he knelt beside his fallen foeman, and she did not see his act. Brave

daughter of a brave sire though she was, had she seen what he did, her

heart would have quailed within her and she would have fled in terror from

the clutches of this scourge of England, whose mark she had seen on the

dead foreheads of a dozen of her father's knights and kinsmen.

Their way to Stutevill lay past the cottage of Father Claude, and here

Norman of Torn stopped to don his armor. Now he rode once more with

lowered visor, and in silence, a little to the rear of Bertrade de Montfort

that he might watch her face, which, of a sudden, had excited his interest.

Never before, within the scope of his memory, had he been so close to a

young and beautiful woman for so long a period of time, although he had

often seen women in the castles that had fallen before his vicious and

terrible attacks. While stories were abroad of his vile treatment of women

captives, there was no truth in them. They were merely spread by his

enemies to incite the people against him. Never had Norman of Torn laid

violent hand upon a woman, and his cut-throat band were under oath to

respect and protect the sex, on penalty of death.

As he watched the semi-profile of the lovely face before him, something

stirred in his heart which had been struggling for expression for years.

It was not love, nor was it allied to love, but a deep longing for

companionship of such as she, and such as she represented. Norman of Torn

could not have translated this feeling into words for he did not know, but

it was the far faint cry of blood for blood and with it, mayhap, was mixed

<<BackPagesTo menuNext>>