"The blood that has pulsed through the finger that it circled came from
a heart that beat for Bertrade de Montfort; a heart that shall continue
to beat for her alone until a merciful providence sees fit to gather in
a wasted and useless life.

"Farewell, Bertrade." Kneeling he raised the hem of her garment to his
lips.

A thousand conflicting emotions surged through the heart of this proud
daughter of the new conqueror of England. The anger of an outraged
confidence, gratitude for the chivalry which twice had saved her honor,
hatred for the murderer of a hundred friends and kinsmen, respect and
honor for the marvellous courage of the man, loathing and contempt for
the base born, the memory of that exalted moment when those handsome
lips had clung to hers, pride in the fearlessness of a champion who
dared come alone among twenty thousand enemies for the sake of a promise
made her; but stronger than all the rest, two stood out before her
mind's eye like living things--the degradation of his low birth, and
the memory of the great love she had cherished all these long and dreary
months.

And these two fought out their battle in the girl's breast. In those few
brief moments of bewilderment and indecision, it seemed to Bertrade de
Montfort that ten years passed above her head, and when she reached her
final resolution she was no longer a young girl but a grown woman who,
with the weight of a mature deliberation, had chosen the path which she
would travel to the end--to the final goal, however sweet or however
bitter.

Slowly she turned toward him who knelt with bowed head at her feet, and,
taking the hand that held the ring outstretched toward her, raised him
to his feet. In silence she replaced the golden band upon his finger,
and then she lifted her eyes to his.

"Keep the ring, Norman of Torn," she said. "The friendship of Bertrade
de Montfort is not lightly given nor lightly taken away," she hesitated,
"nor is her love."

"What do you mean?" he whispered. For in her eyes was that wondrous
light he had seen there on that other day in the far castle of
Leicester.

"I mean," she answered, "that, Roger de Conde or Norman of Torn,
gentleman or highwayman, it be all the same to Bertrade de Montfort--it
be thee I love; thee!"

Had she reviled him, spat upon him, he would not have been surprised,
for he had expected the worst; but that she should love him! Oh God, had
his overwrought nerves turned his poor head? Wa