With the aid of the lamp, they made more rapid progress, and in a few moments, reached a low door at the end of the arched passageway.
“This is the doorway which opens upon the ravine below the castle. We have passed beneath the walls and the moat. What may we do now, Roger, without horses?”
“Let us get out of this place, and as far away as possible under the cover of darkness, and I doubt not I may find a way to bring you to your father’s castle,” replied Norman of Torn.
Putting out the light, lest it should attract the notice of the watch upon the castle walls, Norman of Torn pushed open the little door and stepped forth into the fresh night air.
The ravine was so overgrown with tangled vines and wildwood that, had there ever been a pathway, it was now completely obliterated; and it was with difficulty that the man forced his way through the entangling creepers and tendrils. The girl stumbled after him and twice fell before they had taken a score of steps.
“I fear I am not strong enough,” she said finally. “The way is much more difficult than I had thought.”
So Norman of Torn lifted her in his strong arms, and stumbled on through the darkness and the shrubbery down the center of the ravine. It required the better part of an hour to traverse the little distance to the roadway; and all the time her head nestled upon his shoulder and her hair brushed his cheek. Once when she lifted her head to speak to him, he bent toward her, and in the darkness, by chance, his lips brushed hers. He felt her little form tremble in his arms, and a faint sigh breathed from her lips.
They were upon the highroad now, but he did not put her down. A mist was before his eyes, and he could have crushed her to him and smothered those warm lips with his own. Slowly, his face inclined toward hers, closer and closer his iron muscles pressed her to him, and then, clear cut and distinct before his eyes, he saw the corpse of the Outlaw of Torn swinging by the neck from the arm of a wooden gibbet, and beside it knelt a woman gowned in rich cloth of gold and many jewels. Her face was averted and her arms were outstretched toward the dangling form that swung and twisted from the grim, gaunt arm. Her figure was racked with choking sobs of horror-stricken grief. Presently she staggered to her feet and turned away, burying her face in her hands; but he saw her features for an instant then—the woman who openly and alone mourned the dead Outlaw of Torn was Bertrade de Montfort.
Slowly his arms relaxed, and gently and reverently he lowered Joan de Tany to the ground. In that instant Norman of Torn had learned the difference between friendship and love, and love and passion.
The moon was shining brightly upon them, and the girl turned, wide-eyed and wondering, toward him. She had felt the wild call of love and she could not understand his seeming coldness now, for she had seen no vision beyond a life of happiness within those strong arms.
“Joan,” he said, “I would but now have wronged thee. Forgive me. Forget what has passed between us until I can come to you in my rightful colors, when the spell of the moonlight and adventure be no longer upon us, and then,”—he paused—“and then I shall tell you who I be and you shall say if you still care to call me friend—no more than that shall I ask.”
He had not the heart to tell her that he loved only Bertrade de Montfort, but it had been a thousand times better had he done so.
She was about to reply when a dozen armed men sprang from the surrounding shadows, calling upon them to surrender. The moonlight falling upon the leader revealed a great giant of a fellow with an enormous, bristling mustache—it was Shandy.
Norman of Torn lowered his raised sword.
“It is I, Shandy,” he said. “Keep a still tongue in thy head until I speak with thee apart. Wait here, My Lady Joan; these be friends.”
Drawing Shandy to one side, he learned that the faithful fellow had become alarmed at his chief’s continued absence, and had set out with a small party to search for him. They had come upon the riderless Sir Mortimer grazing by the roadside, and a short distance beyond, had discovered evidences of the conflict at the crossroads. There they had found Norman of Torn’s helmet, confirming their worst fears. A peasant in a nearby hut had told them of the encounter, and had set them upon the road taken by the Earl and his prisoners.
“And here we be, My Lord,” concluded the great fellow.
“How many are you?” asked the outlaw.
“Fifty, all told, with those who lie farther back in the bushes.”
“Give us horses, and let two of the men ride behind us,” said the chief. “And, Shandy, let not the lady know that she rides this night with the Outlaw of Torn.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
They were soon mounted, and clattering down the road, back toward the castle of Richard de Tany.
Joan de Tany looked in silent wonder upon this grim force that sprang out of the shadows of the night to do the bidding of Roger de Condé, a gentleman of France.
There was something familiar in the great bulk of Red Shandy; where had she seen that mighty frame before? And now she looked closely at the figure of Roger de Condé. Yes, somewhere else had she seen these two men together; but where and when?
And then the strangeness of another incident came to her mind. Roger de Condé spoke no English, and yet she had plainly heard English words upon this man’s lips as he addressed the red giant.
Norman of Torn had recovered his helmet from one of his men who had picked
