"Touches Tavannes!" Badelon cried, the glow of battle lighting his
bloodshot eyes. He rose to his feet. "Touches Tavannes! You mind at
Jarnac--"
"Ah! At Jarnac!"
"When we charged their horse, was my boot a foot from yours, my lord?"
"Not a foot!"
"And at Dreux," the old man continued with a proud, elated gesture, "when
we rode down the German pikemen--they were grass before us, leaves on the
wind, thistledown--was it not I who covered your bridle hand, and swerved
not in the melee?"
"It was! It was!"
"And at St. Quentin, when we fled before the Spaniard--it was his day,
you remember, and cost us dear--"
"Ay, I was young then," Tavannes cried in turn, his eyes glistening. "St.
Quentin! It was the tenth of August. And you were new with me, and
seized my rein--"
"And we rode off together, my lord--of the last, of the last, as God sees
me! And striking as we went, so that they left us for easier game."
"It was so, good sword! I remember it as if it had been yesterday!"
"And at Cerisoles, the Battle of the Plain, in the old Spanish wars, that
was most like a joust of all the pitched fields I ever saw--at Cerisoles,
where I caught your horse? You mind me? It was in the shock when we
broke Guasto's line--"
"At Cerisoles?" Count Hannibal muttered slowly. "Why, man, I--"
"I caught your horse, and mounted you afresh? You remember, my lord? And
at Landriano, where Leyva turned the tables on us again."
Count Hannibal stared. "Landriano?" he muttered bluntly. "'Twas in '29,
forty years ago and more! My father, indeed--"
"And at Rome--at Rome, my lord? Mon Dieu! in the old days at Rome!
When the Spanish company scaled the wall--Ruiz was first, I next--was it
not my foot you held? And was it not I who dragged you up, while the
devils of Swiss pressed us hard? Ah, those were days, my lord! I was
young then, and you, my lord, young too, and handsome as the morning--"
"You rave!" Tavannes cried, finding his tongue at last. "Rome? You
rave, old man! Why, I was not born in those days. My father even was a
boy! It was in '27 you sacked it--five-and-forty years ago!"
The old man passed his hands over his heated face, and, as a man roused
suddenly from sleep looks, he looked round the room. The light died out
of his eyes--as a light blown out in a room; his form seemed to shrink,
even while the others gazed at him, and he sat down.
"No, I remember," he muttered slowly. "It was Prince Philibert of
Chalons, my lord of Orange."
"Dead these forty years!"