that were upturned to him.

The touch of those pure lips brought the man to himself.

"Ah, Bertrade, my Bertrade," he cried, "what is this thing that I have
done! Forgive me, and let the greatness and the purity of my love for
you plead in extenuation of my act."

She looked up into his face in surprise, and then placing her strong
white hands upon his shoulders, she whispered:

"See, Roger, I am not angry. It is not wrong that we love; tell me it is
not, Roger."

"You must not say that you love me, Bertrade. I am a coward, a craven
poltroon; but, God, how I love you."

"But," said the girl, "I do love--"

"Stop," he cried, "not yet, not yet. Do not say it till I come again.
You know nothing of me, you do not know even who I be; but when next I
come, I promise that ye shall know as much of me as I myself know, and
then, Bertrade, my Bertrade, if you can then say, 'I love you' no power
on earth, or in heaven above, or hell below shall keep you from being
mine!"

"I will wait, Roger, for I believe in you and trust you. I do not
understand, but I know that you must have some good reason, though
it all seems very strange to me. If I, a De Montfort, am willing to
acknowledge my love for any man, there can be no reason why I should
not do so, unless," and she started at the sudden thought, wide-eyed and
paling, "unless there be another woman, a--a--wife?"

"There is no other woman, Bertrade," said Norman of Torn. "I have
no wife; nor within the limits of my memory have my lips ever before
touched the lips of another, for I do not remember my mother."

She sighed a happy little sigh of relief, and laughing lightly, said:

"It is some old woman's bugaboo that you are haling out of a dark corner
of your imagination to frighten yourself with. I do not fear, since I
know that you must be all good. There be no line of vice or deception
upon your face and you are very brave. So brave and noble a man, Roger,
has a heart of pure gold."

"Don't," he said, bitterly. "I cannot endure it. Wait until I come again
and then, oh my flower of all England, if you have it in your heart
to speak as you are speaking now, the sun of my happiness will be at
zenith. Then, but not before, shall I speak to the Earl, thy father.
Farewell, Bertrade, in a few days I return."

"If you would speak to the Earl on such a subject, you insolent young
puppy, you may save your breath," thundered an angry voice, and Simon de
Montfort strode, scowl