umpled up in their
saddles as his leaping point found their vitals.

Nearly all of the Baron's men were down, when one, an old servitor,
spurred to the side of Joan de Tany and Mary de Stutevill.

"Come, my ladies," he cried, "quick and you may escape. They be so busy
with the battle that they will never notice."

"Take the Lady Mary, John," cried Joan, "I brought Roger de Conde to
this pass against the advice of all and I remain with him to the end."

"But, My Lady--" cried John.

"But nothing, sirrah!" she interrupted sharply. "Do as you are bid.
Follow my Lady Mary, and see that she comes to my father's castle in
safety," and raising her riding whip, she struck Mary's palfrey across
the rump so that the animal nearly unseated his fair rider as he leaped
frantically to one side and started madly up the road down which they
had come.

"After her, John," commanded Joan peremptorily, "and see that you turn
not back until she be safe within the castle walls; then you may bring
aid."

The old fellow had been wont to obey the imperious little Lady Joan from
her earliest childhood, and the habit was so strong upon him that he
wheeled his horse and galloped after the flying palfrey of the Lady Mary
de Stutevill.

As Joan de Tany turned again to the encounter before her, she saw fully
twenty men surrounding Roger de Conde, and while he was taking heavy
toll of those before him, he could not cope with the men who attacked
him from behind; and even as she looked, she saw a battle axe fall full
upon his helm, and his sword drop from his nerveless fingers as his
lifeless body rolled from the back of Sir Mortimer to the battle-tramped
clay of the highroad.

She slid quickly from her palfrey and ran fearlessly toward his
prostrate form, reckless of the tangled mass of snorting, trampling,
steel-clad horses, and surging fighting-men that surrounded him. And
well it was for Norman of Torn that this brave girl was there that day,
for even as she reached his side, the sword point of one of the soldiers
was at his throat for the coup de grace.

With a cry, Joan de Tany threw herself across the outlaw's body,
shielding him as best she could from the threatening sword.

Cursing loudly, the soldier grasped her roughly by the arm to drag her
from his prey, but at this juncture, a richly armored knight galloped up
and drew rein beside the party.

The newcomer was a man of about forty-five or fifty; tall, handsome,
black-mustac