r had elapsed before a cold drizzle set in, so that
they were indeed a sorry company that splashed along the muddy road,
wrapped in mantle and surcoat. As they proceeded, the rain and wind
increased in volume, until it was being driven into their faces in such
blinding gusts that they must needs keep their eyes closed and trust to
the instincts of their mounts.

Less than half the journey had been accomplished. They were winding
across a little hollow toward a low ridge covered with dense forest,
into the somber shadows of which the road wound. There was a glint of
armor among the drenched foliage, but the rain-buffeted eyes of the
riders saw it not. On they came, their patient horses plodding slowly
through the sticky road and hurtling storm.

Now they were half way up the ridge's side. There was a movement in the
dark shadows of the grim wood, and then, without cry or warning, a band
of steel-clad horsemen broke forth with couched spears. Charging at full
run down upon them, they overthrew three of the girl's escort before a
blow could be struck in her defense. Her two remaining guardians wheeled
to meet the return attack, and nobly did they acquit themselves, for it
took the entire eleven who were pitted against them to overcome and slay
the two.

In the melee, none had noticed the girl, but presently one of her
assailants, a little, grim, gray man, discovered that she had put spurs
to her palfrey and escaped. Calling to his companions he set out at a
rapid pace in pursuit.

Reckless of the slippery road and the blinding rain, Bertrade de
Montfort urged her mount into a wild run, for she had recognized the
arms of Peter of Colfax on the shields of several of the attacking
party.

Nobly, the beautiful Arab bent to her call for speed. The great beasts
of her pursuers, bred in Normandy and Flanders, might have been tethered
in their stalls for all the chance they had of overtaking the flying
white steed that fairly split the gray rain as lightning flies through
the clouds.

But for the fiendish cunning of the little grim, gray man's foresight,
Bertrade de Montfort would have made good her escape that day. As it
was, however, her fleet mount had carried her but two hundred yards ere,
in the midst of the dark wood, she ran full upon a rope stretched across
the roadway between two trees.

As the horse fell, with a terrible lunge, tripped by the stout rope,
Bertrade de Montfort was thrown far before him, where she