Bertrand of Brittany. Warwick Deeping

fire. In the village Bertrand had won for himself something of the character of an ogre, and the children would run from him and hide in the hovels.

      Tiphaïne was still fondling the dog and looking at Bertrand. The lad jumped up suddenly and offered her his stool.

      “Take it,” he said, gruffly, thrusting it towards her.

      She shook her head, however, smiling at him, her hand playing with Dame Jake’s ears. Bertrand, flushing, sat down again and stared at her.

      “As you will,” he said. “You like the dog, eh? Yes, I have had Jake since she was a puppy.”

      There was a puzzled look in Tiphaïne’s eyes. She was wondering why the Lady Jeanne had said that Bertrand was not like Olivier or her brother Robin. He was ugly, and his clothes were shabby, and yet she discovered something in his face that pleased her. His very loneliness touched some sensitive note in the child’s soul, for she was one of those rare creatures who are not eaten up with selfishness at seven.

      “Why did you not sup with us?” she asked, suddenly.

      Bertrand stared at her, and felt that there was no evading those brown eyes.

      “Because I was not wanted,” he answered.

      This time it was Tiphaïne who gave a little frown.

      “But you are Sieur Robert’s son!”

      Bertrand winced, and then smiled with a twisting of the features that betrayed the truth.

      “I am no use to them,” he said.

      “No use?”

      “Look at me. Did you ever see such an ugly wretch? I should frighten you all at the high table—I suppose. And they tell me I have no manners. No. They would rather see me hidden among the servants.”

      Tiphaïne looked shocked. It was plain even to her childish wisdom that she had lighted on some passionate distress, the depth and fierceness of which were strange to one who had never lacked for love.

      “Are you older than Olivier?” she asked.

      Bertrand nodded.

      “Then why does he take your place?”

      “Because he has straight legs and a pretty face; because they love him; because I am such a clumsy beast,” and he shut his mouth with a rebellious growl.

      Tiphaïne drew herself nearer to him amid the rushes. She was still fondling Dame Jake’s ears.

      “I do not think that you are clumsy, Bertrand,” she said.

      “Ah—!”

      “You look so strong, too. I like you better than Olivier. You are stronger than he is, and then—I love Dame Jake.”

      Bertrand glanced at her as though he thought for the moment that she might be mocking him, but the look in the child’s eyes spoke to him of her sincerity. At the same instant he saw Olivier standing on the dais, beckoning and calling to Tiphaïne as she sat at Bertrand’s feet amid the rushes, the glow from the fire shining on the gold-work in her dress.

      “Tiphaïne, Tiphaïne, come away, or the ogre will eat you. Prosper is going to play to us on the cithern, and sing us the lay of Guingamor.”

      The child pretended not to hear him. She had caught the hot flush that had rushed over Bertrand’s face; nor was she tricked by Olivier’s insolence. That pert youth, seeing that she did not stir, came running down the hall, winking at the servants as though to hint to them how much finer a fellow he was than his shabby brother. Bertrand sat stolidly on his stool, staring into the fire and snapping his fingers at Dame Jake.

      “Tiphaïne, you must come back to the high table. Bertrand hates girls; they always laugh at his crooked legs.”

      He shot a sneer at his brother and held out his hand to the child, who was still seated on the floor. Bertrand was grinding his teeth together, and striving to master the great yearning in him to swing his fist in the little fop’s face.

      “I do not want you, Messire Olivier du Guesclin.”

      “Ho, but you cannot sit among the grooms and servants. Bertrand does not matter.”

      Tiphaïne rose up very quietly and looked Olivier straight in the face.

      “I will come if Messire Bertrand will give me his hand.”

      “Well, that is good!”

      “And sit with me at the high table.”

      She turned, and with a graciousness that was wonderful in one so young looked at Bertrand and held out her hand.

      “Messire Bertrand, you will come with me. I do not wish to go with Olivier.”

      Bertrand had risen, oversetting the stool in rising. He held his head high, a slight flush upon his face, his eyes shining, half with tenderness, half with the light of battle. Tiphaïne’s hand was clasped in his. He shouldered Olivier aside, and moved towards the dais, a rough dignity inspired in him by the child’s presence.

      “Mother, I have come to take my place at the table.”

      Jeanne smiled at him, the smile of cold and unpleased necessity.

      “You were long in coming, Bertrand,” she said.

      “Perhaps,” he answered. “I was waiting till some one made me welcome.”

      And Bertrand and Tiphaïne sat down together and drank wine out of the same cup.

III

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      Bertrand was astir early the following morning. He scrambled up from his truss of straw in one corner of the great hall, shook himself, and looked round at the Vicomte’s men who were still snoring on the rushes and dry bracken. The sunlight was streaming in through the eastern window, falling on the polished surface of the high table and the crimson tapestry threaded with gold. One of Olivier’s favorite hawks was bating on its perch under the window. Bertrand whistled softly to the bird, and glanced at the place by the fire where he had talked with Tiphaïne the night before. The three-legged stool was still lying where he had left it, but from the spot where Tiphaïne had throned herself amid the rushes the stertorous and gaping face of the Vicomte’s farrier saluted the rafters from a bundle of heather.

      Bertrand’s eyes twinkled. He passed out of the hall into the court-yard, walking with the slightest suggestion of a swagger that seemed to betray unusual self-satisfaction. Tiphaïne’s comradeship had lifted him suddenly out of his sullen hopelessness, and Bertrand’s pride was ready to try its wings. In the yard one of Sieur Robert’s grooms was seated astride a bench polishing his master’s war harness. He grinned at Bertrand as though a mere showing of the teeth was sufficient salutation for the unfavored son.

      Bertrand walked straight up to the man, and with one sweep of the hand knocked him backward off the bench.

      “Hello, where are your manners?”

      The fellow’s heels were still in the air, his astonished face visible to Bertrand between his legs.

      “Get up, and make your bow, friend.”

      Bertrand left the fellow to settle his impressions, and, opening the wicket that led into the garden, stood looking round him and whistling softly through his teeth. The sky was blue above the apple-trees, whose snowy canopies hid groins of spreading green. Bluebells were hanging in the long, rank grass of the orchard, and the boughs of the aspens glittered in the sunlight.

      In the centre of the lawn lay the Lady Jeanne’s vivarium, a little pool, clear as rock crystal, ringed round with a low wall of stone. Three steps led down to the water, and under the lily leaves fish shimmered to