“Still, if I give you my gold chain,” Count Hannibal answered quietly, “’twill keep you from that.”
“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. 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?”
