“Old fool!” he said. And his voice, though changed, had not lost all its strength and harshness. “Did the Constable need a splint when you laid him under the tower at Gaeta?”
The old man lifted his eyes from his task, and glanced through the nearest window.
“It is long from noon to night,” he said quietly, “and far from cup to lip, my lord!”
“It would be if I had two legs,” Tavannes answered, with a grimace, half-snarl, half-smile. “As it is—where is that dagger? It leaves me every minute.”
It had slipped from the coverlid to the ground. Badelon took it up, and set it on the bed within reach of his master’s hand.
Bigot swore fiercely. “It would be farther still,” he growled, “if you would be guided by me, my lord. Give me leave to bar the door, and ’twill be long before these fisher clowns force it. Badelon and I”
“Being in your full strength,” Count Hannibal murmured cynically.
“Could hold it. We have strength enough for that,” the Norman boasted, though his livid face and his bandages gave the lie to his words. He could not move without pain; and for Badelon, his knee was as big as two with plaisters of his own placing.
Count Hannibal stared at the ceiling. “You could not strike two blows!” he said. “Don’t lie to me! And Badelon cannot walk two yards! Fine fighters!” he continued with bitterness, not all bitter. “Fine bars ’twixt a man and death! No, it is time to turn the face to the wall. And, since go I must, it shall not be said Count Hannibal dared not go alone! Besides”
Bigot stopped him with an oath that was in part a cry of pain.
“Dn her!” he exclaimed in fury, “’tis she is that
