It was upon this scene that the Outlaw of Torn burst with naked sword. They were at the far end of the apartment, and his cry of anger at the sight caused the Earl to drop his prey, and turn with drawn sword to meet him.
There were no words, for there was no need of words here. The two men were upon each other, and fighting to the death, before the girl had regained her feet. It would have been short shrift for John de Fulm had not some of his men heard the fracas, and rushed to his aid.
Four of them there were, and they tumbled pell-mell into the room, fairly falling upon Norman of Torn in their anxiety to get their swords into him; but once they met that master hand, they went more slowly, and in a moment, two of them went no more at all, and the others, with the Earl, were but circling warily in search of a chance opening—an opening which never came.
Norman of Torn stood with his back against a table in an angle of the room, and behind him stood Joan de Tany.
“Move toward the left,” she whispered. “I know this old pile. When you reach the table that bears the lamp, there will be a small doorway directly behind you. Strike the lamp out with your sword, as you feel my hand in your left, and then I will lead you through that doorway, which you must turn and quickly bolt after us. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
Slowly he worked his way toward the table, the men-at-arms in the meantime keeping up an infernal howling for help. The Earl was careful to keep out of reach of the point of De Condé’s sword, and the men-at-arms were nothing loath to emulate their master’s example.
Just as he reached his goal, a dozen more men burst into the room, and emboldened by this reinforcement, one of the men engaging De Condé came too close. As he jerked his blade from the fellow’s throat, Norman of Torn felt a firm, warm hand slipped into his from behind, and his sword swung with a resounding blow against the lamp.
As darkness enveloped the chamber, Joan de Tany led him through the little door, which he immediately closed and bolted as she had instructed.
“This way,” she whispered, again slipping her hand into his and, in silence, she led him through several dim chambers, and finally stopped before a blank wall in a great oak-panelled room.
Here the girl felt with swift fingers the edge of the molding. More and more rapidly she moved as the sound of hurrying footsteps resounded through the castle.
“What is wrong?” asked Norman of Torn, noticing her increasing perturbation.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Can I be wrong! Surely this is the room. Oh, my friend, that I should have brought you to all this by my willfulness and vanity; and now when I might save you, my wits leave me and I forget the way.”
“Do not worry about me,” laughed the Devil of Torn. “Methought that it was I who was trying to save you, and may heaven forgive me else, for surely, that be my only excuse for running away from a handful of swords. I could not take chances when thou wert at stake, Joan,” he added more gravely.
The sound of pursuit was now quite close, in fact the reflection from flickering torches could be seen in nearby chambers.
At last the girl, with a little cry of “stupid,” seized De Condé and rushed him to the far side of the room.
“Here it is,” she whispered joyously, “here it has been all the time.” Running her fingers along the molding until she found a little hidden spring, she pushed it, and one of the great panels swung slowly in, revealing the yawning mouth of a black opening behind.
Quickly the girl entered, pulling De Condé after her, and as the panel swung quietly into place, the Earl of Buckingham with a dozen men entered the apartment.
“The devil take them,” cried De Fulm. “Where can they have gone? Surely we were right behind them.”
“It is passing strange, My Lord,” replied one of the men. “Let us try the floor above, and the towers; for of a surety they have not come this way.” And the party retraced its steps, leaving the apartment empty.
Behind the panel, the girl stood shrinking close to De Condé, her hand still in his.
“Where now?” he asked. “Or do we stay hidden here like frightened chicks until the war is over and the Baron returns to let us out of this musty hole?”
“Wait,” she answered, “until I quiet my nerves a little. I am all unstrung.” He felt her body tremble as it pressed against his.
With the spirit of protection strong within him, what wonder that his arm fell about her shoulder as though to say, fear not, for I be brave and powerful; naught can harm you while I am here.
Presently she reached her hands up to his face, made brave to do it by the sheltering darkness.
“Roger,” she whispered, her tongue halting over the familiar name. “I thought that they had killed you, and all for me, for my foolish stubbornness. Canst forgive me?”
“Forgive?” he asked, smiling to himself. “Forgive being given an opportunity to fight? There be nothing to forgive, Joan, unless it be that I should ask forgiveness for protecting thee so poorly.”
“Do not say that,” she commanded. “Never was such bravery or such swordsmanship in all the world before; never such a man.”
He did not answer. His mind was a chaos of conflicting thoughts. The feel of her hands as they had lingered momentarily, and with a vague caress upon his cheek, and the pressure of her body as she leaned against him sent the hot blood coursing through his veins. He was puzzled, for he had not dreamed that friendship was so sweet. That she did not
