covered with a cloth. But none might
know the difference, for the little man wore the armor of Flory, and his
visor was drawn.

And so they came to a small gate which let into the castle wall where
the shadow of a great tower made the blackness of a black night doubly
black. Through many dim corridors, the lackey led them, and up winding
stairways until presently he stopped before a low door.

"Here," he said, "My Lord," and turning left them.

Norman of Torn touched the panel with the mailed knuckles of his right
hand, and a low voice from within whispered, "Enter."

Silently, he strode into the apartment, a small antechamber off a
large hall. At one end was an open hearth upon which logs were burning
brightly, while a single lamp aided in diffusing a soft glow about the
austere chamber. In the center of the room was a table, and at the sides
several benches.

Before the fire stood Bertrade de Montfort, and she was alone.

"Place your burden upon this table, Flory," said Norman of Torn. And
when it had been done: "You may go. Return to camp."

He did not address Bertrade de Montfort until the door had closed behind
the little grim, gray man who wore the armor of the dead Flory and
then Norman of Torn advanced to the table and stood with his left hand
ungauntleted, resting upon the table's edge.

"My Lady Bertrade," he said at last, "I have come to fulfill a promise."

He spoke in French, and she started slightly at his voice. Before,
Norman of Torn had always spoken in English. Where had she heard that
voice! There were tones in it that haunted her.

"What promise did Norman of Torn e'er make to Bertrade de Montfort?" she
asked. "I do not understand you, my friend."

"Look," he said. And as she approached the table he withdrew the cloth
which covered the object that the man had placed there.

The girl started back with a little cry of terror, for there upon a
golden platter was a man's head; horrid with the grin of death baring
yellow fangs.

"Dost recognize the thing?" asked the outlaw. And then she did; but
still she could not comprehend. At last, slowly, there came back to her
the idle, jesting promise of Roger de Conde to fetch the head of her
enemy to the feet of his princess, upon a golden dish.

But what had the Outlaw of Torn to do with that! It was all a sore
puzzle to her, and then she saw the bared left hand of the grim, visored
figure of the Devil of Torn, where it rested upon the table besi