 CHAPTER XV When the word of the death of Joan de Tenae reached Torn, no man could tell from outward appearance the depth of the suffering which the sad intelligence wrought on the master of Torn. All that they who followed him knew was that certain unusual orders were issued. And that, that same night, the ten companies rode south toward Essex, without other halt than for necessary food and water for man and beast. When the body of Joan de Tenae rode forth from her father's castle to the church at Colchester, and again as it was brought back to its final resting place in the castle's crypt, a thousand strange and silent nights, black draped upon horses trapped in black, rode slowly behind the beer. Silently they had come in the night preceding the funeral, and as silently they slipped away northward into the falling shadows of the following night. No word had passed between those of the castle and the great troop of sable-clad warriors, but all within knew that the mighty outlaw of Torn had come to pay homage to the memory of the daughter of de Tenae, and all but the grieving mother wondered at the strangeness of the act. As the horde of Torn approached their derby stronghold, their young leader turned the command over to Red Shandy, and dismounted at the door of Father Claude's cottage. I am tired, Father, said the outlaw, as he threw himself upon his accustom benched. Not but sorrow and death follow in my footsteps. I and all my acts be accursed, and upon those I love the blight falleth. Alter thy ways, my son, follow my advice ere it be too late. Seek out a new and better life in another country, and carve thy future into the semblance of glory and honour. Would that I might, my friend, answered Norman of Torn, but as thou thought on the consequences which surely would follow, should I thus remove both heart and head from the thing that I have built? What suppose thou would result were Norman of Torn to turn the great band of cutthroats leaderless upon England? Has thought on it, Father? Must thou draw a single breath in security? If thou knew, Edwild the serf, were raging unchecked through Derby. Edwild, whose father was Torn, limb from limb upon the rack, because he would not confess to killing a buck in the new forest, a buck which fell before the arrow of another man. Edwild, whose mother was burned for witchcraft by the holy church. And whorsan the dain, Father? I think as thou the safety of the roads would be, for either rich or poor. And I turned whorsan the dain loose upon ye. And Pencillo, the Spanish dawn, a great captain, but a man absolutely without bowels of compassion. When first he joined us and saw our mark upon the foreheads of our dead, wishing to out hered hered, he marked the living which fell into his hands with a red hot iron, branding a great pea, upon each cheek, and burning out the right eye completely. Woods like the field, Father, that Don Piedro, Castro, and Pencillo raged free through the forests and hills of England, and read Shandy and the two flories, and Peter the hermit, and One-Eyed Canty, and Grapello, and Campani, and Corbath, and Mandicott, and the thousand others, each with a special hatred, for some particular class or individual, all filled with the lust of blood and rapine and loot. No Father, I may not go yet, for the England I have been taught to hate I have learned to love, and I have it not in my heart to turn loose upon her fair breast, the beasts of hell who know no law or order or decency other than that which I enforce. As Norman of Torrin ceased speaking, the priest sat silent for many minutes. Thou hast indeed a great responsibility, my son, he said at last. Thou canst not well go, unless thou takeest thy horde with thee out of England. But even that may be possible. Who knows other than God? For my part, laugh the outlaw, I be willing to leave it in his hands, which seems to be the way with Christians, when what would shirk a responsibility, or explain an error, lo, one shoulders it upon the Lord. I fear, my son, said the priest, that what seed of reference I have attempted to plant within thy breast has borne poor fruit. That dependedeth upon the viewpoint, Father. As I take not the Lord into partnership in my success, it seemeth to me to be but of a mean and poor spirit to saddle my sorrows and perplexities upon him. I may be wrong, for I am ill-versed in religious matters, but my conception of God and scapegoat be not that they are synonymous. Religion, my son, be a bootless subject for argument between friends, replied the priest, and further, there be that nearer my heart just now, which I would ask thee. I may offend, but thou know, I do not mean to. The question I would ask is, doest wholly trust the old man, whom thou call, Father? I know of no treachery, replied the outlaw, which he has ever conceived against me, why? I ask, because I have written to Simon de Montford, asking him to meet me and to others here upon an important matter. I have learned that he expects to be a like-caster-castle for a few days within the week. He is to notify me when he will come, and I shall then send for thee and the old man of Torn. But it were as well, my son, if thou do not mention this matter to thy father, nor let him know when thou come hither to the meeting that de Montford is to be present. As you say, Father, replied Norman of Torn, I do not make head nor tail of thy wondrous intrigues, but that thou wish it done, thus or so, is sufficient. I must be off to Torn now, so I bid thee farewell. Until the following spring, Norman of Torn continued to occupy himself with occasional pillages against the royalists of the surrounding counties, and his patrols so covered the public highways that it became a matter of grievous import to the king's party. For no one was safe in the district, who even so much as sympathized with the king's cause, and many were the dead foreheads that bore the grim mark of the devil of Torn. Though he had never formally espoused the cause of the barons, it now seemed the matter of little doubt, but that, in any crisis, his gristly banner would be found on their side. The long winter evenings within the castle of Torn were often spent in rough, wild carousels in the great hall where a thousand men might sit at table, singing, fighting, and drinking, until the gray dawn stole in through the east windows, or Peter the Hermit, the fierce major domo, tired of the din and racket, came stalking into the chamber with drawn sword, and laid upon the revelers with the flat of it to enforce the authority of his commands to disperse. One of Torn and the old man seldom joined in these wild orgies. But when minstrel, or troubadour, or storyteller wandered to his grim lair, the outlaw of Torn would sit and enjoy the break in the winter's dull monotony, to his late hour as another, nor could any man of his great fierce horde outdrink their chief when he cared to indulge in the pleasure of the wine-cup. The only effect the liquor seemed to have upon him was to increase his desire to fight, so that he was want to pick needless quarrels and to resort to his sword for the slightest or for no provocation at all. So for this reason he drank but seldom, since he always regretted the things he did under the promptings of that other self which only could assert its ego when reason was threatened with submersion. Often on these evenings the company was entertained by stories from the wild roving lives of its own members, tales of adventure, love, war, and death in every known corner of the world, and the ten captains told each his story of how he came the bee of Torn, and thus with fighting enough by day to keep them good-humored the winter's past, and spring came with the ever-wonderous miracle of awakening life, with soft sephirs, warm rain, and sunny skies. Through all the winter Father Claude had been expecting to hear from Simon de Montford, but not until now did he receive a message which told the good priest that his letter had missed the great baron and had followed him around until he had but just received it. The message closed with these words. Any clue, however vague, which might lead nearer to the true knowledge of the fate of Prince Richard, we shall most gladly receive and give our best attention. Therefore, if thou willest find it convenient, we shall visit thee, good Father, on the fifth day from today. Spizo the Spaniard had seen de Montford's man leave the note with Father Claude, and he had seen the priest hide it under a great bowl on his table, so that when the good Father left his cottage it was a matter of but a moment's work for Spizo to transfer the message from its hiding place to the breast of his tunic. The fellow could not read, but he, to whom he took the missive, could, laboriously, decipher the Latin in which it was penned. The old man of Torn fairly trembled with suppressed rage as the full purport of this letter flashed upon him. It had been years since he had heard ought of the search for the little lost prince of England, and now that the period of his silence was drawing to a close, now that more and more the opportunities were opening up to him to wreak the last shred of his terrible vengeance, the very thought of being thwarted at the final moment staggered his comprehension. On the fifth day he repeated, that is the day on which we were to ride south again. Well, we shall ride, and Spaniard and Montford shall not talk with thee, thou full priest. The same spring evening in the year 1264 a messenger drew rain before the walls of Torn and to the challenge of the watch cried. A royal messenger from his illustrious majesty, Henry by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, to Norman of Torn, open in the name of the king. Norman of Torn directed that the king's messenger be admitted, and the night was quickly ushered into the great hall of the castle. The outlaw presently entered in full armor, with visor lowered. The burying of the king's officer was haughty and arrogant, as became a man of birth when dealing with a low-born nave. His majesty has dined to address ye, sir, he said, withdrawing a parchment from his breast, and, as you doubtless cannot read, I will read the king's commands to you. I can read, replied Norman of Torn, whatever the king can write, unless it be, he added, that the king writes no better than he rules. The messenger scowled angrily and crying. It ill-becomes such a low fellow to speak thus disrespectfully of our gracious king. If he were less generous, he would have sent you a halter rather than this message which I bear. A bridle for thy tongue, my friend, replied Norman of Torn, were in better taste than a halter for my neck. But come, let us see what the king writes to his friend, the outlaw of Torn. Taking the parchment from the messenger, Norman of Torn read, Henry, by grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, two Norman of Torn. Since it has been called to our notice that you be harassing and plundering the persons and property of our faithful leges, we therefore, by virtue of the authority vested in us by Almighty God, do command that you cease these nefarious practices. And further, through the gracious intercession of our majesty, Queen Eleanor, we do offer you full pardon for all your past crimes. Provide it you repair at once to the town of Luz, with all the fighting men, your followers, prepared to protect the security of our person, and wage war upon those enemies of England, Simon de Monfort, Gilbert de Clair, and their accomplices, who even now are collected to threaten and menace our person and kingdom. Or otherwise shall you suffer death by hanging for your long unpunished crimes. Witness myself at Luz, on May the third, in the forty-eighth year of our reign, Henry Rex. The closing paragraph, be unfortunately worded, said Norman of Torn. For because of it, the king's messenger shall eat the king's message, and thus take back in his belly the answer of Norman of Torn. And crumpling the parchment in his hand, he advanced toward the royal emissary. The knight whipped out his sword, but the devil of Torn was even quicker, so that it seemed that the king's messenger had deliberately hurled his weapon across the room, so quickly did the outlaw disarm him. And then Norman of Torn took the man by the neck with one powerful hand, and despite his struggles and the beatings of his mailed fists, bent him back upon the table, and there, forcing his teeth apart with a point of his sword, Norman of Torn rammed the king's message down the knight's throat, wax, parchment, and all. It was a crestfallen gentleman, who rode forth from the castle of Torn a half hour later, and spurred rapidly in his head a more civil tongue. When two days later he appeared before the king at Winchill Sea, and reported the outcome of his mission, Henry raged and stormed, swearing by all the saints in the calendar that Norman of Torn should hang for his effrontery before the snow flew again. News of the fighting between the barons and the king's forces at Rochester, Battle, and elsewhere reached the ears of Norman of Torn a few days after the coming of the king's message. But at the same time came other news which hastened his departure toward the south. This latter word was at Bertrand de Monfort and her mother, accompanied by Prince Philip, had landed at Dover, and that upon the same boat had come Peter of Colfax back to England. The latter doubtless reassured by the strong conviction which held in the minds of all royalists at the time of the certainty of victory for the royal arms in the impending conflict with the rebel barons. Norman of Torn had determined that he would see Bertrand de Monfort once again, and clear as conscious by a frank avowal of his identity. He knew what the result must be. His experience with Joan de Tenae had taught him that. But the fine sense of chivalry which ever dominated all his acts, where the happiness or honour of women were concerned, urged him to give himself over as a sacrifice upon the altar of a woman's pride. Thus it might be she who spurred and rejected. For, as it must appear now, it had been he whose love had grown cold. It was a bitter thing to contemplate, for not alone would the mighty pride of the man be lacerated, but a great love. Two days before the start of the march, Spizo the Spaniard reported to the old man of Torn that he had overheard Father Claude ask Norman of Torn to come with his father to the priest's cottage the morning of the march to meet Simon de Monfort upon an important matter. But what the nature of the thing was the priest did not reveal to the outlaw. This report seemed to please the little grim gray old man, more than ought he had heard in several days, for it made it apparent that the priest had not yet divulged the tenor of his conjecture to the outlaw of Torn. On the evening of the day preceding that set for the march south, a little wiry figure, grim and gray, entered the cottage of Father Claude. No man knows what words passed between the good priest and his visitor, nor the details of what befell within the four walls of the little cottage that night. But some half-hour only elapsed before the little grim gray man emerged from the darkened interior and hastened upward upon the rocky trail into the hills a cold smile of satisfaction on his lips. The castle of Torn was filled with a rush and rattle of preparations early the following morning. For by eight o'clock the column was to march. The courtyard was filled with hurrying squires and lackeys. War-horses were being groomed and carapacened. Sumter beasts, snubbed to great posts, were being laden with the tense bedding and belongings of the men, while those already packed were wandering loose among the other animals and men. There was squealing, biting, kicking, and cursing, as animals fouled one another with their loads, or brushed against some tethered war-horse. Squires were running hither and thither, or aiding their masters to don armor, lacing helm the hallbork. Tying the points of Allette, Cudi, and Rondell, buckling quists and jambi to thigh and leg. The open forges of armors and smithies smoked and hissed, and the dim of hammer on anvil rose above the thousand lesser noises of the castle-courts. The shouting of commands, the rattle of steel, the ringing of iron hoofs on stone flags, as these artificers hastened, sweating and cursing, through the eleventh hour repairs to armor, lance and sword, or to reset a shoe upon a refractory, plunging beast. Finally the captains came, armored capipai, and with them some semblance of order and quiet out of chaos and bedlam. First the sumptuous beasts, all loaded now, were driven with a strong escort to the downs below the castle, and there held to await the column. Then one by one the companies were formed and marched out beneath the fluttering penion and waving banners to the marshal strains of bugle and trumpet. Last of all came the catapults, those great engines of destruction which hurled two hundred pound boulders with mighty force against the walls of beleaguered castles. And after all had passed through the great gates Norman of Torn and the little old man walked side by side from the castle building and mounted their chargers, held by two squires in the center of the courtyard. Below on the downs the column was forming and marching order, and as the two rode out to join it the little old man turned to Norman of Torn saying, I had almost forgot a message I have for you, my son. Father Claude sent word last evening that he had been called suddenly south, and that some appointment you had with him must therefore be deferred until later. He said that you would understand. The old man eyed his companion narrowly through the islet of his helm. "'Tis passing strange,' said Norman of Torn, but that was his only comment. And so they joined the column which moved slowly down toward the valley, and as they passed a cottage of Father Claude Norman of Torn saw that the door was closed and that there was no sign of life about the place. A wave of melancholy passed over him, for the deserted aspect of the little flower-hedged coat seemed dismally prophetic of a near future without the beaming jovial face of his friend and advisor. Scarcely had the horde of Torn passed out of sight down the east edge of the valley ere a party of richly dressed knights coming from the south by another road along the west bank of the river crossed over and drew rain before the cottage of Father Claude. As their hails were unanswered one of the party dismounted to enter the building. "'Have a care, my lord,' cried his companion. "'This be over-close to the castle Torn, and there may easily be more treachery than truth in the message which called thee thither.' "'Fear not,' replied Simon Dimontford. "'The devil of Torn has no quarrel with me.' Striding up the little path he knocked loudly on the door. Receiving no reply he pushed it open and stepped into the dim light of the interior. There he found his host, the good Father Claude, stretched upon his back on the floor, the breast of his priestly robes dark with dried and clotted blood. Turning again to the door Dimontford summoned a couple of his companions. "'The secret of the little lost Prince of England, be a dangerous burden for a man to carry,' he said. But this convinces me more than any words the priest might have uttered, that the abductor be still in England, and possibly Prince Richard also. A search of the cottage revealed the fact that it had been ransacked thoroughly by the assassin. The contents of drawer and box littered every room. Though that the object was not rich plunder, was evidenced by many pieces of jewelry and money which remain untouched. "'The true object lies here,' said Dimontford, pointing to the open hearth upon which lay the charred remains of many papers and documents. All written evidence has been destroyed. But hold, what lieth here beneath the table? And stooping? The Earl of Lycaster picked up a sheet of parchment on which a letter had been commenced. It was addressed to him, and he read it aloud. "'Least some unforeseen chance should prevent the accomplishment of our meeting, my Lord Earl. I send thee this by one who knoweth not either its contents or the suspicions which I narrate herein. He who beareth this letter I truly believe to be the lost Prince Richard. Send him closely, my Lord, and I know that thou wilt be as positive as I. Of his past thou know nearly as much as I, though thou may not know the wondrous chivalry and true nobility of character of his men call. Here the letter stopped, evidently cut short by the dagger of the assassin. "'Mondue, the damnable luck,' cried Dimontford. But a second more, and the name we have sought for twenty years would have been writ. Didst ever see such hellish chance as plays into the hand of the fiend incarnate? Since that long gone day, when a sword pierced the heart of Lady Maud by the poster and gate beside the Thames, the devil himself must watch o'er him. There be not more we can do here,' he continued. "'I should have been on my way to Fletching hours since. Come, my gentlemen, we will ride south by way of Lycastre and have the goodfathers there look to the decent burial of this holy man. The party mounted and rode rapidly away. Nun found them at Lycastre, and three days later they rode into the baronial camp at Fletching. At almost the same hour, the monks of the Abbey of Lycastre performed the last rites of holy church for the peace of the soul of Father Claude, and consigned his clay to the churchyard. And thus another innocent victim of an insatiable hate and vengeance, which had been born in the king's armory twenty years before, passed from the eyes of men. End of chapter 15 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas Chapter 16 of the Outlaw of Torn This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs Chapter 16 While Norman of Torn and his thousand fighting men marched slowly south on the road toward Dover, the army of Simon de Monford was preparing for its advance upon Luz, where King Henry, with his son, Prince Edward, and his brother, Prince Richard, King of the Romans, together with the latter's son, were entrenched with their forces, sixty thousand strong. Before sunrise on a May morning in the year 1264, the Baron's army set out from its camp at Fletching, nine miles from Luz, and marching through dense forests reached a point two miles from the city, unobserved. From here they ascended the great ridge of the hills up the valley Cumby, the projecting shoulder of the downs covering their march from the town. The King's party, however, had no suspicion that an attack was imminent, and in direct contrast to the methods of the baronial troops had spent the preceding night in drunken revelry, so that they were quite taken by surprise. It is true that Henry had stationed an outpost upon the summit of the hill in advance of Luz, but so lax was disciplined in his army, that the soldiers, growing tired of the duty, had abandoned the post toward morning, and returned the town, leaving but a single man on watch. He, left alone, had promptly fallen asleep, and thus Demanford's men found and captured him, within sight of the bell-tower of the priory of Luz, where the King and his royal allies lay peacefully asleep, after their night of wine and dancing and singing. Had it not been for an incident which now befell, the baronial army would doubtless have reached the city without being detected. But it happened that, the evening before, Henry had ordered a foraging party to ride forth at daybreak, as provisions for both men and beasts were low. This party had scarcely left the city behind them, ere they fell into the hands of the baronial troops. Though some few were killed or captured, those who escaped were sufficient to arouse the sleeping army of the royalists to the close proximity and gravity of their danger. By this time the four divisions of Demanford's army were in full view of the town. On the left were the Londoners under Nicholas Desegrave. In the center rode D'Claire, with John Fitzjohn, and William Demanchesi at the head of a large division which occupied that branch of the hill which descended a gentle, unbroken slope to the town. The right wing was commanded by Henry Demanford, the oldest son of Simon Demanford. And with him was the third son Guy, as well as John de Berg and Humphrey de Bohun, the reserves were under Simon Demanford himself. Thus was the flower of English chivalry pitted against the king and his party, which included many nobles whose kinsmen were with Demanford, so that brother faced brother and father fought against son on that bloody Wednesday before the old town of Luz. Prince Edward was the first of the royal party to take the field, and as he issued from the castle with his gallant company banners and pennants streaming in the breeze and burnished armor and flashing blade, scintillating in the morning sunlight, he made a gorgeous and impressive spectacle as he hurled himself upon the Londoners, whom he had selected for attack because of the affront they had put on his mother that day at London on the preceding July. So Vicious was his onslaught that the poorly armed and unprotected burgers, unused to the stern game of war, fell like sheep before the iron men on their iron shod horses. The long lances, the heavy maces, the six bladed battle axes, and the well-tempered swords of the knights played havoc among them, so that the rout was complete. But not content with victory, Prince Edward must glut his vengeance, and so he pursued the citizens for miles butchering great numbers of them, while many more were drowned and attempting to escape across the ooze. The left wing of the royalist army, under the king of the Romans and his gallant son, was not so fortunate, for they met a determined resistance at the hands of Henry de Montfort. The central division of the two armies seemed well matched also, and thus the battle continued throughout the day, the greatest advantage appearing to lie with the king's troops. Had Edward not gone so far afield in pursuit of the Londoners, the victory might easily have been on the side of the royalists early in the day. But by thus eliminating his division after defeating a part of de Montfort's army, it was as though neither of these two forces had been engaged. The wily Simon de Montfort had attempted a little ruse which centered the fighting for a time upon the crest of one of the hills. He had caused his car to be placed there, with the tense and luggage of many of his leaders, under a small guard, so that the banners there displayed together with the car led the king of the Romans to believe that the Earl himself lay there. For Simon de Montfort had, but a month or so before, suffered an injury to his hip when his horse fell with him, and the royalists were not aware that he had recovered sufficiently to again mount a horse. And so it was that the forces under the king of the Romans pushed back the men of Henry de Montfort, and ever and ever closer to the car came the royalists, until they were able to fall upon it, crying out insults against the old Earl, and commanding him to come forth. And when they had killed the occupants of the car, they found that Simon de Montfort was not among them. But instead he had fastened there three important citizens of London, old men and influential, who had opposed him, and ate it and abetted the king. So great was the wrath of Prince Richard, king of the Romans, that he fell upon the baronial troops with renewed vigor, and slowly but steadily beat them back from the town. This sight together with the routing of the enemy's left wing by Prince Edward, so cheered and inspired the royalists that the two remaining divisions took up the attack with refreshed spirits, so that, what a moment before had hung in the balance, now seemed an assured victory for King Henry. But de Montfort and the king had thrown themselves into the melee with all their reserves. No longer was there semblance of organization. Division was inextricably bemingled with division. Friend and foe formed the jumbled confusion of fighting, fighting chaos, over which whipped the angry penions and banners of England's noblest houses. That the mass seemed moving ever away from lose indicated that the king's arms were winning toward victory, and so it might have been, had not a new element been infused into the battle. For now upon the brow of the hill to the north of them appeared a great horde of armored knights, and as they came into position where they could view the battle, the leader raised his sword on high, and as one man the thousand broke into a mad charge. Both de Montfort and the king ceased fighting as they gazed upon the spotty of fresh, well-armored, well-mounted reinforcements. Whom might they be? To which side owed they allegiance? And then, as the black falcon wing on the banners of the advancing horsemen became distinguishable, they saw that it was the outlaw of torn. Now he was close upon them, and had there been any doubt before, the wild battle cry which rang from a thousand fierce stroats turned the hopes of the royalists cold within their breasts. For de Montfort, for de Montfort, and down with Henry rang loud and clear above the din of battle. Instantly the tide turned, and it was by only the barest chance that the king himself escaped capture, and regained the temporary safety of Luz. The king of the Romans took refuge within an old mill, and here it was that Norman of Torn found him barricaded. When the door was broken down the outlaw entered and dragged the monarch forth with his own hand to the feet of de Montfort, and would have put him to death had not the earl intervened. I have yet to set my mark upon the forehead of a king, said Norman of Torn, and the temptation be great. But and you ask it, my lord earl, his life shall be yours to do with as you see fit." "'You have fought well this day, Norman of Torn,' replied de Montfort. "'Verily do I believe we owe our victory to you alone. So do not mar the record of a noble deed by wanton acts of atrocity.' It is but what they had done to me were I the prisoner instead retort at the outlaw. And Simon de Montfort could not answer that, for it was but the simple truth.' "'How comes it, Norman of Torn,' asked de Montfort, as they rode together toward Luz, that you threw the weight of your sword upon the side of the barons, be it because you hate the king more?' "'I do not know that I hate either,' my lord earl, replied the outlaw. "'I have been taught since birth to hate you all. But why I should hate you was never told me. Possibly it be but a bad habit that will yield to my mature years.' "'As for why I fought as I did today,' he continued, "'it be because the heart of Lady Petrard, your daughter, be upon your side. Had it been with the king or uncle, Norman of Torn had fought otherwise than he has this day. So you see, my lord earl, you owe me no gratitude. Tomorrow I may be pillaging your friends as of your.' Simon de Montfort turned to look at him. But the blank wall of his lowered visor gave no sign of the thoughts that passed beneath. "'You do much for a mere friendship, Norman of Torn,' said the earl, coldly. "'And I doubt me not, but that my daughter has already forgotten you, an English noblewoman, preparing to become a princess of France, does not have much thought to waste upon highwaymen. His tone, as well as his words, were studiously arrogant and insulting. For it had stung the pride of this haughty noble to think that a low-born knave boasted the friendship of his daughter. Norman of Torn made no reply. And could the earl of liecaster have seen his face, he had been surprised to note that instead of grim hatred and resentment, the features of the outlaw of Torn were drawn in lines of pain and sorrow, for he read in the attitude of the father what he might expect to receive at the hands of the daughter. CHAPTER XVII. When those of the royalists who had not deserted the king and fled precipitately toward the coast had regained the castle and the priory, the city was turned over to looting and raping. In this Norman of Torn and his men did not participate, but camped a little apart from the town until daybreak the following morning, when they started east toward Dover. They marched until late the following evening, passing some 20 miles out of their way to visit a certain royalist stronghold. The troops stationed there had fled. Having been appraised some few hours earlier by fugitives of the defeat of Henry's army at Luz. Norman of Torn searched the castle for the one he sought, but finding it entirely deserted continued his eastward march. Some few miles further on he overtook a party of deserting royalist soldierly, and from them he easily by dint of threats elicited the information he desired, the direction taken by the refugees from the deserted castle, their number and as close a description of the party as the soldiers could give. Again he was forced to change the direction of his march, this time heading northward into Kent. It was dark before he reached his destination, and saw before him the familiar outlines of the castle of Roger Delaborn. This time the outlaw threw his fierce horde completely around the embattled pile before he advanced with a score of sturdy ruffians to reconnoiter. Making sure that the drawbridge was raised, and that he could not hope for a stealthy entrance there, he crept silently to the rear of the great building, and there, among the bushes, his men searched for the latter that Norman of Torn had seen the navish servant of my Lady Claudia on earth. That the outlaw might visit the Earl of Buckingham unannounced. Presently they found it, and it was the work of but a moment to raise it to the sill of the low window, so that soon the twenty soldiers stood beside their chief within the walls of Laborn. Noiselessly they moved through the halls and corridors of the castle until a maid, burying a great pastry from the kitchen, turned a sudden corner and bumped full into the outlaw of Torn. With a shriek that might have been heard at Luz she dropped the dish upon the stone floor, and turning ran, still shrieking at the top of her lungs, straight for the great dining hall. So close behind her came the little band of outlaws that scarce had the guests arisen in consternation from the table at the shrill cries of the girl, then Norman of Torn burst through the great door with twenty drawn swords at his back. The hall was filled with knights and gentle women, and house servants and men-at-arms. Fifty swords flashed from fifty scabbards, as the men of the party saw the hostile appearance of their visitors. But before a blow could be struck, Norman of Torn, grasping his sword in his right hand, raised his left aloft in a gesture for silence. Hold, he cried, and turning directly to Roger de Laborn, I have no quarrel with thee, my lord, but again I come for a guest within thy halls. He thinks thou hast as bad a taste in whom thou entertains had dits thy fair lady. Who be ye that thus rudely breaks in upon the peace of my castle, and makes bold to insult my guests, demanded Roger de Laborn? Who be I? If you wait, you shall see my mark upon the forehead of yon grinning baboon, replied the outlaw, pointing a mailed finger at one who had been seated close to de Laborn. All eyes turned in the direction that the rigid finger of the outlaw indicated, and there indeed was a fearful apparition of a man. With livid face he stood, leaning for support against the table. His craven knees wobbling beneath his fat carcass, while his lips were drawn apart against his yellow teeth in a horrid grimance of awful fear. If you recognize me not, sir Roger, said Norman of Torn drierly, it is evident that your honored guest hath a better memory. At last the fear-struck man found his tongue, and, though his eyes never left the menacing figure of the grim, ironclad outlaw, he addressed the master of Laborn, shrieking in a high, all emasculated falsetto. Seize him, kill him, set your men upon him. Do you wish to live another moment? Draw and defend yourself, for he be the devil of Torn, and there be a great price upon his head. O save me, save me, for he has come to kill me. He ended in a pitiful wail. The devil of Torn? How that name froze the hearts of the assembled guests. The devil of Torn? Slowly the men standing there at the board of Sir Roger D. Laborn grasped the full purport of that awful name. Tenth silence for a moment held the room, in the stillness of the sepulcher, and then a woman shrieked and fell prone across the table. She had seen the mark of the devil of Torn upon the dead brow of her mate. And then Roger D. Laborn spoke. Norman of Torn? But once before you have entered within the walls of Laborn, and then you did, in the service of another, a great service for the house of Laborn, and you stayed the night an honored guest. For a moment since you said that you had no quarrel with me. Then why be you here, speak? Shall it be as a friend or an enemy that the master of Laborn greets Norman of Torn? Shall it be without stretched hand or naked sword? I come for this man, for whom you may all see, has good reason to fear me, and when I go I take part of him with me. I be in a great hurry, so I would prefer to take my great and good friend, Peter of Colfax, without interference. But if you wish it otherwise, we be a score strong within your walls, and nigh a thousand lie without. What say you, my lord? Your grievance against Peter of Colfax must be a mighty one, that you search him out thus within a day's ride from the army of the king who has placed a price upon your head, and from another army of men who be equally your enemies. I would gladly go to hell after Peter of Colfax replied the outlaw. What my grievance be matters not. Norman of Torn acts first and explains afterwards, if he cares to explain at all. Come forth, Peter of Colfax, and for once in your life fight like a man, that you may save your friends here from the fate that has found you at last after two years of patient waiting. Slowly, the palsied limbs of the great coward bore him tottering to the center of the room, where gradually a little clear space had been made, the men of the party forming a circle, in the center of which stood Peter of Colfax and Norman of Torn. Give him a great draw of brandy, said the outlaw, or he will sink down and choke in the froth of his own terror. When they had forced a goblet of the fiery liquid upon him, Peter of Colfax regained his lost nerve enough so that he could raise his sword-arm and defend himself, and, as the fumes circulated through him, and the primal instinct of self-preservation asserted itself, he put up a more and more creditable fight, until those who watched thought that he might indeed have a chance to vanquish the outlaw of Torn. But they did not know that Norman of Torn was what playing with his victim, that he might make the torture long, drawn out, and wreck as terrible a punishment upon Peter of Colfax, before he killed him, as the Baron had visited upon Betrug de Monford, because she would not yield to his base desires. The guests were craning their necks, to follow every detail of the fascinating drama that was being enacted before them. God, what a swordsman, muttered one. Never was such swordplay seen, since the day the first sword was drawn from the first scabbard, replied Roger Delamorn. Is it not marvelous? Slowly but surely was Norman of Torn cutting Peter of Colfax to pieces, little by little, and with such fiendish care, that, except for loss of blood, the man was in no way crippled, nor did the outlaw touch his victim's face with his gleaming sword, that he was saving for the fulfillment of his design. When Peter of Colfax, cornered and fighting for his life, was no marvellous antagonist, even against the devil of Torn. Furiously he fought. In the extremity of his fear, rushing upon his executioner with frenzied agony, great beads of cold sweat stood upon his livid brow. And then the gleaming point of Norman of Torn flashed lightning-like in his victim's face, and above the right eye of Peter of Colfax was a thin vertical cut, from which the red blood had barely started to ooze, ere another swift move of that master's sword-hand placed a fellow too parallel the first. Five times did the razor-point touch the forehead of Peter of Colfax, until the watchers saw there, upon the brow of the doomed man, the seal of death in letters of blood, N.T. It was the end. Peter of Colfax cut the ribbons, yet fighting like the maniac he had become was as good as dead, for the mark of the outlaw of Torn was upon his brow. Now shrieking and gibbering, through his frothy lips, his yellow fangs bared in a mad and horrid grin, he rushed full upon Norman of Torn. There was a flash of the great sword as the outlaw swung it to the full of his mighty strength through an arc that passed above the shoulders of Peter of Colfax, and the grinning head rolled upon the floor, while the loathsome carcass that had been a baron of England sunk in a disheveled heap among the rushes of the great hall of the castle of Laborn. A little shudder passed through the wide-eyed guests. Someone broke into hysterical laughter, a woman sobbed, and then Norman of Torn wiping his blade upon the rushes of the floor as he had done upon another occasion in that same hall spoke quietly to the master of Laborn. I would borrow yon golden platter, my lord. It shall be returned, or a mightier one, in its stead. Laborn nodded his assent, and Norman of Torn turned, with a few words of instructions, to one of his men. The fellow gathered up the head of Peter of Colfax and placed it upon the golden platter. I thank you, sir Roger, for your hospitality, said Norman of Torn, with a low bow, which included the spellbound guests. Adieu. Thus, followed by his men, one bearing the head of Peter of Colfax upon the platter of gold, Norman of Torn passed quietly from the hall and from the castle. CHAPTER 18 Both horses and men were fairly exhausted from the grueling strain of many days of marching and fighting, so Norman of Torn went into camp that night. Nor did he take up his march until the second morning, three days after the battle of Luz. He bent his direction toward the north and Lycaster's castle, where he had reason to believe he would find a certain young woman, and though it galled his sore heart to think upon the humiliation that lay waiting his coming, he could do no less than that which he felt his honor demanded. Inside him on the march rode the fierce red-giant Shandy, and the wiry, gray little man of Torn, whom the outlaw called Father. In no way saved the gray hair and the parchment-surfaced skin had the old fellow changed in all these years. Without bodily vices and clinging ever to the open air and the exercise of the foil, he was still young in muscle and endurance. For five years he had not crossed foils with Norman of Torn, but he constantly practiced with the best swordsman of the wild horde, so that it had become a subject often discussed among the men, as to which of the two, father or son, was the greater swordsman. Always taciturn the old fellow rode in his usual silence. Long since had Norman of Torn usurped by the force of his strong character and masterful ways the position of authority in the castle of Torn. The old man simply rode and fought with the others when it pleased him, and he had come upon this trip because he felt that there was that impending for which he had waited over twenty years. Cold and hard he looked with no love upon the man he still called my son. If he held any sentiment toward Norman of Torn it was one of pride which began and ended in the almost fiendish skill of his pupil's mighty sword-arm. The little army had been marching for some hours when the advance guard halted a party bound south upon a crossroads. There were some twenty or thirty men, mostly servants, and a half a dozen richly garbed knights. As Norman of Torn drew rain beside them he saw that the leader of the party was a very handsome man of about his own age, and evidently a person of distinction, a profitable prize, thought the outlaw. Who are you, said the gentleman in French, that stops a prince of France upon the high road, as though he were an escaped criminal? Are you of the king's forces, or de Montfort's? Be this prince Philip of France, asked Norman of Torn? Yes, but who be you? And be you riding to meet my lady, betrothed to Montfort, continued the outlaw, ignoring the prince's question? Yes, and it be any of your affair, replied Philip, hurtly? It be, said the devil of Torn, for I be a friend of my lady betrothed, and as the way be beset with dangers from disorganized band of roving soldiery, it is unsafe for Monsourly Prince to venture on with so small an escort. Therefore will the friend of Lady Betrothed de Montfort ride with Monsourly Prince to his destination, that Monsour may arrive there safely. It is kind of you, Sir Knight, a kindness that I will not forget. But again, who is it that shows this solicitude for Philip of France? Norman of Torn, they call me, replied the outlaw. Indeed, cried Philip, the great and bloody outlaw, upon his handsome face there was no look of fear or repugnance. Norman of Torn laughed. Monsourly Prince thinks, may have, that he will make a bad name for himself if he rides in such company. My lady betrothed and her mother, think you be less devil than saint, said the prince. They have told me of how you saved the daughter of de Montfort, and ever since I have been of a great desire to meet you and to thank you. It has been my attention to ride to Torn for that purpose, so soon as we reached Lycester. But the Earl changed all our plans by his victory, and only yesterday on his orders the Princess Eleanor, his wife, with the Lady Betrothed rode to Betel, where Simon de Montfort and the King are to be today. The Queen also is there with her retinae. So it be expected that, to show the good feeling and renewed friendship existing between de Montfort and his King, there will be gay scenes in the old fortress. But he added after a pause, dare the outlaw of Torn ride within reach of the King, who has placed a price upon his head. The price has been there since I was eighteen, answered Norman of Torn, and yet my head be where it has always been. Can you blame me if I look with lavity upon the King's price? It is not heavy enough to weigh me down, nor never has it held me from going where I listed in all England. I am freer than the King, my Lord, for the King be a prisoner today. Together they rode toward Betel, and as they talked, Norman of Torn grew to like this brave and handsome gentleman. And his heart was no rancor because of the coming marriage of the man to the woman he loved. If Betrard de Montfort loved this handsome French prince, then Norman of Torn was his friend. For his love was a great love above jealousy. It not only held her happiness above his own, but the happiness and welfare of the man she loved as well. It was dusk when they reached Betel, and as Norman of Torn bid the Prince adieu, for the hoard was to make camp just without the city, he said. May I ask my Lord to carry a message to Lady Betrard? It is in reference to a promise I made her two years since, and which I now, for the first time, be able to fulfill. Certainly, my friend, replied Philip. The outlaw, dismounting, called upon one of his squires for parchment, and by the light of a torch, wrote a message to Betrard de Montfort. Half an hour later, a servant in the castle of Betel handed the missive to the daughter of Lycaster as she sat alone in her apartment. Open in it she read, to Lady Betrard de Montfort from her friend Norman of Torn. Two years have passed since she took the hand of the outlaw of Torn in friendship, and now he comes to sue for another favor. It is that he may have speech with you alone in the castle of Betel this night. Though the name of Norman of Torn be fought with terror to others, I know that you do not fear him, for you must know the loyalty and friendship which he bears you. My camp lies without the city's gates, and your messenger will have safe conduct whatever reply he bears to Norman of Torn. Fear? The girl smiled as she thought of that moment of terrible terror two years ago when she learned, in the castle of Peter of Colfax, that she was alone with and in the power of the devil of Torn, and that she recalled his little acts of thoughtful shivery, nay almost tenderness, on that long night-ride Lycaster. What a strange contradiction of a man! She wondered if he would come with Lower Advisor, for she was still curious to see the face that lay behind the cold steel mask. She would ask him this night to let her see his face, or would that be cruel? For did they not say that it was from the very ugliness of it that he kept his helm closed to hide the repulsive sight from the eyes of men? As her thoughts wandered back to her brief meeting with him two years before, she wrote and dispatched her reply to Norman of Torn. In the great hall that night, as the king's party sat at supper, Philip of France, addressing Henry, said, And who thinkest thou, my Lord King, rode by my side to Betel today, that I might not be set upon by knaves upon the highway? Some of our good friends from Kent, asked the king. Nay, it was a man upon whose head your majesty is placed to price, Norman of Torn. And if all your English highwaymen be as courteous and pleasant gentleman as he, I shall ride always alone and unarmed through your realm, that I may add to my list of pleasant acquaintances. The devil of Torn asked Henry incredulously, Someone be hoaxing you. Nay, your majesty, I think not, replied Philip, for he was indeed a grim and mighty man, and at his back rode as ferocious and awe-inspiring a pack as I ever beheld outside a prison. Fully a thousand strong they rode. They be camped not far without the city now. My Lord said Henry, turning to Simon de Monford, Be it not time that England were rid of this devil's spawn and his hellish brood, though I presume, he added, a sarcastic sneer upon his lip, that it may prove embarrassing for my Lord Earl of Lancaster to turn upon his companion in arms. I owe him nothing, return the earl haughtily, by his own word. You owe him victory at Luz, snapped the king. It were indeed a sad commentary upon the sincerity of our loyalties professing lesions who turned their arms against our royal person to save him from the treachery of his false advisers, that they called upon a cutthroat outlaw with a price upon his head to aid them in their righteous cause. My Lord King cried de Monford, flushing with anger. I called not upon this fellow, nor did I know he was within two hundred miles of Luz until I saw him ride into the midst of the conflict that day. Neither did I know, until I heard his battle cry, whether he would fall upon barren or royalist. If that be the truth, like Astor, said the king, with a note of skepticism, which he made studiously apparent, hang the dog. He be just without the city, even now. You be King of England, my Lord Henry. If you say that he shall be hanged, hanged he shall be, replied de Monford. A dozen courts have already passed sentence upon him. It only remains to catch him, like Astor, said the king. A party shall sally forth at dawn to do the work, replied de Monford. And not thought Philip of France, if I know it, shall the brave outlaw of Torn be hanged to-morrow. In his camp, without the city of Betel, Norman of Torn paced back and forth, waiting an answer to his message. Centuries patrolled the entire circumference of the Bivouac, for the outlaw knew full well that he had put his head within the lion's jaw, when he had ridden, thus boldly, to the seat of English power. He had no faith in the gratitude of de Monford, and he knew full well what the king would urge when he learned that the man who had sent his soldiers naked back to London, who had forced his messenger to eat the king's message, and who had turned his victory to defeat at Luz, was within reach of the army of de Monford. Norman of Torn loved the fight, but he was no fool, and so he did not relish pitting his thousand upon an open plain against twenty thousand within a walled fortress. No, he would see Bertard de Monford that night, and before dawn his rough ban would be far on the road toward Torn. The risk was too great to enter the castle, filled as it was with his mighty enemies. But if he died there, it would be in a good cause. Thought he, and anyway, he said himself to do his duty, which he dreaded so, and do it he would, were all the armies of the world camped within Betel. Directly he heard a low challenge from one of his sentries, who presently appeared escorting a lackey. A messenger from Lady Bertard de Monford said to soldier, bring him hither, commanded the outlaw. The lackey approached and handed Norman of Torn a dainty parchment sealed with scented wax wafers. Did my lady say you were to wait for an answer, asked the outlaw. I am to wait, my lord, replied the awestruck fellow, to whom the service had been much the same had his mistress ordered him to hell to bear a message to the devil. Norman of Torn turned to a flickering torch, and breaking the seals read the message from the woman he loved. It was short and simple. To Norman of Torn, from his friend always, Bertard de Monford. Come with giles. He asked my instructions to lead thee secretly to where be Bertard de Monford. Norman of Torn turned to where one of his captains squatted upon the ground beside an object covered with a cloth. Come, Flory, he said, and then, turning to the waiting giles, lead on. They fell in single file, first the lackey, giles, then Norman of Torn, and last the fellow whom he had addressed as Flory, bearing the object covered with a cloth. But it was not Flory who brought up the rear. Flory lay dead in the shadow of a great oak within the camp. A thin wound below his left shoulder blade marked the spot where a keen dagger had found its way to his heart, and in his place walked the little, grim, gray old man bearing the object covered with a cloth. But none might know the difference, for the little man wore the armor of Flory, and his visor was drawn. And so they came to a small gate which led into the castle wall, where the shadow of a great tower made the blackness of a black knight doubly black. Through many dim corridors the lackey led them, and up winding stairways until presently he stopped before a low door. Here he said, my lord, and turning left them. Norman of Torn touched the panel with the mailed knuckles of his right hand, and a low voice from within whispered, enter. Finally he strode into the apartment, a small enter chamber off a large hall. At one end was an open hearth upon which logs were burning brightly, while a single lamp aided in diffusing a soft glow about the austere chamber. In the center of the room was a table, and at the sides several benches. Before the fire stood, betrothed Demontford, and she was alone. Place your burden upon this table, Flory, said Norman of Torn. And when it had been done, you may go, return to camp. He did not address betrothed Demontford until the door had closed behind the little grim gray man who wore the armor of the dead Flory, and then Norman of Torn advanced to the table and stood with his left hand ungauntleted, resting upon the table's edge. My Lady Betrothed, he said at last, I have come to fulfill a promise. He spoke in French, and she started slightly at his voice. Before Norman of Torn had always spoken in English. Where had she heard that voice? There were tones in it that haunted her. What promise did Norman of Torn air make to Betrothed Demontford, she asked? I do not understand you, my friend. He said, and as she approached the table he withdrew the cloth which covered the object that the man had placed there. The girl started back with a little cry of terror, for there upon a golden platter was a man's head horrid with a grin of death bearing yellow fangs. Does she recognize the thing, asked the outlaw? And then she did, but still she could not comprehend. At last, slowly, there came back to her the idle, jesting promise of Roger D. Condy to fetch the head of her enemy to the feet of his princess upon a golden dish. But what had the outlaw of Torn to do with that? It was all a sore puzzle to her, and then she saw the bared left hand of the grim, visored figure of the devil of Torn, where it rested upon the table beside the gristly head of Peter of Colfax, and upon the third finger was the great ring she had tossed to Roger D. Condy on that day, two years before. What strange freak was her brain playing her? It could not be. No, it was impossible. Then her glance fell again upon the head grinning there upon the platter of gold, and upon the forehead of it she saw, in letters of dried blood, that awful symbol of sudden death, N. T. Slowly her eyes returned to the ring upon the outlaw's hand, and then up to his visored helm. The steps she took toward him, one hand upon her breast, the other stretched, pointing toward his face, and she swayed slightly, as might one, who has just arisen from a great illness. Your visor, she whispered, raise your visor, and then, as though to herself, it cannot be, it cannot be. Norman of Torn, though it tore the heart from him, did as she bid, and there before her she saw the brave, strong face of Roger D. Condy. Mom, do, she cried, tell me, it is but a cruel joke. It be the cruel truth, my Lady Betrard, said Norman of Torn, sadly, and then, as she turned away from him, burying her face and her raised arms, he came to her side, and laying his hand upon her shoulder, said sadly, and now you see, my Lady, why I did not follow you to France. My heart went there with you, but I knew that not but sorrow and humiliation could come to one whom the devil of Torn loved, if that love was returned, and so I waited until you might forget the words you had spoken to Roger D. Condy before I came to fulfill the promise that you should know him in his true colors. It is because I love you, Betrard, that I have come this night. God knows that it be no pleasant thing to see the loathing in your very attitude, and to read the hate and revulsion that surges through your heart, or to guess the hard, cold thoughts which fill your mind against me because I allowed you to speak the words you once spoke and to the devil of Torn. I make no excuse for my weakness. I ask no forgiveness for what I know you never can forgive. That when you think of me, it will always be with loathing and contempt is the best that I can hope. I only know that I love you, Betrard. I only know that I love you, and with a love that surpasses even my own understanding. Here is the ring that you gave in token of friendship. Take it. The hand that ward has done no wrong by the light that has been given it as guide. The blood that has pulsed through the finger that it circled came from a heart that beat for Betrard de Montfort, a heart that shall continue to beat for her alone, until a merciful providence sees fit to gather in a wasted and useless life. Farewell, Betrard, kneeling. He raised a hem of her garment to his lips. A thousand conflicting emotions surged through the heart of this proud daughter of the new conqueror of England. The anger of an outraged confidence, gratitude for the chivalry which twice had saved her honour, hatred for the murder of a hundred friends and kinsmen, respect and honour for the marvellous courage of the man, loathing and contempt for the base-born, the memory of that exalted moment when those handsome lips had clung to hers, pride in the fearlessness of a champion who dared come alone among twenty thousand enemies for the sake of a promise made her, but stronger than all the rest, too stood out before her mind's eye like living things. The degradation of his low birth and the memory of the great love she had cherished all these long and dreary months, and these two fought out their battle in the girl's breast. In those few brief moments of bewilderment and indecision it seemed to Bertrand de Monford that ten years passed above her head, and when she reached her final resolution she was no longer a young girl, but a grown woman, who with the weight of a mature deliberation had chosen the path which she would travel to the end, to the final goal, however sweet or however bitter. Slowly she turned toward him who knelt with bowed head at her feet, and taking the hand that held the ring outstretched toward her, raised him to his feet. In silence she replaced the golden band upon his finger, and then she lifted her eyes to his. Keep the ring, Norman of Torn she said. The friendship of Bertrand de Monford is not likely given, nor lightly taken away. She hesitated. Nor is her love. What do you mean, he whispered? For in her eyes was that wondrous light he had seen there on that other day in the far castle of Lycaster. I mean she answered that Roger de Conde or Norman of Torn, gentlemen or highwaymen, it be all the same to Bertrand de Monford. It be thee I love, thee. Had she reviled him, spat upon him, he would not have been surprised, for he had expected the worst. But that she should love him, oh God, had his overrault nerves turned his poor head. Was he dreaming this thing only to awaken to the cold and awful truth? But these warm arms about his neck, the sweet perfume of the breath that fanned his cheek, these were no dream. Think thee, without our saying Bertrand, he cried. Doest forget that I be a lowborn nave, knowing not my own mother, and questioning even the identity of my father, could a de Monford face the world with such a man for husband? I know what I say perfectly, she answered. Were thou born, out of wedlock, the son of a hustler and a scullery maid, still would I love thee and honor thee and cleave to thee? Were thou be, Norman of Torn, there shall be happiness for me? Thy friends shall be my friends, thy joys shall be my joys, thy sorrows my sorrows, and thy enemies, even my own father, shall be my enemies. Why is it, my Norman? I know not. Only do I know that I didst often question my own self, if in truth I did really love Roger D. Conde. But thee, oh Norman, why is it that there be no such shred of doubt, that this heart, this soul, this body, be all and always for the outlaw of Torn? I do not know, he said, simply and gravely. So wonderful a thing be beyond my poor brain. But I think my heart knows, for in very joy it is sending the hot blood racing and surging through my bean, till I were like to be consumed by the very heat of my happiness. Shhh! she whispered suddenly. Me thinks I hear footsteps. They must not find thee here, Norman of Torn, for the king has only this night rung a promise from my father to take thee in the morning and hang thee. What shall we do, Norman? Where shall we meet again? We shall not be separated, betrothed, only so long as it may take thee to gather a few trinkets and fetch thy riding-cloak. Thou writest north tonight, with Norman of Torn, and by the third day Father Claude shall make us one. I am glad thee wish it, she replied. I feared that, for some reason, thee might not think it best for me to go with thee now. Wait here, I will be gone but a moment. If the footsteps I hear approach this door, and she indicated the door by which he had entered the little room, thou canst step through this other doorway into the adjoining apartment, and conceal thyself there until the danger passes. Norman of Torn made a rye face, for he had no stomach for hiding himself away from danger. For my sake, she pleaded, so he promised to do as she bid, and she ran swiftly from the room to fetch her belongings. CHAPTER XIX When the little grim grey man had set the object covered with a cloth upon the table in the center of the room and left the apartment, he did not return to camp as Norman of Torn had ordered. Instead he halted immediately without the little door, which he had left the trifle ajar, and there he waited, listening to all that past between Betrard de Monfort and Norman of Torn. Has he heard the proud daughter of Simon de Monfort declare her love for the devil of Torn? A cruel smile curled his lip. It will be better than I had hoped, he murmured, and easier. Sublud, how much easier now that like-caster, too, may have his whole proud heart in the hanging of Norman of Torn. Ah, what a sublime revenge! I have waited long, thou cur of a king, to return the blow thou struck that day. But the return shall be a hundredfold increased by long accumulated interest. Quickly the wiry figure hastened through the passageways and corridors until he came to the great hall, where sat de Monfort and the king, with Philip of France and many others, gentlemen and nobles. Before the guard at the door could halt him, he had broken into the room, and, addressing the king, cried, Wouldst thou take the devil of Torn, my Lord King? He be now alone, where a few men may seize him. What now, what now, ejaculated Henry, what madman be this? I be no madman, your majesty. Never did brain work more clearly, or to more certain ends, replied the man. It may doubtless be some ruse of the cutthroat himself, cried de Monfort. Where be the nave, asked Henry? He stands now within this palace, and in his arms be betrard, Daughter of my Lord Earl of like-aster, even now she did but tell him that she loved him. I cried de Monfort, hold fast thy foul tongue, what meanest thou by uttering such lies, and to my very face? There be no lies, Simon de Monfort, and I tell thee that Roger de Condy and Norman of Torn be one and the same. That will note that I speak no lie. De Monfort paled. Where be the craven wretch, he demanded? Come, said the little old man, and turning, he led from the hall, closely followed by de Monfort, the king, Prince Philip, and others. Thou hadst better bring twenty fighting men, thou need them all to take Norman of Torn, he advised de Monfort. And so as they passed the guard room, the party was increased by twenty men at arms. Scarcely had betrard de Monfort left him, ere Norman of Torn heard the tramping of many feet. They seemed approaching up the dim corridor that led to the little door of the apartment where he stood. Quickly he moved to the opposite door, and standing with his hand upon the latch waited. Yes, they were coming that way, many of them and quickly, and, as he heard them pause without, he drew aside the aris and pushed open the door behind him, backing into the other apartment, just as Simon de Monfort, Earl of Lycaster, burst into the room from the opposite side. At the same instant a scream rang out behind Norman of Torn, and turning, he faced a brightly lighted room in which sat Eleanor, Queen of England, and another Eleanor, wife of Simon de Monfort, with their ladies. There was no hiding now, and no escape, for run he would not, even had there been where to run. Slowly he backed away from the door, toward a corner where, with his back against the wall, and a table at his right, he might die as he had lived. Fighting for Norman of Torn knew that he could hope for no quarter from the men who had him cornered there like a great bear in a tramp. With an army at their call, it were an easy thing to take a lone man, even though that man were the devil of Torn. The king and de Monfort had now crossed the smaller apartment, and were within the room where the outlaw stood at bay. At the far side the group of royal and noble women stood huddled together, while behind de Monfort and the king pushed twenty gentlemen, and as many men at arms. What doest thou hear, Norman of Torn? cried de Monfort angrily. Where be my daughter, betrard? I be here, my Lord Earl, to attend to my own affair as replied Norman of Torn, which be the affair of no other man. As to your daughter, I know nothing of her whereabouts. What should she have to do with the devil of Torn, my Lord? de Monfort turned toward the little grey man. He lies shouted he. Her kisses be yet wet upon his lips. Norman of Torn looked at the speaker, and beneath the visor that was now partly raised, he saw the features of the man whom for twenty years he had called father. He had never expected love from this hard old man, but treachery and harm from him? No, he could not believe it. One of them must have gone mad. But why, Flory's armor? And where was the faithful Flory? Father he ejaculated, leadest thou the hated English king against thy own son? Thou be no son of mine, Norman of Torn, retorted the old man. Thy days of usefulness to me be past. And thou serve me best, swinging from a wooden gibbet. Take him, my Lord Earl. They say there be a good strong gibbet in the courtyard below. Will surrender, Norman of Torn, cried de Monfort? Yes, was the reply. When this floor be ankle deep in English blood, and my heart has ceased to beat, then will I surrender. Come, come, cried the king. Let your men take the dog, de Monfort. If Adam then ordered the Earl turning toward the waiting men at arms, none of whom seemed overly anxious to advance upon the doomed outlaw. But an officer of the guard set them the example, and so they pushed forward in a body toward Norman of Torn, twenty blades bared against one. There was no play now for the outlaw of Torn. It was grim battle, and his only hope that he might take a fearful toll of his enemies before he himself went down. And so he fought as he'd never fought before, to kill as many and as quickly as he might. And to those who watched, it was as though the young officer of the guard had not come within reach of that terrible blade, ere he lay dead upon the floor, and then the point of death passed into the lungs of one of the men at arms, scarcely pausing ere it pierced the heart of a third. The soldiers fell back momentarily awed by the frightful havoc of that mighty arm. Before de Monfort could urge them to renew the attack, a girlish figure clothed in a long riding cloak burst through the little knot of men as they stood facing their lone antagonist. With a low cry of mingled rage and indignation, patred de Monfort through herself before the devil of Torn, and facing the astonished company of king, prince, nobles, and soldiers, drew herself to her full height, and with all the pride of race and blood, that was her right of heritage. From a French king on her father's side, and an English king on her mother's side, she flashed her defiance and contempt in the single word. Cowards. What means this girl, de Monfort? Art gone stark mad? Know thou that this fellow be the outlaw of Torn? If I had not before known it, my lord, she replied haughtily, it would be plain to me, now, as I see forty cowards hesitating to attack a lone man. What other man in all England could stand thus against forty, a lion at bay, with forty jackals yelping at his feet? Enough, girl, cried the king. What be this nave to thee? He loves me, your majesty, she replied proudly, and I him. Thou lovest this low-born cutthroat, betrothed, cried Henry. Thou, a de Monfort, the daughter of my sister, who have seen this murderer's accursed mark upon the foreheads of thy kin. Thou have seen him flaunt his defiance in the king's thy uncle's face, and bend his whole life to pray in upon thy people. Thou lovest this monster? I love him, my lord king. Thou lovest him, betrothed, asked Philip of France in a low tone, pressing nearer to the girl. Yes, Philip, she said, a little note of sadness and finality in her voice, but her eyes met his squarely and bravely. Instantly the sword of the young prince leaped from its scabbard, and facing de Monfort and the others he backed to the side of Norman of Torn. That she loves him be enough for me to know, my gentleman, he said, who taketh the man betrothed de Monfort loves must take Philip of France as well. Norman of Torn laid his left hand upon the other's shoulder. No, thou must not do this thing, my friend, he said. It be my fight, and I will fight it alone. Go, I beg of thee, and take her with thee, out of harm's way. As they argued Simon de Monfort and the king had spoken together, and had a word from the former, the soldiers rushed suddenly to attack again. It was a cowardly stratagem, for they knew that the two could not fight with the girl between them and their adversaries, and thus by weight of numbers they took betrothed de Monfort and the prince away from Norman of Torn, without a blow being struck, and then the little grim, gray old man stepped forward. There be but one sword in all England, nay, in all the world that can alone take Norman of Torn, he said, addressing the king. And that sword be mine. Keep thy cattle back out of my way. And without waiting for a reply, the grim, gray man sprang in to engage him, who for twenty years he had called son. Norman of Torn came out of his corner to meet his newfound enemy, and there, in the apartment of the Queen of England, in the castle of Patel, was fought such a duel as no man there had ever seen before, nor is it credible that it was like ever fought before, or since. The world's two greatest swordsmen, teacher and pupil, the one with the strength of a young bull, the other with the cunning of an old gray fox, and both with the lifetime of training behind them, and the lust of blood and hate before them, thrust and parried and cut, until those that gazed awe-stricken upon the marvellous swordplay scarcely breathed in the density of their wonder. Back and forth about the room they moved, while those who had come to kill pressed back to make room for the contestants. Now was the young man forcing his older foeman more and more upon the defensive, slowly but assures death he was winning ever nearer and nearer to victory. The old man saw it, too. He had devoted years of his life to training that mighty sword-arm, that it might deal out death to others, and now, ah, the grim justice of the retribution he, at last, was to fall before its diabolical cunning. He could not win and verify it against Norman of Torm, that the wily Frenchman saw. But now that death was so close upon him that he felt its cold breath condensing on his brow, he had no stomach to die, and so he cast about for any means whereby he might escape the result of his rash venture. Presently he saw his opportunity. Norman of Torm stood beside the body of one of his earlier antagonists. Slowly the old man worked around until the body lay directly behind the outlaw. And then, with a final rally and one great last burst of supreme swordsmanship, he rushed Norman of Torm back for a bare step. It was enough. The outlaw's foot struck the prostrate corpse. He staggered, and for one brief instant his sword-arm rose ever so little, as he strove to retain his equilibrium. But that little was enough. It was what the gray old snake had expected, and he was ready. Like lightning, his sword shot through the opening, and for the first time in his life, of continual combat and death, Norman of Torm felt cold steel tear his flesh. But ere he fell, his sword responded to the last fierce command of that iron will, and as his body sank limply to the floor, rolling without stretched arms upon its back, the little grim gray man went down also, clutching frantically at a gleaming blade buried in his chest. For an instant the watcher stood as opetrified, and then Betrard de Monfort, tearing herself from the restraining hands of her father, rushed to the side of the lifeless body of the man she loved. Being there beside him, she called his name aloud as she unlaced his helm. Tearing the steel headgear from him, she caressed his face, kissing the light forehead and the steel lips. Oh God, oh God, she murmured. Why has thou taken him? Outlaw though he was, in his little finger was more honor, of chivalry, of true manhood, than courses through the veins of all the nobles in England. I do not wonder that he prayed upon you, she cried, praying upon the knights behind her. His life was clean, thine be rotten. He was loyal to his friends, and to the downtrodden. Ye be the traitors at heart, all, and ever, be he trampling upon those who be down that they may sink deeper into the mud. None do how I hate you, she finished. And as she spoke the words Betrard de Monfort looked straight into the eyes of her father. The older all turned his head, for at heart. He was a brave, broad, kindly man. And he regretted what he had done in the haste and heat of anger. Come, child, said the king, thou art distraught, thou sayest what thou mean not. The world is better that this man be dead. He was an enemy of organized society. He prayed ever upon his fellows, life in England will be safer after this day. Do not weep over the clay of a nameless adventurer who knew not his own father. Someone had lifted the little grim, gray old man to a sitting posture. He was not dead. Occasionally he coughed, and when he did his frame was racked with suffering, and blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils. At last they saw he was trying to speak. Weekly he motioned toward the king. Henry came toward him. Thou hast won thy sovereign's gratitude, my man, said the king, kindly. What be thy name? The old fellow tried to speak, but the effort brought on another paroxysm of coughing. At last he managed to whisper, look at me. Doest thou not remember me? The foils, the blow, twenty long years, thou spat upon me. Henry knelt and peered into the dying face. Divock, he exclaimed. The old man nodded. Then he pointed to where lay Norman of Torn. Outlaw, highwayman, scourge of England, look upon his face, open his tunic, left breast. He stopped from very weakness, and then in another moment with a final effort. Divock's revenge got, bam, the English, and slipped forward upon the rushes, dead. The king had heard, and demonford and the queen. They stood looking into each other's eyes with a strange fixity for what seemed an eternity before any dared to move. And then, as though they feared what they should see, they bent over the form of the outlaw of Torn for the first time. The queen gave a little cry as she saw the still, quiet face turned up to hers. Edward, she whispered. Not Edward, madam, said demonford, but the king knelt beside the still form, across the breast which lay the unconscious body of betrothed demonford. Gently he lifted her to the waiting arms of Philip of France, and then the king with his own hands tore off the shirt of male, and with trembling fingers ripped wide the tunic where it covered the left breast of the devil of Torn. Oh, God! he cried, and buried his head in his arms. The queen had seen also, and with a little moan she sank beside the body of her second-born, crying out, Oh, Richard, my boy, my boy! And as she bent still lower to kiss the lily-mark upon the left breast of the son she had not seen to know. For over twenty years she paused, and with frantic haste she pressed her ear to his breast. He lives, she almost shrieked, Quick, Henry, our son lives! Betrothed demonford had regained consciousness almost before Philip of France had raised her from the floor, and she stood now, leaning on his arm, watching with wide, questioning eyes the strange scene being enacted at her feet. Slowly the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with returning consciousness. Before him, on her knees, in the blood-splattered rushes of the floor, knelt Eleanor, queen of England, alternately chaffing and kissing his hands. A sore wound, indeed, to have brought on such a wild delirium, thought the outlaw of Torn. He felt his body in a half-sitting, half-reclining position, resting against one whom knelt behind him, and as he lifted his head to see whom it might be, supporting him, he looked into the eyes of the king, upon whose breast his head rested. Strange vagaries of a disordered brain. Yes, it must have been a very terrible wound that the little old man of Torn had given him. But why could he not dream that Petrard de Montfort held him? And then his eyes wandered among the throng of ladies, nobles and soldiers, standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found her. Petrard he whispered. The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite the queen. Petrard tell me thou art real, that thou at least be no dream. I be very real, dear heart, she answered. And these others be real also. When thou art stronger, thou shalt understand the strange thing that has happened. These who were thine enemies, Norman of Torn, be thy best friends now, that thou should know, so that thou may rest in peace until thou be better. He groped for her hand and, finding it, closed his eyes with a faint sigh. They bore him to a cot in an apartment next to the queens, and all that night the mother and the promised wife of the outlaw of Torn sat bathing his fevered forehead. The king's surgeon was there also, while the king and de Montfort paced the corridor without. And it is ever thus, whether in Hubble or Palace, in the days of Moses or in the days at B.R.'s, the lamb that has been lost and is found again be always the best loved. Toward morning Norman of Torn fell into a quiet and natural sleep. The fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect health and iron constitution. The surgeon turned to the queen and Petrard de Montfort. You had best retire, ladies, he said, and rest. The prince will live. Late that afternoon he awoke, and no amount of persuasion or commands on the part of the king's surgeon could restrain him from arising. I beseech thee to lie quiet, my Lord Prince, urge the surgeon. Why call, thou me Prince, ask Norman of Torn? There be one without whose right it be to explain that to thee replied the surgeon, and when thou be clothed, if rise thou wilt, thou may seeest her, my Lord. The surgeon aided him to dress and opening the door. He spoke to a sentry who stood just without. The sentry transmitted the message to a young squire who was waiting there, and presently the door was thrown open again from without and a voice announced. Her Majesty the Queen. Norman of Torn looked up in unfeigned surprise, and then there came back to him the scene in the queen's apartment the night before. It was all a sore perplexity to him. He could not phantom it, nor did he attempt to. And now, as in a dream, he saw the Queen of England coming toward him across the small room, her arms outstretched, her beautiful face radiant with happiness and love. Richard my son exclaimed Eleanor, coming to him and taking his face in her hands and kissing him. Madam, explained the surprised man, be all the world gone crazy? And then she told him the strange story of the little lost Prince of England. When she had finished, he knelt at her feet, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. I did not know, Madam, he said, or never would my sword have been bared in other service than thine. If thou canst forgive me, Madam, never can I forgive myself. Take it not so hard, my son, said Eleanor of England. It be no fault of thine. And there be nothing to forgive, only happiness and rejoicing should we feel, now that thou be found again. Forgiveness said a man's voice behind them. Forsooth it be we that should ask forgiveness, hunting down our own son with swords and halters. Any but a fool might have known that it was no base-born nave who sent the king's army back, naked to the king, and rammed the king's message down his messenger's throat. By all the saints, Richard, thou be every inch a king's son, and though we made sour faces at the time, we be all the prouder of thee now. The queen and the outlaw had turned, at the first words, to see the king standing behind them. And now Norman of Torn rose, half smiling and greeted his father. They be sorry, jokesire, he said. Me thinks it had been better had Richard remain lost. It will do the honor of the plentagenist but little good to acknowledge the outlaw of Torn as a prince of the blood. But they would not have it so, and it remained for a later king of England to wipe the great name from the pages of history. Perhaps a jealous king. Presently the king and queen, adding their pleas to those of the surgeon, prevailed upon him to lie down once more, and when he had done so they left him that he might sleep again. But no sooner had the door closed behind them than he arose and left the apartment by another exit. It was by chance that, in a deep-set window, he found her for whom he was searching. She sat looking wistfully into space, an expression half sad upon her beautiful face. She did not see him as he approached, and he stood there for several moments watching her dear profile, and the rising and falling of her bosom over that true and loyal heart that had beaten so proudly against all the power of a mighty throne for the despised outlaw of Torn. He did not speak, but presently that strange, subtle sixth sense, which warns us that we are not alone, though our eyes see not nor ears hear, cost her to turn. With a little cry she arose, and then, curtsying low after the manner of the court said, What would my Lord, Richard, Prince of England, of his poor subject? And then, more gravely, my Lord, I have been raised at court, and I understand that a prince does not wed rashly. So let us forget what passed between Bertrand de Montfort and Norman of Torn. Prince Richard of England will in no wise disturb royal precedence, he replied, for he will not wed rashly, but most wisely, since he will wed none but de Trard de Montfort. And he, who had been the outlaw of Torn, took the fair young girl in his arms, adding, if she still loves me, now that I be a prince. She put her arms about his neck and drew his cheek down close to hers. It was not the outlaw that I loved, Richard, nor be it the prince I love now, it be all the same to me, prince or highwomen, it be thee I love, dear heart, just thee. End of chapter 19. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. End of the Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs.