The old Earl turned his head, for at heart he was a brave, broad, kindly man, and he regretted what he had done in the haste and heat of anger. “Come, child,” said the King, “thou art distraught; thou sayest what thou mean not. The world is better that this man be dead. He was an enemy of organized society, he preyed ever upon his fellows. Life in England will be safer after this day. Do not weep over the clay of a nameless adventurer who knew not his own father.” Someone had lifted the little, grim, gray, old man to a sitting posture. He was not dead. Occasionally he coughed, and when he did, his frame was racked with suffering, and blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils. At last they saw that he was trying to speak. Weakly he motioned toward the King. Henry came toward him. “Thou hast won thy sovereign’s gratitude, my man,” said the King, kindly. “What be thy name?” The old fellow tried to speak, but the effort brought on another paroxysm of coughing. At last he managed to whisper. “Look—at—me. Dost thou—not—remember me? The—foils—the—blow—twenty-long-years. Thou—spat—upon—me.” Henry knelt and peered into the dying face. “De Vac!” he exclaimed. The old man nodded. Then he pointed to where lay Norman of Torn. “Outlaw—highwayman—scourge—of—England. Look—upon—his—face. Open—his tunic—left—breast.” He stopped from very weakness, and then in another moment, with a final effort: “De—Vac’s—revenge. God—damn—the—English,” and slipped forward upon the rushes, dead. The King had heard, and De Montfort and the Queen. They stood looking into each other’s eyes with a strange fixity, for what seemed an eternity, before any dared to move; and then, as though they feared what they should see, they bent over the form of the Outlaw of Torn for the first time. The Queen gave a little cry as she saw the still, quiet face turned up to hers. “Edward!” she whispered. “Not Edward, Madame,” said De Montfort, “but—” The King knelt beside the still form, across the breast of which lay the unconscious body of Bertrade de Montfort. Gently, he lifted her to the waiting arms of Philip of France, and then the King, with his own hands, tore off the shirt of mail, and with trembling fingers ripped wide the tunic where it covered the left breast of the Devil of Torn. “Oh God!” he cried, and buried his head in his arms. The Queen had seen also, and with a little moan she sank beside the body of her second born, crying out: “Oh Richard, my boy, my boy!” And as she bent still lower to kiss the lily mark upon the left breast of the son she had not seen to know for over twenty years, she paused, and with frantic haste she pressed her ear to his breast. “He lives!” she almost shrieked. “Quick, Henry, our son lives!” Bertrade de Montfort had regained consciousness almost before Philip of France had raised her from the floor, and she stood now, leaning on his arm, watching with wide, questioning eyes the strange scene being enacted at her feet.