"
"Give it to Bigot," the old man answered. The splint he was fashioning
had fallen on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the distance of his
youth. "For me, my lord, I am tired, and I go with you. I go with you.
It is a good death to die biting before the strength be quite gone. Have
the dagger too, if you please, and I'll fit it within the splint right
neatly. But I shall be there--"
"And you'll strike home?" Tavannes cried eagerly. He raised himself on
his elbow, a gleam of joy in his gloomy eyes.
"Have no fear, my lord. See, does it tremble?" He held out his hand.
"And when you are sped, I will try the Spanish stroke--upwards with a
turn ere you withdraw, that I learned from Ruiz--on the shaven pate. I
see them about me now!" the old man continued, his face flushing, his
form dilating. "It will be odd if I cannot snatch a sword and hew down
three to go with Tavannes! And Bigot, he will see my lord the Marshal by-
and-by; and as I do to the priest, the Marshal will do to Montsoreau. Ho!
ho! He will teach him the _coup de Jarnac_, never fear!" And the old
man's moustaches curled up ferociously.
Count Hannibal's eyes sparkled with joy. "Old dog!" he cried--and he
held his hand to the veteran, who brushed it reverently with his lips--"we
will go together then! Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!"
"Touches Tavannes!" Badelon cried, the glow of battle lighting his
bloodshot eyes.
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