And then there came to him as in a vision another fair and beautiful face—Bertrade de Montfort’s—and Norman of Torn was still more puzzled; for at heart he was clean, and love of loyalty was strong within him. Love of women was a new thing to him, and, robbed as he had been all his starved life of the affection and kindly fellowship, of either men or women, it is little to be wondered at that he was easily impressionable and responsive to the feeling his strong personality had awakened in two of England’s fairest daughters.
But with the vision of that other face, there came to him a faint realization that mayhap it was a stronger power than either friendship or fear which caused that lithe, warm body to cling so tightly to him. That the responsibility for the critical stage their young acquaintance had so quickly reached was not his had never for a moment entered his head. To him, the fault was all his; and perhaps it was this quality of chivalry that was the finest of the many noble characteristics of his sterling character. So his next words were typical of the man; and did Joan de Tany love him, or did she not, she learned that night to respect and trust him as she respected and trusted few men of her acquaintance.
“My Lady,” said Norman of Torn, “we have been through much, and we are as little children in a dark attic, and so if I have presumed upon our acquaintance,” and he lowered his arm from about her shoulder, “I ask you to forgive it for I scarce know what to do, from weakness and from the pain of the blow upon my head.”
Joan de Tany drew slowly away from him, and without reply, took his hand and led him forward through a dark, cold corridor.
“We must go carefully now,” she said at last, “for there be stairs near.”
He held her hand pressed very tightly in his, tighter perhaps than conditions required, but she let it lie there as she led him forward, very slowly down a flight of rough stone steps.
Norman of Torn wondered if she were angry with him and then, being new at love, he blundered.
“Joan de Tany,” he said.
“Yes, Roger de Condé; what would you?”
“You be silent, and I fear that you be angry with me. Tell me that you forgive what I have done, an it offended you. I have so few friends,” he added sadly, “that I cannot afford to lose such as you.”
“You will never lose the friendship of Joan de Tany,” she answered. “You have won her respect and—and—” But she could not say it and so she trailed off lamely—“and undying gratitude.”
But Norman of Torn knew the word that she would have spoken had he dared to let her. He did not, for there was always the vision of Bertrade de Montfort before him; and now another vision arose that would effectually have sealed his lips had not the other—he saw the Outlaw of Torn dangling by his neck from a wooden gibbet.
Before, he had only feared that Joan de Tany loved him, now he knew it, and while he marvelled that so wondrous a creature could feel love for him, again he blamed himself, and felt sorrow for them both; for he did not return her love nor could he imagine a love strong enough to survive the knowledge that it was possessed by the Devil of Torn.
Presently they reached the bottom of the stairway, and Joan de Tany led him, gropingly, across what seemed, from their echoing footsteps, a large chamber. The air was chill and dank, smelling of mold, and no ray of light penetrated this subterranean vault, and no sound broke the stillness.
“This be the castle’s crypt,” whispered Joan; “and they do say that strange happenings occur here in the still watches of the night, and that when the castle sleeps, the castle’s dead rise from their coffins and shake their dry bones.
“Sh! What was that?” as a rustling noise broke upon their ears close upon their right; and then there came a distinct moan, and Joan de Tany fled to the refuge of Norman of Torn’s arms.
“There is nothing to fear, Joan,” reassured Norman of Torn. “Dead men wield not swords, nor do they move, or moan. The wind, I think, and rats are our only companions here.”
“I am afraid,” she whispered. “If you can make a light, I am sure you will find an old lamp here in the crypt, and then will it be less fearsome. As a child I visited this castle often, and in search of adventure, we passed through these corridors an hundred times, but always by day and with lights.”
Norman of Torn did as she bid, and finding the lamp, lighted it. The chamber was quite empty save for the coffins in their niches, and some effigies in marble set at intervals about the walls.
“Not such a fearsome place after all,” he said, laughing lightly.
“No place would seem fearsome now,” she answered simply, “were there a light to show me that the brave face of Roger de Condé were by my side.”
“Hush, child,” replied the outlaw. “You know not what you say. When you know me better, you will be sorry for your words, for Roger de Condé is not what you think him. So say no more of praise until we be out of this hole, and you safe in your father’s halls.”
The fright of the noises in the dark chamber had but served to again bring the girl’s face close to his so that he felt her hot, sweet breath upon his cheek, and thus another link was forged to
