 CHAPTER XI. Several days after Norman of Torn's visit to the castle of Lycaster, a young knight appeared before the Earl's gates, demanding admittance, to have speech with Simon de Monford. The Earl received him, and as the young man entered his presence, Simon de Monford sprang to his feet in astonishment. "'My Lord Prince,' he cried. "'What do ye hear, and alone?' The young man smiled. "'I be no prince, my Lord,' he said. Though some have said that I favour the king's son, I be Roger de Condi, who it may have pleased your gracious daughter to mention. I have come to pay homage to Bertrand de Monford.' "'Ah!' said de Monford, rising to greet the young knight cordially. And you be that Roger de Condi who rescued my daughter from the fellows of Peter of Colfax. The arms of the de Monforts are open to you.' "'Bertrand has had your name upon her tongue many times since her return. She will be glad indeed to receive you, as is her father. She has told us of your valent espousal of her cause, and the thanks of her brothers and mother await you, Roger de Condi. She also told us of your strange likeness to Prince Edward. But until I saw you, I could not believe two men could be born of different mothers, and yet be so identical. Come, we will seek out my daughter and her mother.' Edward led the young man to a small chamber, where they were greeted by Princess Eleanor his wife, and by Bertrand de Monford. The girl was frankly glad to see him once more, and laughingly chide him, because he had allowed another to usurp his prerogative and rescue her from Peter of Colfax. And to think, she cried, that it should have been Norman of Torn who fulfilled your duties for you. But he did not capture Sir Peter's head, my friend. That is still at large to be brought to me upon a golden dish. "'I have not forgotten Lady Bertrand,' said Roger de Condi. Peter of Colfax will return.' The girl glanced at him quickly. "'The very words of the Outlaw of Torn,' she said. "'How many men be ye, Roger de Condi? With raised visor, you could pass in the king's court for the king's son, and in manner and form and swordsmanship, and your visor lowered, you might easily be hanged for Norman of Torn.' "'And which would it please ye the most that I be?' he laughed. Neither,' she answered. "'I be satisfied with my friend, Roger de Condi.' "'So ye not like the devil of Torn?' he asked. "'He has done me a great service, and I be under monstrous obligations to him. But he be, nateless, the Outlaw of Torn, and I the daughter of an earl, and a king's sister.' "'A most unbridgeable gulf indeed,' commented Roger de Condi dryly. Not even gratitude could lead the king's niece to receive Norman of Torn on a footing of equality.' "'He has my friendship always,' said the girl. "'But I doubt me if Norman of Torn be the man to impose upon it. One can never tell,' said Roger de Condi. "'What manner of fool a man may be, when a man's had be filled with a pretty face. What room be there for reason?' "'Soon thou will be a courtier, if thou keep long at this turning of pretty compliments,' said the girl coldly. "'And I like not courtiers, nor their empty, hypocritical chatter.' The man laughed. "'If I turned to compliment, I did not know it,' he said. "'What I think I say. It may not be a courtly speech, or it may. I know nothing of courts and care less. But be it a man or a maid to whom I speak, I say what is in my mind, or I say nothing. I did not, in so many words, say that you are beautiful. But I think it nevertheless. He cannot be angry with my poor eyes if they deceive me into believing that no fairer woman breathes the air of England. Nor can you chide my sinful brain, that it gladly believes what mine eyes tell it. No, you may not be angry so long as I do not tell you all this.'" Petrard de Montfort did not know how to answer so ridiculous a sophistry. Then, truth to tell, she was more than pleased to hear from the lips of Roger de Conde what bored her on the tongues of other men. De Conde was the guest of the Earl of Lancaster for several days, and before his visit was terminated the young man had so won his way into the good graces of the family that they were loathed to see him leave. Although denied the society of such as these throughout his entire life, yet it seemed that he fell as naturally into the ways of their kind as though he had always been among them. His starved soul, groping through the darkness of the empty past, yearned toward the feasting and the light of friendship, and urged him to turn his back upon the old life and remain ever with these people. For Simon de Montfort had offered the young man a position of trust and honour in his written name. Why refuse you the offer of my father? said Bertrand to him, as he was come to bid her farewell. Simon de Montfort is as great a man in England as the king himself, and your future were assured did you attach yourself to his person. But what am I saying? Did Roger de Conde not wish to be elsewhere? He had accepted, Anne. As he did not accept, it is proof positive that he does not wish to bide among the de Montfort's. I would give my soul to the devil, said Norman of Torn. Would it buy me the right to remain ever at the feet of Bertrand de Montfort? He raised her hand to his lips in farewell as he started to speak, but something. Was it almost imperceptible pressure of her little fingers, a quickening of her breath, or a swaying of her body toward him, cost him to pause and raise his eyes to hers? For an instant they stood thus, the eyes of the man sinking deep into the eyes of the maid. And then hers closed, and with a little sigh that was half gasp, she swayed toward him. And the devil of Torn folded the king's niece in his mighty arms, and his lips placed the seal of a great love upon those that were upturned to him. The touch of those pure lips brought the man to himself. Ah, betrod my betrod, he cried. What is this thing that I have done? Forgive me, and let the greatness and the purity of my love for you plead in extenuation of my act. She looked up into his face in surprise, and then placing her strong white hands upon his shoulders she whispered. See, Roger, I am not angry. It is not wrong that we love. Tell me it is not, Roger. You must not say that you love me, betrod. I am a coward, a craven poltrune, but God how I love you. But said the girl, I do love. Stop, he cried. Not yet, not yet. Do not say it till I come again. You know nothing of me. You do not know even who I be. But when next I come, I promise you that ye shall know as much of me as I myself know. And then, betrod my betrod, if you can then say I love you, no power on earth or in heaven above or hell below shall keep you from being mine. I will wait, Roger, for I believe in you and trust you. I do not understand, but I know that you must have some good reason, though it all seems very strange to me. If I, a demonford, am willing to acknowledge my love for any man, there can be no reason why I should not do so, unless—and she started at the sudden thought, wide-eyed and paling—unless there be another woman—a wife? There is no other woman, betrod, said Norman of Torn. I have no wife, nor within the limits of my memory have my lips ever before touched the lips of another, for I do not remember my mother. She sighed a happy little sigh of relief, and, laughing lightly, said, It is some old woman's bugaboo that you are hailing out of a dark corner of your imagination to frighten yourself with. I do not fear, since I know that you must be all good. There be no line of vice or deception upon your face, and you are very brave. So brave and noble a man, Roger, has a heart of pure gold. Don't, he said bitterly, I cannot endure it. Wait until I come again, and then, O my flower of England, if you have it in your heart, to speak as you are speaking now, the son of my happiness will be at Zenith. Then, but not before, shall I speak to the ear of thy father. Farewell, betrod, in a few days I return. If you would speak to the earl on such a subject, you insolent young puppy, you may save your breath, thundered an angry voice. And Simon Dimonford strolled scowling into the room. The girl paled, but not from fear of her father, for the fighting blood of the Dimonforts was as strong in her as in her sire. She faced him with as brave and resolute a face as did the young man, who turned slowly, fixing Dimonford with level gaze. I heard enough of your words as I was passing through the corridor, continued the latter, to readily guess what had gone on before. So it is for this that you have wormed your sneaking way into my home, and thought you that Simon Dimonford would throw his daughter at the head of the first passing rogue, who be ye but a nameless rascal, or ought we know some low-born lackey? Get ye hence, and be only thankful that I do not aid you with the toe of my boot, where it would do the most good. Stop, cried the girl, stop, father. Has forgotten that but for Roger de Conde ye might have seen your daughter a corpse ere now, or worse, herself befouled and dishonored? I do not forget, replied the earl, and it is because I remember that my sword remains in its scabbard. The fellow has been amply repaid by the friendship of Dimonford, but now this act of perfidity has wiped clean the score. And you would go in peace, sir, go quickly ere I lose my temper. There has been some misunderstanding on your part, my lord, spoke Norman of Torn quietly, and without apparent anger or excitement. Your daughter has not told me that she loves me, nor did I contemplate asking you for her hand. When next I come, first shall I see her, and if she will have me, my lord, I shall come to you, to tell you that I shall wet her. Nor Roger de Conde asked permission of no man to do what he would do. Simon de Monford was fairly bursting with rage, but he managed to control himself to say. My daughter weds whom I select, and even now I have practically closed negotiations for her betrothal to Prince Philip, nephew of King Louis of France. And as for you, sir, I would asleaf see her the wife of the Outlaw of Torn. He at least has wealth and power, and a name that be known outside his own armor. But enough of this. Get you gone, nor let me see your face again within the walls of Lycaster's castle. You are right, my lord. It were foolish and idle for us to be quarreling with words, said the Outlaw. Farewell, my lady, I shall return, as I promised, and your word shall be law. And with a profound bow to de Monford, Norman of Torn left the apartment and, in a few minutes, was riding through the courtyard of the castle toward the main portals. As he passed beneath the window in the castle wall, a voice called to him from above, and, drawing in his horse, he looked up into the eyes of Bertrand de Monford. Take this, Roger de Condi, she whispered, dropping a tiny parcel to him, and wear it ever for my sake. We may never meet again, for the Earl, my father, is a mighty man, not easily turned from his decisions. Therefore I shall say to you, Roger de Condi, what you forbid my saying. I love you, and be Prince or Scullion, you may have me, if you can find the means to take me. Wait, my lady, until I return. Then shall you decide, and if ye be of the same mine as today, never fear, but that I shall take ye. Again, farewell. And with a brave smile that hid a sad heart, Norman of Torn passed out of the castle yard. When he undid the parcel which Bertrand had tossed to him, he found that it contained a beautifully wrought ring set with a single opal. The outlaw of Torn raised a little circlet to his lips, and then slipped it upon the third finger of his left hand. END OF CHAPTER XI Norman of Torn did not return to the castle of Lycaster in a few days, nor for many months. For news came to him that Bertrand de Monford had been posted off to France in charge of her mother. From now on the forces of Torn were employed in repeated attacks on royalist barons encroaching ever and ever southward, until even Berkshire and Surrey and Sussex felt the weight of the iron hand of the outlaw. Nearly a year had elapsed since the day when he had held the fair form of Bertrand de Monford in his arms, and in all that time he had heard no word from her. He would have followed her to France, but for the fact that, after he had parted from her, and the intoxication of her immediate presence had left his brain clear to think rationally, he had realized the futility of his hopes, and he had seen the pressing of a suit could mean only suffering and mortification for the woman he loved. His better judgment told him that she, on her part, when freed from the subtle spells woven by the nearness and newness of a first love, would doubtless be glad to forget the words she had spoken in the heat of a divine passion. He would wait then until fate drew them together, and should that ever chance, while she was still free, he would let her know that Roger de Condé and the outlaw of Torn were one and the same. If she wants me then, he thought, but she will not. No, it is impossible. It is better that she marry her French prince than to live dishonored, the wife of a common highwayman, for though she might love me at first the bitterness and lowliness of her life would turn her love to hate. As the outlaw was sitting one day in the little cottage of Father Claude, the priest reverted to the subject of many past conversations, the unsettled state of civil conditions in the realm, and the stand which Norman of Torn would take when open hostilities between King and Baron were declared. It would seem that Henry said the priest, by his continued breaches of both the spirit and the letter of the Oxford statutes, is but urging the barons to resort to arms, and the fact that he virtually forced Prince Edward to take up arms against Humphrey de Bahun last fall, and to carry the ravages of war throughout the Welsh border provinces, convinces me that he be, by this time, well equipped to resist de Monfort and his associates. If that be the case, said Norman of Torn, we shall have war and fighting in real earnest air many months. And under which standard does my Lord Norman expect to fight? asked Father Claude. Under the black falcon's wing laughed he of Torn. Thou, indeed, be a closed-mouthed man, my son, said the priest, smiling. Such an attribute helpeth make a great statesman. With thy soldierly qualities in addition, my dear boy, there be a great future for thee in the paths of honest men. Let's remember our past talk. Yes, Father, well and often have I thought on it. I have only one more duty to perform here in England, and then it may be that I shall act on thy suggestion, but only on one condition. What be that, my son? That where sore I go, thou must go also. Thou be my best friend, in truth, my Father, none other have I ever known. For little old man of Torn, even though I be the product of his lines, which I must mistrust, be no father to me. The priest sat looking intently at the young man for many minutes before he spoke. Without the cottage a swarthy figure sculked beneath one of the windows, listening to such fragments of the conversation within as came to his attentive ears. It was Spizo, the Spaniard. He crouched entirely concealed by a great lilac bush, which many times before had hid his traitorous form. At length the priest spoke, Norman of Torn he said, so long as thou remain in England, pitting thy great host against the plentagenate king and the nobles and barons of his realm, thou be but serving as the cat's paw of another. Myself has said, and a hundred times thou knowest not the reason for thy hatred against him. Thou be too strong a man, to so throw thy life uselessly away to satisfy the collar of another. There be that of which I dare not speak to thee yet, and only may I guess and dream of what I think. Nor do I know whether I must hope that it be false or true. But now, if ever, the time hath come for the question to be settled. Thou hast not told me in so many words, but I am an old man, enversed in reading true between the lines. And so I know thou lovest, Bertrand de Monford. Nay, do not deny it. And now what I would say be this. In all England there lives no more honorable man than Simon de Monford, nor none who could more truly decide upon thy future and thy past. Thou may not understand of what I hint, but thou know that thou may trust me, Norman of Torn. Yes, even with my life and honor, my father replied the outlaw. Then promise me, that with the old man of Torn alone, thou will come hither when I bits thee, and meet Simon de Monford, and abide by his decision should my surmises concerning thee be correct. He will be the best judge of any in England, save, too, who must now remain nameless. I will come, father, but it must be soon, for on the fourth day we rise south. It shall be by the third day, or not at all, replied Father Claude, and Norman of Torn, rising to leave, wondered at the moving leaves of the lilac bush without the window, for there was no breeze. Spiso the Spaniard reached Torn several minutes before the outlaw chief, and had already poured his tail into the ears of the little grim gray old man. As the priest's words were detailed to him, the old man of Torn paled in anger. The full priest will upset the whole work to which I have devoted near twenty years, he muttered. If I find not the means to quiet his half-wit tongue. Between priest and petticoat it be all but ruined now. Well, then, so much the sooner must I act. And I know not, but now be as good a time as any. If we come near enough to the king's men on this trip south, the gibbet shall have its own, and a plantagenate dog shall taste the fruits of his own tyranny. Then glancing up and realizing that Spiso the Spaniard had been a listener, the old man scowling cried. What said I, sir? What dits here? Not, my lord. Thou dits but mutter incoherently, replied the Spaniard. The old man eyed him closely. And did I more Spiso? Thou hurts not but muttering, remember? Yes, my lord. An hour later the old man of Torn dismounted before the cottage a father clawed and entered. I am honored, said the priest rising. Priest cried the old man, coming immediately to the point. Norman of Torn tells me that thou wish him and me and like asked her to meet here. I know not what thy purpose may be, but for the boy's sake, carry not out thy design as yet. I may not tell thee my reasons, but be best that this meeting take place after we return from the south. The old man had never spoken so fairly to father clawed before, and so the latter was quite deceived and promised to let the matter rest until later. A few days after, in the summer of 1263, Norman of Torn rode at the head of his army of outlaws through the county of Essex, down toward Londontown. One thousand fighting men were there, with squires and other servants, and five hundred sumptor beasts to transport their tents and other impedimenta, and bring back the loot. But a small force of ailing men at arms and servants had been left to guard the castle of Torn under the able direction of Peter the Hermit. At the column's head rode Norman of Torn, and the little grim grey old man, and behind them nine companies of knights followed by the catapult detachment. Then came the sumptor beasts. For Sand the Dane, with his company, formed the rear guard. Three hundred yards in advance of the column rode ten men to guard against surprise and ampus-cades. The penions and the banners and the bugles, and the loud rattling of sword and lance and armor, and iron shot hoof carried to the eye and ear ample assurance that this great cavalcade of iron men was spent upon no peaceful mission. All his captains rode to-day with Norman of Torn. Besides those whom we have met, there was Don Piedro, Castro E. Pencilo of Spain, Baron of Cobeth of Germany, and Sir John Mandicott of England. Like their leader each of these fierce warriors carried a great price upon his head, and the story of the life of any one would fill a large volume with romance, war, intrigue, treachery, bravery, and death. Toward noon one day, in the midst of a beautiful valley of Essex, they came upon a party of ten knights escorting two young women. The meeting was at a turn in the road, so that the two parties were upon each other before the ten knights had an opportunity to escape with their fair wards. What the devil be this, cried one of the knights, as the main body of the outlaw horde came into view? The king's army, or one of his foreign legions? It be Norman of Torn and his fighting men, replied the outlaw. The faces of the knights splanched, for there were ten against a thousand, and there were two women with him. Who be he, said the outlaw? I am Richard D. Tenet of Essex, said the oldest knight, he who had first spoken. And these be my daughter and her friend Mary Distuteville. We are upon our way from London to my castle. What would you of us? Name your price. If it can be paid with honour, it shall be paid. Only, let us go our way in peace. We cannot hope to resist the devil of Torn, for we be but ten lances. If he must have blood, at least let the women go unharmed. My lady Mary is an old friend, said the outlaw. I called at her father's home, but a little more than a year since. We are neighbours, and the lady can tell you that women are safer at the hands of Norman of Torn than they might be in the king's palace. Right he is, spoke up lady Mary. Norman of Torn, accorded my mother, my sister and myself the utmost respect, though I cannot say as much for his treatment of my father, she added, half smiling. I have no quarrel with you, Richard D. Tanae, said Norman of Torn, right on. The next day a young man hailed the watch upon the walls of the castle of Richard D. Tanae, telling him to bear word to Joan D. Tanae that Roger D. Conde, a friend of her guest, lady Mary Distutewheville, was without. In a few moments the great drawbridge sank slowly into place, and Norman of Torn trod it into the courtyard. It was escorted to an apartment where Mary Distutewheville and Joan D. Tanae were waiting to receive him. Mary Distutewheville greeted him as an old friend, and the daughter of D. Tanae was no less cordial in welcoming her friend's friend to the hospitality of her father's castle. Are all your old friends and neighbours, come after you to Essex, cried Joan D. Tanae, laughingly addressing Mary? Today it is Roger D. Conde, yesterday it was the outlaw of Torn. He thinks Derby will soon be depopulated unless you return quickly to your home. I rather think it be for news of another that we owe this visit from Roger D. Conde, said Mary, smiling. For I have heard tales, and I see a great ring upon the gentleman's hand, a ring which I have seen before. Norman of Torn made no attempt to deny the reason for his visit, but asked bluntly, if she heard ought of Betrard de Montfort. Thrice within the year have I received missives from her, replied Mary. In the first two she spoke only of Roger D. Conde, wondering why he did not come to France after her. But in the last she mentions not his name, but speaks of her approaching marriage with Prince Philip. Both girls were watching the countenance of Roger D. Conde narrowly, but no sign of the sorrow which filled his heart showed itself upon his face. I guess it be better so, he said quietly. The daughter of a de Montfort could scarcely be happy with a nameless adventurer, he added, a little bitterly. You wrong her, my friend, said Mary de Studeville. She loved you, and unless I know not the friend of my childhood as well as I know myself, she loves you yet. But Betrard de Montfort is a proud woman. And what can you expect when she hears no word from you for a year? Thought you that she would seek you out, and implore you to rescue her from the alliance her father has made for her? You do not understand, he answered. And I may not tell you, but I ask that you believe me, when I say that it was for her own peace of mind, for her own happiness that I did not follow her to France. But let us talk of other things. The sorrow is mine, and I would not force it upon others. I cared only to know that she is well, and I hope happy. It will never be given to me to make her or any other woman so. I would that I had never come into her life. But I did not know what I was doing, and the spell of her beauty and goodness was strong upon me, so that I was weak and could not resist what I had never known before in all my life. Love. You could not be blamed, said Joan Tenet generously. Betrothed to Monfort is all and even more than you have said. It be a benediction simply to have known her. As she spoke, Norman of Torn looked upon her critically for the first time. And he saw that Joan de Tenet was beautiful. And that when she spoke, her face lighted with a hundred little changing expressions of intelligence and character that cast a spell of fascination about her. Yes, Joan de Tenet was good to look upon, and Norman of Torn carried a wounded heart in his breast that long forced her cease from its sufferings, for a healing balm upon its hurts and bruises. And so it came to pass that for many days the outlaw of Torn was a daily visitor at the castle of Richard de Tenet, and the acquaintance between the man and the two girls ripened into a deep friendship, and with one of them it threatened even more. Norman of Torn, in his ignorance of the ways of women, saw only friendship in the little acts of Joan de Tenet. His life had been a hard and lonely one. The only ray of brilliant and warming sunshine that had entered it had been his love for Betrothed, Monfort, and hers for him. His every thought was loyal to the woman, who he knew was not for him, but he longed for the companionship of his own kind, and so welcomed the friendship of such as Joan de Tenet and her fair guest. He did not dream that either looked upon him with any warmer sentiment than the sweet friendliness which was as new to him as love. How could he mark the line between or foresee the terrible price of his ignorance? Mary distutely saw, and she thought the man but fickle and shallow in matters of heart. Many there were, she knew, who were thus. She might have warmed him, had she known the truth, but instead she let things drift except for a single word of warning to Joan de Tenet. "'Be careful of thy heart, Joan,' she said, lest it be getting away from thee, into the keeping of one who seems to love no less quickly than he forgets. The daughter of de Tenet flushed. I am quite capable of safeguarding my own heart, Mary distuteville,' she replied warmly. "'If thou covet this man thyself, why but say so? Do not think, though, that because thy heart glows in his presence, mine is equally susceptible.' It was Mary's turn now to show offence, and a sharp retort was on her tongue when suddenly she realized the folly of such a useless quarrel. Instead she put her arms about Joan and kissed her. "'I do not love him,' she said, and I be glad that you do not. For I know that Bertrand does, and that but a short year since he swore on dying love for her. Let us forget that we have spoken on the subject.' It was at this time that the king's soldiers were harassing the lands of the rebel barons, and taken a heavy toll in revenge for their stinging defeat at Rochester early in the year, so that it was scarcely safe for small parties to venture upon the roadways, least they fall into the hands of the mercenaries of Henry III. Not even were the wives and daughters of the barons exempt from the attacks of the royalists. And it was no uncommon occurrence to find them suffering imprisonment, and something worse at the hands of the king's supporters. And in the midst of these alarms it entered the willful head of Joan d'etané that she wished to ride to London Town and visit the shops of the merchants. While London itself was solidly for the barons and against the king's party, the road between the castle of Richard d'etané and the city of London was beset with many dangers. Why cried the girl's mother in exasperation between robbers and royalists and the outlaw of Torn, you would not be safe if you had an army to escort you. But then, as I have no army, retorted the laughing girl, if you reason by your own logic I shall be indeed quite safe. And when Roger D'Condé attempted to dissuade her, she taunted him with being afraid of meeting the devil of Torn, and told him that he might remain at home and lock himself safely in her mother's pantry. And so, as Joan d'etané was a spoiled child, they sat out upon the road to London. The two girls, with a dozen servants and knights, and Roger D'Condé, was of the party. At the same time a grim, grey old man dispatched a messenger from the outlaw's camp, a swarthy fellow disguised as a priest, whose orders were to proceed to London. And when he saw the party of Joan d'etané, with Roger Condé enter the city, he was to deliver the letter he bore to the captain of the gate. The letter contained this brief message. The tall knight in grey, with closed helm, is Norman of Torn, and was unsigned. All went well, and Joan was laughing merrily at the fears of those who had attempted to dissuade her when, at a crossroad, they discovered two parties of armed men approaching from opposite directions. The leader of the nearer party spurred forward to intercept the little band, and, raining in before them, cried brusquely, Who be ye? A party on a peaceful mission to the shops of London, replied Norman of Torn. I asked not your mission, cried the fellow. I asked, Who be ye? Answer, and be quick about it. I be Roger D'Condé, gentlemen of France, and these be my sisters and servants, lied the outlaw. And were it not that the ladies be with me, your answer would be couched and steel, as you deserve for your borish insolence. There be plenty of room and time for that even now, you dog of a French coward, cried the officer, couching his lance as he spoke. Joan de Tene was sitting her horse where she could see the face of Roger D'Condé, and it filled her heart with pride and courage as she saw and understood the little smile of satisfaction that touched his lips as he heard the man's challenge and lowered the point of his own spear. Wheeling their horses toward one another, the two combatants, who were some ninety feet apart, charged at full tilt. As they came together, the impact was so great that both horses were nearly overturned, and the two powerful war lances were splintered into a hundred fragments as each struck the exact center of his opponent's shield. Then wheeling their horses and throwing away the butts of their now useless lances, D'Condé and the officer advanced with drawn swords. The fellow made a most vicious return assault upon D'Condé, attempting to ride him down in one mad rush. But a thrust passed harmlessly from the tip of the outlaw's sword, and as the officer wheeled back to renew the battle, they settled down to fierce combat, their horses wheeling and turning shoulder to shoulder. The two girls sat rigid in their saddles, watching the encounter. The eyes of Joan D'Condé alight with the fire of battle as she followed every move of the wondrous sword-play of Roger D'Condé. He had not even taken the precaution to lower his visor, and the grim and haughty smile that played upon his lips spoke louder than many words the utter contempt in which he held the sword of his adversary. And as Joan D'Condé watched, she saw the smile suddenly freeze to a cold hard line, and the eyes of the man narrowed to mere slits, and her women's intuition read the death warrant of the king's officer ere the sword of the outlaw buried itself in his heart. The other members of the two bodies of royalist soldiers had sat spellbound as they watched the battle. But now, as their leader's corpse rolled from the saddle, they spurred furiously in upon D'Condé and his little party. The baron's men put up a noble fight, but the odds were heavy, and even with the mighty arm of Norman of Torn upon their side, the outcome was apparent from the first. Five swords were flashing about the outlaw, but his blade was equal to the thrust, and one after another of his assailants crumpled up in their saddles, as his leaping point found their vitals. Nearly all of the baron's men were down, when one, an old servitor, spurred to the side of Joan de Tenae and Mary de Stoutville. Come, my ladies, he cried, quick, and you may escape. They be so busy with the battle that they will never notice. Take that Lady Mary, John, cried Joan. I wrought Roger D'Condé to this pass, against the advice of all, and I remain with him to the end. But my lady, cried John. But nothing, sir, she interrupted sharply. Do as you are bid, follow my lady, Mary, and see that she comes to my father's castle in safety. And raising her riding whip, she struck Mary's calf-free across the rump, so that the animal nearly unseated his fair rider, as he leapt frantically to one side, and started madly up the road down which they had come. After her, John, commanded Joan preemptorily, and see that you turned not back until she be safe within the castle walls. Then you may bring aid. The old fellow had been want to obey this imperious little Lady Joan from her earliest childhood, and the habit was so strong upon him that he wheeled a horse and galloped after the flying palfry of the Lady Mary D'Stoutville. As Joan de Tenae turned again to the encounter before her, she saw fully twenty men surrounding Roger D'Condé, and while he was taking heavy toll on those before him, he could not cope with the men who attacked him from behind. And even as she looked, she saw battle-axe fall full upon his helm, and a sword drop from his nervous fingers as his lifeless body rolled from the back of Sir Mortimer to the battle-trampled clay of the High Road. She slid quickly from her palfry, and ran fearlessly toward his prostrate form. Regardless of the tangled mass of snorting, trampling steel-clad horses and surging fighting men that surrounded him. And while it was for Norman of Torn that this brave girl was there that day, for even as she reached the side, the sword-point of one of the soldiers was at his throat for the coup d'Igras. With a cry, Joan de Tenae threw herself across the outlaw's body, shielding him as best she could from the threatening sword. Then loudly the soldier grasped her roughly by the arm to drag her from his prey. But at this juncture a richly armored knight galloped up and drew rain beside the party. The newcomer was a man of about forty-five or fifty, tall, handsome, black-mastached, and with the haughty arrogance of pride most often seen upon the faces of those who have been raised by unmerited favor to positions of power and affluence. He was John de Fulme, Earl of Buckingham, a foreigner by birth, and for years one of the king's favorites, the bitterest enemy of de Monfort and the Barons. What now he cried? What goes on here? The soldiers fell back and one of them replied, A party of king's enemies attacked us, my lord, Earl, but we routed them, taking these two prisoners. Who be ye, he said, turning toward Joan, who was kneeling beside Diconde, and has she raised her head? My God, the daughter of Tenet, a noble prize indeed, my men, and who be the knight? Look for yourself, my lord, Earl, replied the girl, removing the helm, which she had been unlacing from the fallen man. Edward he ejaculated, but no, it cannot be. I did but yesterday leave Edward and over. I know not who he be, said Joan de Tenet, except that he be the most marvelous fighter and the bravest man it has ever been given me to see. He called himself Roger Diconde, but I know nothing of him other than that he looks like a prince and fights like a devil. I think he has no quarrel with either side, my lord, and so, as you certainly do not make war on women, you will let us go our way in peace, as we were when your soldiers wantonly set upon us. A de Tenet, madam, were a great and valuable capture in these troublest times, replied the Earl, and that alone were enough to necessitate my keeping you, but a beautiful Tenet is yet a different matter, and so I will grant you at least one favor. I will not take you to the king, but a prisoner ye shall be in my own castle, for I am alone and need the chairing company of a fair and loving lady. The girl's head went high as she looked the Earl full in the eyes. Think you, John Defoehm, Earl of Buckingham, that you be talking to some comely scullery maid. Do you forget that my house is honored in England, even though it does not share the king's favors with his foreign favorites, and you owe respect to the daughter of a de Tenet? I'll be fair in war, my beauty, replied the Earl. E gad, he continued, me thinks, all would be fair in hell, where they liken to you. It has been some years since I have seen you, and I did not know that the old fox, Richard de Tenet, kept such a package as this hid in his grimy old castle. Then you refuse to release us, said John de Tenet. Let us not put it that harshly, countered the Earl, rather. Let us say that it be so late in the day, and the way so be set with dangers, that the Earl of Buckingham could not bring himself to expose the beautiful daughter of his old friend to the perils of the road and so. Let us have an end to such foolishness, cried the girl. I might have expected not better from a turncoat foreign knave such as thee, who once joined in the councils of de Monfort, and then betrayed his friends to curry favor with the king. The Earl paled with rage, and pressed forward, as though to strike the girl, but thinking better of it, he turned to one of the soldiers saying, Bring the prisoners with you. If the man lives, bring him also. I would learn more of this fellow who masquerades in the countenance of a crown prince. And turning, he spurred on towards the neighboring castle of a rebel baron which had been captured by the royalists, and was now used as headquarters by Defulme. CHAPTER XIII When Normative Torn had regained his senses, he found himself in a small tower room in a strange castle. His head ached horribly, and he felt sick and sore, but he managed to crawl from the cot on which he lay, and by steadying his swaying body with hands pressed against the wall he was able to reach the door. To his disappointment he found this locked from without, and in his weakened condition he made no attempt to force it. He was fully dressed and in armor, as he had been when struck down, but his helmet was gone, as were also his sword and dagger. The day was drawing to a close, and, as dusk fell, and the room darkened, he became more and more impatient. Repeated pounding upon the door, brought no response, and finally he gave up in despair. Going to the window he saw that his room was some thirty feet above the stone-flagged courtyard, and also that it looked at an angle upon other windows in the old castle where lights were beginning to show. He saw men at arms moving about, and once he thought he caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, but he was not sure. He wondered what had become of Joan de Tenae and Mary de Stuteville. He hoped that they had escaped, and yet no, Joan certainly had not. For now he distinctly remembered that his eyes had met hers for an instant just before the blow fell upon him, and he thought of the faith and confidence that he had read in that quick glance. Such a look would nerve a jackal to attack a drove of lions. Thought the outlaw. What a beautiful creature she was, and she had stayed there with him during the fight. He remembered now. Mary de Stuteville had not been with her, as he had caught that glimpse of her. No, she had been all alone. Ah, that was friendship indeed. What else was it that tried the force its way above the threshold of his bruised and wavering memory? Words, words of love, and lips pressed to his. No, it must be a figment of his wounded brain. What was that which clicked against his breastplate? He felt, and found a metal bobble linked to a mesh of his steel armor by a strand of silken hair. He carried the little thing to the window, and in the waning light made it out to be a golden hair ornament set with precious stones. But he could not tell if the little strand of silken hair were black or brown. Carefully he detached the little thing, and winding the filmy truss about it, placed it within the breast of his tunic. He was vaguely troubled by it, yet why he could scarcely have told himself. In turning to the window, he watched the light at rooms within his vision, and presently his view was rewarded by the sight of a night coming within the scope of the narrow casement of a nearby chamber. From his apparel he was a man of position, and he was evidently in heated discussion with someone who Normand of Torn could not see. The man, a great, tall, black-haired, and mustached nobleman, was pounding upon a table to emphasize his words, and presently he sprang up as though rushing toward the one to whom he had been speaking. He disappeared from the watcher's view for a moment, and then, at the far side of the apartment, Normand of Torn saw him again, just as he roughly grasped the figure of a woman who evidently was attempting to escape him. As she turned the face her tormentor, all the devil in the devil of Torn surged in his aching head, for the face he saw was that of Joan de Tenae. With a muttered oath the imprisoned man turned the hurl himself against the bolted door, but ere he had taken a single step the sound of heavy feet without brought him to his stop, and the jingle of keys as one was fitted to the lock of the door sent him gliding stethily to the wall beside the doorway, where the in-swinging door would conceal him. As the door was pushed back the flickering torch lighted up but dimly the interior so that until he had reached the center of the room the visitor did not see that the cot was empty. He was a man at arms and had aside hung a sword. That was enough for the devil of Torn. It was a sword he craved most, and ere the fellow could assure his slow wits that the cot was empty, steel fingers closed upon his throat, and he went down beneath the giant form of the outlaw. Without other sound than the scuffling of their bodies on the floor and the clanking of their armor they fought, the one to reach the dagger at his side, the other to close forever the windpipe of his adversary. Presently the man at arms found what he sought, and after tugging with ever diminishing strength he felt the blade slip from its sheath. Slowly and feebly he raised it high above the back of the man on top of him. With the last supreme effort he drove the point downward, but ere it reached its goal there was a sharp snapping sound as of broken bone. The dagger fell harmlessly from his dead hand, and his head rolled backward upon his broken neck. Snatching the sword from the body of his dead antagonist, Norman of Torn rushed from the tower room. As John Defulme, Earl of Buckingham, laid his vandal hands upon Joan de Tenae, she turned upon him like a Tigris. Blow after blow she reigned upon his head and face until, in mortification and rage, he struck her full upon the mouth with his clenched fist. But even this did not subdue her, and with ever weakening strength she continued to strike him. And then the great royalist Earl, the chosen friend of the king, took the fair white throat between his great fingers, and the lust of blood supplanted the lust of love, for he would have killed her in his rage. It was upon this scene that the outlaw of Torn burst with naked sword. There were at the far end of the apartment, and his cry of anger at the sight caused the Earl to drop his prey, and turn with drawn sword to meet him. There were no words, for there was no need for words here. The two men were upon each other, and fighting to the death, before the girl had regained her feet. It would have been short shrift, for John Defulme had not some of his men heard the fracas, and rushed to his aid. Four of them there were, and they tumbled pel-mel into the room, fairly falling upon Norman of Torn, in their anxiety to get their swords into him. But once they met that master hand, they went more slowly, and in a moment two of them went no more at all, and the others, with the Earl, were but circling warily in search of a chance opening, an opening which never came. Norman of Torn stood with his back against the table, in an angle of the room, and behind him stood Joan de Tenae. Moved toward the left she whispered, I know this old pile. When you reach the table that bears the lamp, there will be a small doorway directly behind you. Strike the lamp out with your sword, as you feel my hand in your left, and then I will lead you through the doorway, which you must turn and quickly bolt after us. Do you understand? He nodded. Slowly he worked his way toward the table, the men at arms in the meantime, keeping up an infernal howling for help. The Earl was careful to keep out of reach of the point of Dekanbe's sword, and the men at arms were nothing loath to emulate their master's example. Just as he reached his goal, a dozen more men burst into the room, and emboldened by this reinforcement, one of the men engaged in Dekanbe came too close. As he jerked his blade from the fellow's throat, Norman of Torn felt a firm, warm hand slipped into his from behind, and his sword swung with a resounding blow against the lamp. His darkness enveloped the chamber. Joan de Tenae led him through the little door, which he immediately closed and bolted, as she had instructed. This way she whispered, again slipping her hand into his, and in silence she led him through several dim chambers, and finally stopped before a blank wall in a great oak-paneled room. Here the girl felt with swift fingers the edge of the molding. More and more rapidly she moved as the sound of herring footsteps resounded through the castle. What is wrong, asked Norman of Torn, noticing her increasing perturbation. M'undu, she cried, can I be wrong? Surely this is the room. Oh, my friend, that I should have brought you to all this by my willfulness and vanity, and now when I might save you my wits leave me and I forget the way. Do not worry about me, laughed the devil of Torn. Me thought that it was I who was trying to save you, and may heaven forgive me else. For surely that be my only excuse for running away from a handful of swords. I could not take chances when thou wart at stake, Joan, he added more gravely. The sound of pursuit was now quite close. In fact, the reflection from the flickering torches could be seen in nearby chambers. At last the girl, with a little cry of, stupid, seized Dekande, and rushed him to the far side of the room. Here it is, she whispered joyously. Here it has been all the time, running her fingers along the molding until she found a little hidden spring. She pushed it, and one of the great panels swung slowly in, revealing the yawning mouth of a black opening behind. Quickly the girl entered, pulling Dekande after her, and as the panel swung quietly in the place, the Earl of Buckingham, with a dozen men, entered the apartment. The devil take them, cried Defune. Where can they have gone? Suddenly we were right behind them. "'It is passing strange, my lord,' replied one of the men. "'Let us try the floor above, and the towers, for of surity they have not come this way.' And the party retraced its steps, leaving the apartment empty. Behind the panel the girl stood shrinking close to Dekande, her hand still in his. "'Where now?' he asked. "'Or do we stay hidden here, like frightened chicks, until the war is over, and the Baron returns to let us out of this musty hole.' "'Wait,' she answered. "'Until I quiet my nerves a little. I am all unstrong.' He felt her body tremble, as it pressed against his. With the spirit of protection strong within him, what wonder that his arm fell about her shoulder, as though to say, "'Fear not, for I be brave and powerful. Not can harm you while I am here.' Presently she reached her hand up to his face, made brave to do it, by the shell-trained darkness. "'Roger,' she whispered, her tongue halting over the familiar name. "'I thought that they had killed you, and all for me, for my foolish stubbornness. Canst forgive me?' "'Forgive?' he asked, smiling to himself. "'Forgive being given an opportunity to fight? There be nothing to forgive, Joan, unless it be that I should ask forgiveness for protecting thee so poorly.' "'Do not say that,' she commanded. Never was such bravery or such swordmanship in all the world before. Never such a man.' He did not answer. His mind was a chaos of conflicting thoughts. The feel of her hands as they had lingered momentarily. And with a vague caress upon his cheek, and the pressure of her body as she leaned against him, sent the hot blood coursing through his veins. He was puzzled, for he had not dreamed that friendship was so sweet. As she did not shrink from his encircling arms, should have told him much. But Norman of Torn was slow to realize that a woman might look upon him with love, nor had he a thought of any other sentiment toward her than that of friend and protector. And then there came to him, as in a vision, another fair and beautiful face, Bertrand de Monfort's. And Norman of Torn was still more puzzled. For at heart he was clean, and love of loyalty was strong within him. Love of women was a new thing to him. And robbed, as he had been all his starved life of the affection and kindly fellowship of either men or women, it is little to be wondered at that he was easily impressionable and responsive to the feeling his strong personality had awakened in two of England's fairest daughters. But with a vision of that other face there came to him a faint realization that may happen it was a stronger power than either friendship or fear which caused that lithe warm body to cling so tightly to him. That the responsibility for the critical stage their young acquaintance had so quickly reached was not his, had never for a moment entered his head. To him the fault was all his, and perhaps it was this quality of chivalry that was the finest of the many noble characteristics of his sterling character. So his next words were typical of the man. And did Joan de Tene love him? Or did she not? She learned that night to respect and trust him, as she respected and trusted few men of her acquaintance. My lady, said Norman of Torn, we have been through much, and we are as little children in a dark attic. And so if I have presumed upon our acquaintance, he lowered his arm from about her shoulder, I ask you to forgive it, for I scarce know what to do, from weakness and from the pain of the blow upon my head. Joan de Tene drew slowly away from him, and without reply took his hand and led him forward through the dark cold corridor. We must go carefully now, she said at last, for there be stairs nearer. He held her hand pressed very tightly in his, tighter perhaps than conditions required, but she let it lie there as she let him forward, very slowly down a flight of rough stone steps. Norman of Torn wondered if she were angry with him, and then, being new at love, he blundered. Joan de Tene, he said? Yes, Roger de Condi, what would you? You be silent, and I fear that you be angry with me. Tell me that you forgive me what I have done, and it offended you. I have so few friends, he added sadly, that I cannot afford to lose such as you. You will never lose the friendship of Joan de Tene, she answered. You have won her respect, and, and. But she could not say it, and so she trailed off lamely, and undying gratitude. But Norman of Torn knew the word that she would have spoken had he dared to let her. He did not, for there was always the vision of Bertrand de Monfort before him, and now another vision arose that would effectually have sealed his lips had not the other. He saw the outlaw of Torn dangling by his neck from a wooden gibbet. Or he had only feared that Joan de Tene loved him, and now he knew it. And while he marveled that so wondrous a creature could feel love for him, again he blamed himself, and felt sorrow for them both. For he did not return her love, nor could he imagine a love strong enough to survive the knowledge that it was possessed by the devil of Torn. Presently they reached the bottom of the stairway, and Joan de Tene led him, gropingly, across what seemed, from their echoing footsteps, a large chamber. The air was chill and dank, smelling of mold, and no ray of light penetrated the subterranean vault, and no sound broke the stillness. This be the castle's crypt, whispered Joan, and they do say that strange happenings occur here in the still watches of the night, and that when the castle sleeps the castle's dead rise from their coffins and shake their dry bones. Shhh! What was that? A rustling noise broke upon their ears, close upon their right. And then there came a distinct moan, and Joan de Tene fled to the refuge of Norman of Torn's arms. There is nothing to fear, Joan, reassured Norman of Torn. Dead men wield not swords, nor do they move or moan. The wind, I think, and rats are our only companions here. I'm afraid, she whispered. If you can make a light, I am sure you will find an old lamp here in the crypt, and then it will be less fearsome. As a child I visited this castle often, and in search of adventure we passed through these corridors a hundred times, but always by day and with lights. Norman of Torn did as she bid, and finding the lamp lighted it. The chamber was quite empty, save for the coffins and their niches, and some effigies and marble set at intervals about the walls. Not such a fearsome place after all, he said, laughing lightly. No place would seem fearsome now, she answered simply, where there are light to show me that the brave face of Roger de Conde were by my side. Hush, child, replied the outlaw, you know not what you say. When you know me better, you will be sorry for your words, for Roger de Conde is not what you think him. Say no more of praise until we be out of this hole, and you safe in your father's halls. The fright of the noises in the dark chamber had but served to again bring the girl's face close to his, so that he felt her hot sweet breath upon his cheek, and thus another link was forged to bind him to her. With the aid of the lamp they made more rapid progress, and in a few moments reached a low door at the end of the arched passageway. This is the doorway which opens upon the ravine below the castle. We have passed beneath the walls and the moat. What may we do now, Roger, without horses? Let us get out of this place, and as far away as possible under the cover of darkness, and I doubt not I may find a way to bring you to your father's castle, replied Norman of Torn. Putting out the light, least it should attract the notice of the watch upon the castle walls, Norman of Torn pushed open the little door and stepped forth into the fresh night air. The ravine was so overgrown with tangled vines and wildwood that, had there ever been a pathway, it was now completely obliterated, and it was with difficulty that the man forced his way through the entangling creepers and tendrils. The girl stumbled after him and twice fell before they had taken a score of steps. I fear I am not strong enough, she said, finally. The way is much more difficult than I had thought. So Norman of Torn lifted her in his strong arms and stumbled on through the darkness and the shrubbery down the center of the ravine. It required the better part of an hour to traverse the little distance to the roadway, and all the time her head nestled upon his shoulder, and her hair brushed his cheek. Once when she lifted her head to speak to him he bent toward her, and in the darkness, by chance, his lips brushed hers. He felt her little form tremble in his arms, and a faint sigh breathed from her lips. They were upon the high road now, but he did not put her down. A mist was before his eyes, and he could have crushed her to him and smothered those warm lips with his own. Finally his face inclined toward hers. Closer and closer, his iron muscles pressed her to him. And then, clear cut and distinct before his eyes, he saw the corpse of the outlaw of Torn swinging by the neck from the arm of a wooden gibbet. And beside it knelt a woman, gowned in rich cloth of gold and many jewels. Her face was averted, and her arms were outstretched toward the dangling form that swung and twisted from the grim gaunt arm. Her figure was racked with choking sobs of horror, streak, and grief. Presently she staggered to her feet and turned away, burying her face in her hands. But he saw her features for an instant then. The woman, who openly and alone mourned the dead outlaw of Torn, was patrored, demonford. Shortly his arms relaxed, and gently and reverently he lowered Joan de Tene to the ground. In that instant Norman of Torn had learned the difference between friendship and love, and love and passion. The moon was shining brightly upon them, and the girl turned wide eyed and wondering toward him. She had felt the wild call of love, and she could not understand his seeming coldness now, for she had seen no vision beyond the life of happiness within those strong arms. Joan he said, I would but now have wrong thee, forgive me. Forget what has passed between us until I can come to you in my rightful colors, when the spell of the moonlight and adventure be no longer upon us. And then, he paused, and then I shall tell you, who I be, and you shall say if you still care to call me friend. No more than that shall I ask. He had not the heart to tell her that he loved only Bertrand de Monford, but it had been a thousand times better had he done so. She was about to reply when a dozen armed men sprang from the surrounding shadows, calling upon them to surrender. The moonlight falling upon the leader revealed a great giant of a fellow with an enormous bristling mustache. It was Shandy. Norman of Torn lowered his raised sword. It is I, Shandy, he said, keep a still tongue in thy head until I speak with thee a part. Wait here, my lady Joan. These be friends. Drawing Shandy to one side, he learned that the faithful fellow had become alarmed at his chief's continued absence, and had set out with a small party to search for him. They had come upon the riderless Sir Mortimer grazing by the roadside, and a short distance beyond had discovered evidences of the conflict at the crossroads. There they had found Norman of Torn's helmet confirming their worst fears. A peasant in a nearby hut had told them of the encounter, and had set them upon the road taken by the Earl and his prisoners. And here we be, my lord, concluded the great fellow. How many are you, asked the outlaw? Fifty all told, with those who lie further back in the bushes. Give us horses, and let two of the men ride behind us, said the chief, and Shandy, let not the lady know that she rides this night with the outlaw of Torn. Yes, my lord. They were soon mounted and clattering down the road, back toward the castle of Richard de Tenae. Joan de Tenae looked in silent wonder upon this grim force that sprang out of the shadows of the night to do the bidding of Roger de Condi, the gentleman of France. There was something familiar in the great bulk of red Shandy. Where had she seen that mighty frame before? And now she looked closely at the figure of Roger de Condi. Yes, somewhere else she had seen these two men together, but where and when. And then the strangeness of another incident came to her mind. Roger de Condi spoke no English, and yet she had plainly heard English words upon this man's lips as he addressed the red giant. Norman of Torn had recovered his helmet from one of his men who had picked it up at the crossroads, and now he rode in silence with lowered visor, as was his custom. There was something sinister now in his appearance, and as the moonlight touched the hard, cruel faces of the grim and silent men who rode behind him, a little shudder crept over the frame of Joan de Tenae. Shortly before daylight they reached the castle of Richard de Tenae, and a great shout went up from the watch as Norman of Torn cried, open, open for my lady Joan. Together they rode into the courtyard, where all was bustle and excitement, but dozen voices asked a dozen questions only to cry out still others without waiting for replies. Richard de Tenae with his family and Mary de Stoutville were still fully clothed, having not lain down during the whole night. They fairly fell upon Joan and Roger de Condi in their joyous welcome and relief. Come, come, said the Baron, let us go within. You must be fair famished for good food and drink. I will ride, my lord, replied Norman of Torn. I have little matter of business with my friend, the Earl of Buckingham. Business which I fear will not wait. Joan de Tenae looked on in silence. Nor did she urge him to remain. As he raised her hand to his lips in farewell. So Norman of Torn rode out of the courtyard, and as his men fell in behind him under the first rays of the drawing day, the daughter of de Tenae watched them through the gate, and a great light broke upon her. For what she saw was the same as she had seen a few days since, when she had turned in her saddle to watch the retreating forms of the cutthroats of Torn as they rode on after halting her father's party. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas. Chapter 14 of the Outlaw of Torn. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Chapter 14. Some hours later, 50 men followed Norman of Torn on foot to the ravine below the castle, where John Defoom, Earl of Buckingham, had his headquarters, while nearly a thousand more lurked in the woods before the grim pile. Under cover of the tangled shrubbery they crawled on scene to the little door through which Joan de Tenae had led him the night before. Following the corridors and vaults beneath the castle, they came to the stone stairway and mounted to the passage, which led to the false panel that had given the two fugitives egress. Slipping the spring lock, Norman of Torn entered the apartment, followed closely by his henchmen. On they went, through apartment after apartment, but no sign of the Earl or his servitors rewarded their search, and it was soon apparent that the castle was deserted. As they came forth into the courtyard, they described an old man basking in the sun upon a bench. The sight of them nearly caused the old fellow to die of fright. Four to see fifty armed men issue from the untenanted halls was well reckoned to blanch even a braver cheek. When Norman of Torn questioned him, he learned that Defoom had ridden out early in the day bound for Dover, where Prince Edward then was. The outlaw knew that it would be futile to pursue him. But yet, so fierce was his anger against this man, that he ordered his bam to mount, and spurring to their lead, he marched through Middlesex, and crossing the tames above London, entered Surrey late that same afternoon. As they were going into camp that night in Kent, midway between London and Rochester, word came to Norman of Torn that the Earl of Buckingham, having sent his escort onto Dover, had stopped to visit the wife of a royalist baron, whose husband was with Prince Edward's forces. The fellow who gave this information was a servant in my lady's household, who held a grudge against his mistress for some wrong she had done him. When, therefore, he found that these grim men were searching for Defoom, he saw a way to be revenged upon his mistress. How many swords be there at the castle? asked Norman of Torn. Scarce a dozen, barring the Earl of Buckingham, replied the knave, and furthermore, there be a way to enter, which I may show you, my lord, so that you may, unseen, reach the apartment where my lady and the Earl be supping. Bring ten men beside yourself, Shandy, commanded Norman of Torn. We shall pay a little visit upon our amorous friend, my lord, the Earl of Buckingham. Half an hour's ride brought them within sight of the castle. Dismounting and leaving their horses with one of the men, Norman of Torn advanced on foot with Shandy and eight others, close in the wake of the traitorous servant. The fellow led them to the rear of the castle, where among the brush he had hidden a rude ladder, which, when tilted, spanned the moat and rested its farther end upon a window ledge some ten feet above the ground. Keep the fellow here till last, Shandy, said the outlaw, till all be in, and, if there be any sign of treachery, stick him through the gizzard. Death thus be slower and more painful. So saying, Norman of Torn crept boldly across the improvised bridge, and disappeared within the window beyond. One by one the band of cutthroats passed through the little window, until all stood within the castle beside their chief, Shandy coming last with the servant. Lead me quietly, Nave, to the room where my lord supps, said Norman of Torn. You, Shandy, place your men where they can prevent my being interrupted. Following a moment or two after Shandy came another figure stealthily across the ladder, and as Norman of Torn and his followers left the little room, this figure pushed quietly through the window, and followed the great outlaw down the unlighted corridor. A moment later my lady of Laborn looked up from her plate upon the grim figure of an armored knight standing in the doorway of the great dining hall. My lord Earl, she cried, look behind you, and as the Earl of Buckingham glanced behind him, he overturned the bench upon which he sat, in his effort to gain his feet, for my lord Earl of Buckingham had a guilty conscience. The grim figure raised a restraining hand as the Earl drew his sword. A moment my lord said a low voice in perfect French. Who are you, cried the lady? I'd be an old friend of my lord here, but let me tell you a little story. In a grim old castle in Essex, only last night, a great lord of England held by force the beautiful daughter of a noble house, and when she spurned his advances, he struck her with his clenched fist upon her fair face, and with his brute hands choked her. And in that castle also was a despised and hunted outlaw, with a price upon his head, for whose neck the hempen noose has been yawning these many years. And it was this vile person who came in time to save the young woman from this noble flower of knighthood that would have ruined her young life. The outlaw wished to kill the knight, but many men of arms came to the noble's rescue, and so the outlaw was forced to fly with the girl, least to be overcome by numbers, and the girl thus fall again into the hands of her tormentor. But this crude outlaw was not satisfied with merely rescuing the girl. He must needs meet out justice to her noble abductor, and collect in full the toll of blood which alone can atone for the insult in violence done her. My lady, the young girl was Joan d'etané, the noble was my lord, the Earl of Buckingham, and the outlaw stands before you to fulfill the duty he has sworn to do. On guard, my lord. The encounter was short, for Norman of Torn had come to a kill, and he had been looking through a haze of blood for hours. In fact, every time he had thought of those brutal fingers on the fair throat of Joan d'etané and of the cruel blow that had fallen upon her face. He showed no mercy, but backed the Earl relentlessly into a corner of the room, and when he had him there where he could escape in no direction he drove his blade so deep through this putrid heart that the point buried itself an inch in the oak panel beyond. Claudia Laborn sat frozen with horror at the sight she was witnessing, and as Norman of Torn wrenched his blade from the dead body before him, and wiped it on the rushes of the floor, she gazed in awful fascination while he drew his dagger, and made a mark upon the forehead of the dead Nomaldon. Outlaw or devil said a stern voice behind them. Roger Laborn owes you his friendship for saving the honor of his home. Both turned to discover a male clad figure standing in the doorway where Norman of Torn had first appeared. Roger shrieked Claudia Laborn and swooned. Who be you? continued the master of Laborn, addressing the outlaw. For answer Norman of Torn pointed to the forehead of the dead Earl of Buckingham, and there Roger Laborn saw in letters of blood N.T. The Baron advanced without stretched hand. I owe you much, you have saved my poor silly wife from this beast, and Joan d'etané is my cousin, so I am doubly beholden to you, Norman of Torn. The outlaw pretended that he did not see the hand. You owe me nothing, Sir Roger, that may not be paid by a good supper. I have eaten but once in forty-eight hours. The outlaw now called to Shandy and his men, telling them to remain on watch but to interfere with no one within the castle. He then sat at the table with Roger Laborn and his lady, who had recovered from her swoon, and behind them on the rushes of the floor lay the body of Diffume in a little pool of blood. Laborn told him that he had heard that Diffume was at his home, and had hastened back, having been in hiding about the castle for half an hour before the arrival of Norman of Torn, awaiting an opportunity to enter unobserved by the servants. It was he who had followed across the ladder after Shandy. The outlaw spent the night at the castle of Roger Laborn. For the first time within his memory a welcome guest under his true name at the house of a gentleman. The following morning he bade his host goodbye, and returning to his camp started on his homeward march toward Torn. Near midday as they were approaching the Thames near the environs of London, they saw a great concourse of people hooting and jeering at a small party of gentlemen and gentlewomen. Some of the crowd were armed, and from the very force of numbers were waxing brave to lay violent hands upon the party. Mud and rocks and rotten vegetables were being hurled at the little cavalcade, many of them barely missing the women of the party. Norman of Torn waited to ask no questions, but spurring into the thick of it, laid right and left of him with the flat of his sword, and his men, catching the contagion of it, swarmed after him until the whole pack of attackin' ruffians were driven into the Thames. And then, without a backward glance at the party he had rescued, he continued on his march toward the north. The little party sat upon their horses, looking in wonder after the retreating figures of their deliverers. Then one of the ladies turned to a knight at her side, with a word of command, and an imperious gesture toward the fastest disappearing company. He thus addressed, put spurs to his horse, and rode at a rapid gallop after the outlaw's troop. In a few moments he had overtaken them, and reigned up beside Norman of Torn. "'Hold, Sir Knight,' cried the gentleman, the queen would thank you in person for your brave defense of her. Ever keen to see the humor of a situation, Norman of Torn wheeled his horse and rode back with the queen's messenger. As he faced her majesty, the outlaw of Torn bent low over his pommel. "'You be a strange knight that thinks so lightly of saving the queen's life, that you ride on without turning your head, as though you had but driven a pack of currs from a noy in a stray cat,' said the queen. "'I drew in the service of a woman, your majesty, not in the service of a queen. "'What now? Wouldst even belittle the act which we all witnessed? The king, my husband, shall reward thee, Sir Knight, if you but tell me your name. If I told my name, me thinks the king would be more apt to hang me,' laughed the outlaw. I be Norman of Torn.' The entire party looked with startled astonishment upon him. For none of them had ever seen this bold raider whom all the nobility and gentry of England feared and hated. For lesser acts than that which Thou has just performed, the king has pardoned men before,' replied her majesty. "'But raise your visor, I would look upon the face of so notorious a criminal, who can yet be a gentleman and a loyal protector of his queen.' "'They who have looked upon my face other than my friends,' replied Norman of Torn quietly, have never lived to tell what they saw beneath this visor. "'And, as for you, madam, I have learned within the year to fear it might mean unhappiness to you to see the visor of the devil of Torn lifted from his face. Without another word he wheeled and gouted back to his little army.' "'The puppy, the insolent puppy,' cried Eleanor of England in a rage. And so the outlaw of Torn and his mother met and parted after a period of twenty years. Two days later Norman of Torn directed Rex Shandy to lead the forces of Torn from their Essex camp back to Derby. The numerous raiding parties, which had been constantly upon the road during the days they had spent in this rich district, had loaded the extra Sumter beasts with rich and valuable booty, and the men, for the time satiated with fighting and loot, turned their faces toward Torn with evident satisfaction. The outlaw was speaking to his captains in council, and had aside the old man of Torn. "'Ride by easy stages, Shandy, and I will overtake you by tomorrow morning. I but ride for a moment to the castle of D.Tonay on an errand, and I shall stop there but a few moments. I shall surely join you to-morrow.' "'Do not forget, my lord,' said Edwile the surf, a great yellow-haired Saxon giant, that there be a party of the king's troop camped close by the road which branches to Tonay. "'I shall give them plenty of room,' replied Norman of Torn. My neck itcheth not to be stretched, and he laughed and mounted. Five minutes after he had cantered down the road from the camp, Spizo the Spaniard, sneaking his horse unseen into the surrounding forest, mounted and spurred rapidly after him. The camp in the throes of packing refractory half-broken Sumter animals and saddling their own wild mounts did not notice his departure. Only the little grim, gray old man knew that he had gone, or why, or wither. That afternoon his Roger D. Condé was admitted to the castle of Richard D. Tonay, and escorted to a little room where he awaited the coming of Lady Joan. A swarthy messenger handed a letter to the captain of the king's soldiers camped a few miles south of Tonay. The officer tore open the seal as the messenger turned and spurred back in the direction from which he had come. And this was what he read. Norman of Torn is now at the castle of Tonay without escort. Instantly the call to arms and mount sounded through the camp, and in five minutes a hundred mercenaries galloped rapidly toward the castle of Richard D. Tonay. In the vision of their captain a great reward and honor and preferment for the capture of the mighty outlaw, who is now almost within his clutches. Three roads meet at Tonay, one from the south, along which the king's soldiers were now riding, one from the west which had guided Norman of Torn from his camp to the castle, and a third which ran northwest through Cambridge and Huntington toward Derby. All unconscious of the rapidly approaching foes, Norman of Torn waited, composedly, in the enter room for Joan D. Tonay. Presently she entered, clothed in the clinging house garment of the period, a beautiful vision made more beautiful by the suppressed excitement which caused the blood to surge beneath the velvet of her cheek, and her breasts to rise and fall above her fast-beating heart. She let him take her fingers in his and raise them to his lips, and then they stood looking into each other's eyes in silence for a long moment. I do not know how to tell you what I have come to tell, he said sadly. I have not meant to deceive you, to your harm, but the temptation to be with you, and those who you typify, must be my excuse. I, he paused. It was easy to tell her that he was the outlaw of Torn, but if she loved him, as he feared, how was he to tell her that he loved only Richard D. Montford? You need tell me nothing, interrupted Joan D. Tonay. I have guessed what you would tell me, Norman of Torn. The spell of moonlight and adventure is no longer upon us, and those are your own words, and still I am glad to call you friend. The little emphasis she put on the last words bespoke the finality of her decision that the outlaw of Torn could be no more than friend to her. His best, he replied, relieved that, as he thought, she felt no love for him now that she knew him for what he really was. Nothing good could come to such as you, Joan D. Tonay, if the devil of Torn could claim more of you than friendship, and so I think that for your peace of mind and for my own, we will let it be as though you had never known me. I thank you that you have not been angry with me. Remember me only to think that in the hills of Derby, a sword is at your service, without reward and without price, should you ever need it. Joan, tell me that you will send for me. We'll promise me that, Joan. I promise, Norman of Torn. Farewell, he said, and as he again kissed her hand, he bent his knee to the ground in reverence. Then he rose to go, pressing a little packet into her palm. Her eyes met, and the man saw, in that brief instant, deep in the azure depths of the girls, that which tumbled the structure of his newfound complacency about his ears. As he rode out into the bright sunlight upon the road which led northwest toward Derby, Norman of Torn bowed his head in sorrow. For he realized two things. One was that the girl he had left still loved him, and that some day may happen tomorrow she would suffer because she had sent him away. And the other was that he did not love her, that his heart was locked in the fair breast of Petrard de Montfort. He felt himself a beast that he had allowed his loneliness and the aching sorrow of his starved, empty heart to lead him into this girl's life. That he had been new to women and knew her still to love did not permit him to excuse himself, and a hundred times he cursed his folly and stupidity, and what he thought was fickleness. But the unhappy affair had taught him one thing for certain, to know without question what love was, and that the memory of Petrard de Montfort's lips would always be more to him than all the alarmists possessed by the balance of the women of the world, no matter how charming or how beautiful. Another thing, a painful thing he learned from it, too, that the attitude of Joan de Tenae, daughter of an old and noble house, was but the attitude which the outlaw of Torn must expect from any good woman of her class. What he must expect from Petrard de Montfort when she learned that Roger de Conde was Norman of Torn. The outlaw had scarce past out of sight upon the road to Derby, ere the girl who stood in an ombra sure of the south tower, seeing, with strangely drawn sad face, up the road which had swallowed him, saw a body of soldiers galloping rapidly toward Tenae from the south. The king's banner waved above their heads, and intuitively Joan de Tenae knew for whom they sought at her father's castle. Quickly she hastened to the outer Barbican, that it might be she who answered their hail rather than one of the men at arms unwatched there. She had scarcely reached the ramparts of the outer gate ere the king's men drew rain before the castle. In reply to their hail, Joan de Tenae asked their mission. We seek the outlaw, Norman of Torn, who hides now within this castle, replied the officer. There be no outlaw here, replied the girl, but if you wish you may enter with half a dozen men and search the castle. This the officer did, and when he had assured himself that Norman of Torn was not within, an hour had passed, and Joan de Tenae felt certain that the outlaw of Torn was too far ahead to be caught by the king's men. So she said, There was one here just before you came who called himself, though, by another name than Norman of Torn. Possibly it is he ye seek. Which way rode he? cried the officer. Straight toward the west by the middle road, lied Joan de Tenae, and as the officer hurried from the castle, and with his men at his back galloped furiously away toward the west, the girl sank down upon a bench, pressing her little hands to her throbbing temples. Then she opened the packet which Norman of Torn had handed her, and within found two others. In one of these was a beautiful jeweled locket, and on the outside were the initials J.T., and on the inside the initials M.T. In the other was a golden hair ornament set with precious stones, and about it was wound a strand of her own silken presses. She looked long at the little trinkets, and then, pressing them against her lips, she threw herself face down on the oaken bench, her light young form wracked with sobs. She was indeed but a little girl chained by the inexorable bonds of caste to a false ideal. Birth and station spelled honor to her, and honor to the daughter of an English noble was a mightier force even than love. That Norman of Torn was an outlaw she might have forgiven, but that he was, according to report, a low fellow of birth placed an impassable barrier between them. For hours the girl lay sobbing upon the bench, whilst within her raged the mighty battle of heart against the head. Thus her mother found her, and kneeling beside her, and with her arms about the girl's neck, tried to soothe her and learn the cause of her sorrow. Finally it came, poured from the floodgates of a sorrowing heart. That wave of bitter misery and hopelessness which not even a mother's love could check. Joan, my dear daughter, cried Lady D. Tanae, I sorrow with thee, that thy love has been cast upon so bleak and impossible ashore. But it be better that thou has learnt the truth ere it were too late. For take my word upon it, Joan, the bitter humiliation such an alliance must needs have brought upon thee and thy father's house would soon have cooled thy love. Or could as have survived the sneers and affronts even the menials would have put upon him. O mother, but I love him so, Moe, my girl. I did not know how much until he had gone, and the king's officer had come to search for him, and then the thought that all the powers of a great throne and the mightiest houses of an entire kingdom were turned in hatred against him, raised the hot blood of anger within me, and the knowledge of my love surged through all my being. Mother, thou canst know the honour and the bravery and the chivalry of the man as I do. Not since Arthur of Silurus kept his round table hath ridden forth upon English soil so true at night as Norman, man of Torn, couldst thou have but seen him fight my mother, and witness the honour of his treatment of thy daughter, and heard the tone of dignified respect in which he spoke of women, thou wouldst have loved him too, and felt that outlaw though he be, he is still more gentleman than nine-tenths of the nobles of England. But his birth my daughter argued the lady of Tanae. Some even say that the gall marks of his brass collar still showeth upon his neck, and others that he knoweth not himself the name of his own father, nor had he any mother. Ah, but this was the mighty argument. Not could the girl say to justify, so heinous a crime as low birth. What a man did in those rough, cruel days might be forgotten and forgiven. But the sins of his mother or his grandfather, in not being of noble blood, no matter howsoever wickedly attained, he might never overcome or live down. Torn by conflicting emotions, the poor girl dragged herself to her own apartment, and there upon a restless, sleepless couch, be set by wild and possible hopes and vain torturing regrets, she fought out the long, bitter night, until toward morning she solved the problem of her misery in the only way that seemed possible to her poor, tired, bleeding little heart. When the rising sun shone through the narrow window, it found Joan de Tanae at peace with all about her. The carved golden hilt of the toy that had hung at her girdle protruded from her breast, and a thin line of crimson ran across the snowy skin to a little pool upon the sheet beneath her. And so the cruel hand of a mighty revenge had reached out to crush another innocent victim.