inst this wild
horde than a stout lance or an emblazoned shield.

So, as Norman of Torn rode down from his mighty castle to visit Father
Claude, the sunlight playing on his clanking armor and glancing from
the copper boss of his shield, the sight of a little group of woodmen
kneeling uncovered by the roadside as he passed was not so remarkable
after all.

Entering the priest's study, Norman of Torn removed his armor and lay
back moodily upon a bench with his back against a wall and his strong,
lithe legs stretched out before him.

"What ails you, my son?" asked the priest, "that you look so
disconsolate on this beautiful day?"

"I do not know, Father," replied Norman of Torn, "unless it be that I
am asking myself the question, 'What it is all for?' Why did my father
train me ever to prey upon my fellows? I like to fight, but there is
plenty of fighting which is legitimate, and what good may all my stolen
wealth avail me if I may not enter the haunts of men to spend it? Should
I stick my head into London town, it would doubtless stay there, held by
a hempen necklace.

"What quarrel have I with the King or the gentry? They have quarrel
enough with me it is true, but, nathless, I do not know why I should
have hated them so before I was old enough to know how rotten they
really are. So it seems to me that I am but the instrument of an old
man's spite, not even knowing the grievance to the avenging of which my
life has been dedicated by another.

"And at times, Father Claude, as I grow older, I doubt much that the
nameless old man of Torn is my father, so little do I favor him, and
never in all my life have I heard a word of fatherly endearment or felt
a caress, even as a little child. What think you, Father Claude?"

"I have thought much of it, my son," answered the priest. "It has ever
been a sore puzzle to me, and I have my suspicions, which I have held
for years, but which even the thought of so frightens me that I shudder
to speculate upon the consequences of voicing them aloud. Norman of
Torn, if you are not the son of the old man you call father, may God
forfend that England ever guesses your true parentage. More than this, I
dare not say except that, as you value your peace of mind and your life,
keep your visor down and keep out of the clutches of your enemies."

"Then you know why I should keep my visor down?"

"I can only guess, Norman of Torn, because I have seen another whom you
resemble."

The conv