It was midnight ere they sighted the black towers of Colfax silhouetted against the starry sky. Drawing his men into the shadows of the forest a half mile from the castle, Norman of Torn rode forward with Shandy and some fifty men to a point as close as they could come without being observed. Here they dismounted and Norman of Torn crept stealthily forward alone.
Taking advantage of every cover, he approached to the very shadows of the great gate without being detected. In the castle, a light shone dimly from the windows of the great hall, but no other sign of life was apparent. To his intense surprise, Norman of Torn found the drawbridge lowered and no sign of watchmen at the gate or upon the walls.
As he had sacked this castle some two years since, he was familiar with its internal plan, and so he knew that through the scullery he could reach a small antechamber above, which let directly into the great hall.
And so it happened that, as Peter of Colfax wheeled toward the door of the little room, he stopped short in terror, for there before him stood a strange knight in armor, with lowered visor and drawn sword. The girl saw him too, and a look of hope and renewed courage overspread her face.
“Draw!” commanded a low voice in English, “unless you prefer to pray, for you are about to die.”
“Who be ye, varlet?” cried the Baron. “Ho, John! Ho, Guy! To the rescue, quick!” he shrieked, and drawing his sword, he attempted to back quickly toward the main doorway of the hall; but the man in armor was upon him and forcing him to fight ere he had taken three steps.
It had been short shrift for Peter of Colfax that night had not John and Guy and another of his henchmen rushed into the room with drawn swords.
“Ware! Sir Knight,” cried the girl, as she saw the three knaves rushing to the aid of their master.
Turning to meet their assault, the knight was forced to abandon the terror-stricken Baron for an instant, and again he had made for the doorway bent only on escape; but the girl had divined his intentions, and running quickly to the entrance, she turned the great lock and threw the key with all her might to the far corner of the hall. In an instant she regretted her act, for she saw that where she might have reduced her rescuer’s opponents by at least one, she had now forced the cowardly Baron to remain, and nothing fights more fiercely than a cornered rat.
The knight was holding his own splendidly with the three retainers, and for an instant Bertrade de Montfort stood spellbound by the exhibition of swordsmanship she was witnessing.
Fighting the three alternately, in pairs and again all at the same time, the silent knight, though weighted by his heavy armor, forced them steadily back; his flashing blade seeming to weave a net of steel about them. Suddenly his sword stopped just for an instant, stopped in the heart of one of his opponents, and as the man lunged to the floor, it was flashing again close to the breasts of the two remaining men-at-arms.
Another went down less than ten seconds later, and then the girl’s attention was called to the face of the horrified Baron; Peter of Colfax was moving—slowly and cautiously, he was creeping, from behind, toward the visored knight, and in his raised hand flashed a sharp dagger.
For an instant, the girl stood frozen with horror, unable to move a finger or to cry out; but only for an instant, and then, regaining control of her muscles, she stooped quickly and, grasping a heavy footstool, hurled it full at Peter of Colfax.
It struck him below the knees and toppled him to the floor just as the knight’s sword passed through the throat of his final antagonist.
As the Baron fell, he struck heavily upon a table which supported the only lighted cresset within the chamber. In an instant, all was darkness. There was a rapid shuffling sound as of the scurrying of rats and then the quiet of the tomb settled upon the great hall.
“Are you safe and unhurt, my Lady Bertrade?” asked a grave English voice out of the darkness.
“Quite, Sir Knight,” she replied, “and you?”
“Not a scratch, but where is our good friend the Baron?”
“He lay here upon the floor but a moment since, and carried a thin long dagger in his hand. Have a care, Sir Knight, he may even now be upon you.”
The knight did not answer, but she heard him moving boldly about the room. Soon he had found another lamp and made a light. As its feeble rays slowly penetrated the black gloom, the girl saw the bodies of the three men-at-arms, the overturned table and lamp, and the visored knight; but Peter of Colfax was gone.
The knight perceived his absence at the same time, but he only laughed a low, grim laugh.
“He will not go far, My Lady Bertrade,” he said.
“How know you my name?” she asked. “Who may you be? I do not recognize your armor, and your breastplate bears no arms.”
He did not answer at once and her heart rose in her breast as it filled with the hope that her brave rescuer might be the same Roger de Condé who had saved her from the hirelings of Peter of Colfax but a few short weeks since. Surely it was the same straight and mighty figure, and there was the marvelous swordplay as well. It must be he, and yet Roger de Condé had spoken no English while this man spoke it well, though, it was true, with a slight French accent.
“My Lady Bertrade, I be Norman of Torn,” said the visored knight with quiet dignity.
The girl’s heart sank, and a feeling of cold fear crept through her. For years that name had been the symbol of
