Bertrand of Brittany. Warwick Deeping

black as jet, and the bats darted athwart the golden west. The long grass was wet with dew. Bertrand shivered, stretched himself, sat up, and listened. He was hungry, but then he had no stomach for the great hall where no one wished for him, and where the very guests might take him for a servant. He would sneak round to the pantry and get some bread and a mug of ale from the butler’s hatch.

      There was a sudden rustling of the grass under the tree, a low whimpering, and a wet nose thrust itself against Bertrand’s hand. Then a pair of paws hooked themselves upon his knee, and a cold snout made a loving dab at the lad’s mouth.

      “Why, Jake—old dame!”

      The dog whimpered and shot out her tongue towards Bertrand’s cheek.

      “Jake, old lady, they have all forgotten me, save you.”

      He fondled the dog, his great brown hands pulling her ears with a tenderness that seemed strange in one so strong and ugly. He laid his cheek against Jake’s head, and let her lick his neck and ear, for it was sweet to be remembered—even by a dog.

      “Well, old lady, have you had your supper? What, not a bone! By St. Ives! we will go in, in spite of them, and sup together by the fire.”

      He rose, and the dog sprang away as though welcoming the decision, and played round him, barking, as he crossed the garden towards the court.

      When Bertrand entered the hall with Dame Jake at his heels the grooms and underlings were taking their places at the trestled tables. The walls were bare, save behind the dais, where crimson hangings hung like a mimic sunset under the deep shadows of the roof. The fire was not built on a hearth in the centre of the floor, but under a great hooded chimney in the wall midway between the high table and the screens. There was no napery on the lower boards, and the servant folk used thick slices of brown bread in place of platters.

      Bertrand cast a quick and jealous glance at the high table, and then went and sat himself on a stool before the fire. The logs were burning brightly on the irons, licking a great black pot that hung from the jack. Neither Dame Jeanne nor her husband had seen Bertrand enter. They were very gay and merry on the dais, the Vicomte between Sieur Robert and his wife, Olivier feeding little Robin with comfits and sugar-plums, and Tiphaïne, the child, sitting silent beside Dame Jeanne, with her eyes wandering about the hall.

      Bertrand felt some one nudge his shoulder. It was old Hoel, the gate-keeper, his red face shining in the firelight under a fringe of curly hair. He held a tankard in one hand and half a chicken and a hunch of bread on a hollywood platter in the other.

      “You have not supped, messire,” he said.

      Bertrand glanced at the old man over his shoulder.

      “Good man, Hoel, I’ll take what you are carrying. Bring me a mutton-bone for Jake.”

      Bertrand pulled out his knife, set the tankard down amid the rushes, and, ignoring the inquisitive glances of the Vicomte’s servants, fell to on the bread and chicken. There was much gossiping and gesturing at the servants’ table. A man-at-arms with a pointed black beard and a red scar across his forehead was asking Sieur Robert’s falconer who the ugly oaf on the stool might be. Bertrand caught the words and the insolent cocking of the soldier’s eye as he looked him over and then grimaced expressively.

      “ ’Sh, friend, the devil’s in the lad.”

      “True, friend, true,” quoth Bertrand, coolly throwing his platter at the soldier’s head.

      It was the first incident that had called the attention of those at the high table to the lad seated by the fire. To Bertrand the richly dressed figures loomed big and scornful before the crimson hangings, all starred and slashed with gold. He saw the Vicomte stare at him and then turn to Sieur Robert with a courtly little gesture of the hand. Dame Jeanne was sitting stark and stiff as any Egyptian goddess. Bertrand saw her flush as the Vicomte questioned her husband, flush with shame that the lad on the stool should be discovered for her son. Bertrand blushed, too, but with more anger than contrition. He heard Olivier’s shrill, squealing laugh as he tossed Robin an apple and bade him throw it at “the lout upon the stool.” Every eye in the hall seemed fixed for the moment upon Bertrand. He knew that the “mean” folk were mocking at him, and that the great ones on the dais—even his own mother—regarded him with a feeling more insolent than pity.

      Dame Jake, oblivious to the tableau, sat up upon her hind-legs and begged. She waved her fore-paws in the air, almost as though to recall Bertrand to the fact that he had one friend in his father’s hall. Bertrand took a piece of bread, rubbed it on a chicken-bone, and tossed it to her with a growl of approval. Jake swallowed the morsel and then sat with her muzzle on her master’s knee, her eyes fixed upon his face.

      At the high table the child with the brown hair coiled up in a silken caul had laid her hand on the Lady Jeanne’s arm.

      “Madame, who is that?”

      Dame du Guesclin fidgeted with the kerchief pouch at her girdle and frowned.

      “Who, child, and where?”

      “The man on the stool, with the dog.”

      “That is Bertrand, my sweeting.”

      “And who is Bertrand?”

      “Why, child, my son.”

      Tiphaïne’s great eyes were turned full upon the elder woman’s face. Lady Jeanne was red despite her pride, and ill at ease under the child’s pestering.

      “Why does he not sit with us on the dais?”

      “Why? Well, little one”—and the Lady Jeanne laughed—“Bertrand is a strange lad. He is not like Olivier or your brother Robin.”

      Tiphaïne had been scanning the handsome face above her, with its curling lips and its contracted brows. There was something that puzzled her about the Lady Jeanne. Why had she turned so red, why did her eyes look angry, and why did she tap with her foot upon the floor?

      “Madame, may I ask Bertrand to come up hither?”

      “No, child, no. See—here is the comfit-dish, or would you like a red apple? Olivier, Olivier, bring me the bowl of silver. Child, what are you at?”

      For Tiphaïne had risen and had slipped round the table end before Jeanne du Guesclin could lay her hand upon her arm. She sprang down lightly from the dais and moved over the rush-strewn floor and under the beamed and shadowy roof to where Bertrand sat sullen and alone before the fire.

      Bertrand was sitting staring at the flames and thinking of the sights that would be seen at Rennes, when he was startled by the gliding of the child’s figure into the half-circle of light. He looked up, frowning, to find Tiphaïne’s eyes fixed on his with a questioning steadfastness that was not embarrassing. For several seconds Bertrand and the child looked thus at each other, while Dame Jake lifted her head from her master’s knee and held up a paw to Tiphaïne as though welcoming a friend.

      The dog’s quaintness proved irresistible. Tiphaïne was down on her knees amid the rushes, hugging Dame Jake and laughing up at Bertrand with her eyes aglow.

      “Ah—Bertrand—the dear dog! What is its name?”

      “Jake—Dame Jake.”

      Bertrand was astonished, and his face betrayed the feeling. He was looking at Tiphaïne as though she were like to nothing he had seen on earth before. The child had one of those sleek brown skins, smooth as a lily petal, with the color shining through it like light shining through rose silk. Her great eyes were of a beautiful amber, her hair a fine bronze shot through with gold. There would have been the slightest suggestion of impudence about the long mouth and piquant chin had not the gentleness of the child’s eyes and forehead mastered the impression. She was clad in a côte-hardie of apple-green samite, shaded with gold and embroidered with gold-work on the sleeves. Her tunic was of sky blue, her shoes of green leather, her girdle of silver cords bound together with rings of divers-colored silks.

      Bertrand