have translated this feeling into words for he did not
know, but it was the far faint cry of blood for blood and with it,
mayhap, was mixed not alone the longing of the lion among jackals for
other lions, but for his lioness.

They rode for many miles in silence when suddenly she turned, saying:

"You take your time, Sir Knight, in answering my query. Who be ye?"

"I am Nor--" and then he stopped. Always before he had answered that
question with haughty pride. Why should he hesitate, he thought. Was it
because he feared the loathing that name would inspire in the breast of
this daughter of the aristocracy he despised? Did Norman of Torn fear
to face the look of seem and repugnance that was sure to be mirrored in
that lovely face?

"I am from Normandy," he went on quietly. "A gentleman of France."

"But your name?" she said peremptorily. "Are you ashamed of your name?"

"You may call me Roger," he answered. "Roger de Conde."

"Raise your visor, Roger de Conde," she commanded. "I do not take
pleasure in riding with a suit of armor; I would see that there is a man
within."

Norman of Torn smiled as he did her bidding, and when he smiled thus, as
he rarely did, he was good to look upon.

"It is the first command I have obeyed since I turned sixteen, Bertrade
de Montfort," he said.

The girl was about nineteen, full of the vigor and gaiety of youth and
health; and so the two rode on their journey talking and laughing as
they might have been friends of long standing.

She told him of the reason for the attack upon her earlier in the day,
attributing it to an attempt on the part of a certain baron, Peter of
Colfax, to abduct her, his suit for her hand having been peremptorily
and roughly denied by her father.

Simon de Montfort was no man to mince words, and it is doubtless that
the old reprobate who sued for his daughter's hand heard some unsavory
truths from the man who had twice scandalized England's nobility by his
rude and discourteous, though true and candid, speeches to the King.

"This Peter of Colfax shall be looked to," growled Norman of Torn. "And,
as you have refused his heart and hand, his head shall be yours for the
asking. You have but to command, Bertrade de Montfort."

"Very well," she laughed, thinking it but the idle boasting so much
indulged in in those days. "You may bring me his head upon a golden
dish, Roger de Conde."

"And what reward does the knight earn who brings to the feet of his