knelt a woman gowned in rich cloth of gold and many jewels. Her face
was averted and her arms were outstretched toward the dangling form that
swung and twisted from the grim, gaunt arm. Her figure was racked with
choking sobs of horror-stricken grief. Presently she staggered to her
feet and turned away, burying her face in her hands; but he saw her
features for an instant then--the woman who openly and alone mourned the
dead Outlaw of Torn was Bertrade de Montfort.

Slowly his arms relaxed, and gently and reverently he lowered Joan
de Tany to the ground. In that instant Norman of Torn had learned the
difference between friendship and love, and love and passion.

The moon was shining brightly upon them, and the girl turned, wide-eyed
and wondering, toward him. She had felt the wild call of love and she
could not understand his seeming coldness now, for she had seen no
vision beyond a life of happiness within those strong arms.

"Joan," he said, "I would but now have wronged thee. Forgive me. Forget
what has passed between us until I can come to you in my rightful
colors, when the spell of the moonlight and adventure be no longer upon
us, and then,"--he paused--"and then I shall tell you who I be and you
shall say if you still care to call me friend--no more than that shall I
ask."

He had not the heart to tell her that he loved only Bertrade de
Montfort, but it had been a thousand times better had he done so.

She was about to reply when a dozen armed men sprang from the
surrounding shadows, calling upon them to surrender. The moonlight
falling upon the leader revealed a great giant of a fellow with an
enormous, bristling mustache--it was Shandy.

Norman of Torn lowered his raised sword.

"It is I, Shandy," he said. "Keep a still tongue in thy head until I
speak with thee apart. Wait here, My Lady Joan; these be friends."

Drawing Shandy to one side, he learned that the faithful fellow had
become alarmed at his chief's continued absence, and had set out with
a small party to search for him. They had come upon the riderless Sir
Mortimer grazing by the roadside, and a short distance beyond, had
discovered evidences of the conflict at the cross-roads. There they had
found Norman of Torn's helmet, confirming their worst fears. A peasant
in a nearby hut had told them of the encounter, and had set them upon
the road taken by the Earl and his prisoners.

"And here we be, My Lord," concluded the great fellow.

"How m