English spear-thrust had excused many months of unheroic idleness.

“They must miss you,” said Jeanne, with a jealous look.

Olivier spread his shoulders but did not see that Bertrand smiled.

“True,” he confessed, with divine self-unction; “I am a good man at my arms. This cursed spear-wound still smarts a little and chafes under the harness. How many men, mother, can you spare me in the spring?”

Jeanne du Guesclin considered the demand with the fondness of an unwilling fool. Olivier’s vaporings never rang false in her maternal ears. Like many a shrewd, cold-hearted woman, she was deceived pitifully by the one thing that she loved.

“Wait till the summer, child,” she said.

“Child!” And Olivier stood upon his dignity and showed temper. “You are blind, madame; you never see that I am a man. You women are made of butter. We men are of sterner stuff.”

His mother’s meekness was wonderful in one so proud.

“Ah, Olivier, you have the soldier’s spirit! I must not try to curb your courage.”

The hero smoothed his diminutive peak of a beard, and deigned to suffer her carefulness, like the inimitable peacock that he was.

“Honor is honor, madame. We men cannot sit at embroidery frames and make simples. It is the nature of man that he should thirst for war.”

A sudden stir among the servants at the lower end of the hall drew Bertrand’s attention from his brother’s boasting. His ear had caught the sound of hoofs and the pealing of a trumpet before the court-yard gate. The clattering of dishes and the babbling of tongues ceased in the great hall, for Plessis-Bertrand was a lonely house and travellers rarely came that way. Hopart and Guicheaux, taught caution by long, experienced exposure to all manner of hazards, took down their swords from the wall and went out into the court-yard, followed by some of Olivier’s men with torches. Olivier scoffed at the free companions’ carefulness.

“Some dirty beggar,” he said, “or a couple of strolling friars. Hi, Jacques, if they are players—and there be any wenches—show them in.”

Bertrand, who was wiser, and had no vanity to consider, saw that his sword was loose in its sheath.

They could hear Guicheaux shouting and a voice answering him. Then came the unbarring of the gate and the ring of hoofs upon the court-yard stones. The men were shouting and cheering in the court. Hopart’s hairy face appeared at the doorway of the hall. He so far forgot his manners for the moment as to bawl at his master on the dais.

“Beaumanoir’s herald, Messire Jean de XaintrÉ. They are going to maul the English at Mivoie’s Oak. The eagle must look to his claws!”

In came the servants, shouting and elbowing beneath a flare of torches, old Jean, the butler, flourishing his staff and trying to keep order and clear a passage. Hopart and Guicheaux were treading on the toes of Olivier’s men, spreading their fingers and grinning from ear to ear. Bertrand saw the flashing of a bassinet, the gay colors of a herald’s jupon, the Sieur de Beaumanoir’s arms quartered with those of Brittany. Some dozen men-at-arms followed in full harness, shouldering back the cook-boys and scullions.

The herald, an esquire of the Marshal’s, Jean de XaintrÉ by name, marched up the hall and saluted those at the high table.

“Greeting, madame and messires all; God’s grace be with you. I come from the Sieur de Beaumanoir, Marshal of Brittany. Thirty champions are to fight thirty English at the Oak of Mivoie on Passion Sunday. We need the Sieur de Guesclin’s son with us.”

Dame Jeanne looked at Olivier and beckoned him forward.

“Here is your champion, herald,” she said. “Olivier, the Sieur de Beaumanoir needs your sword.”

Jean de XaintrÉ stared at the lady and glanced, with a grim twinkle, at Olivier, who looked as though he were not so ready to deserve his mother’s pride.

“Your pardon, madame”—and XaintrÉ laughed—“Bertrand du Guesclin is our man. Greeting, old friend; you have not forgotten Jean de XaintrÉ.”

Jeanne du Guesclin bit her lips.

“What—Bertrand!”

“Madame, who but Bertrand, the best son you ever bore!”

Bertrand had risen and was standing with one hand on his father’s shoulder, knowing that his chance had come at last. The hall, with its crowd of faces, seemed blurred to him for the moment. Yet he saw Hopart and Guicheaux squealing and flapping their caps in the faces of Olivier’s men.

“I am here, old comrade. Give me the Marshal’s orders.”

Jeanne, white and angry, glared at him, and put her arm about Olivier.

“To choose the clumsy fool!” she said.

Jean de XaintrÉ had drawn his sword, and was holding the hilt crosswise before him.

“Swear, brother in arms, swear on the cross.”

“Ay, Jean, give me the oath.”

“Swear by Christ’s cross. The Oak of Mivoie on Josselin Moors, to fight Bamborough and his English on Passion Sunday.”

Bertrand lifted his hand, crossed himself, and took the oath.

“Before God—and our Lord—I swear,” he said.

XaintrÉ thrust his sword back into its sheath.

“Bertrand du Guesclin will not fail.”

Sieur Robert, sleepy and querulous, sat staring about him, and looking weakly at his wife. Jeanne du Guesclin had sunk back heavily in her chair, and was still biting her lips, and looking bitterly at Bertrand. Olivier had tossed down a cup of wine, and was braving it out as though the whole matter were the choicest farce. Guicheaux and Hopart were still stamping and shouting till Dame Jeanne started up in a blaze of fury, and shouted to her men, who crowded by the door:

“Take the fools out and have them whipped!”

But Bertrand cowed his mother for the once, and swore that no one should lay hands upon his men.

“Quiet, dogs,” he said, shaking his fist at them, “you have barked enough; let us have peace.”

He sprang down from the dais and gripped Jean de XaintrÉ’s hands.

“Old friend, you have not forgotten me?”

“No, no. Come, give me wine. Here’s to you with all my heart.”