Slowly, the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with returning consciousness. Before him, on her knees in the blood spattered rushes of the floor, knelt Eleanor, Queen of England, alternately chafing and kissing his hands. A sore wound indeed to have brought on such a wild delirium, thought the Outlaw of Torn. He felt his body, in a half sitting, half reclining position, resting against one who knelt behind him, and as he lifted his head to see who it might be supporting him, he looked into the eyes of the King, upon whose breast his head rested. Strange vagaries of a disordered brain! Yes it must have been a very terrible wound that the little old man of Torn had given him; but why could he not dream that Bertrade de Montfort held him? And then his eyes wandered about among the throng of ladies, nobles and soldiers standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found her. “Bertrade!” he whispered. The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite the Queen. “Bertrade, tell me thou art real; that thou at least be no dream.” “I be very real, dear heart,” she answered, “and these others be real, also. When thou art stronger, thou shalt understand the strange thing that has happened. These who were thine enemies, Norman of Torn, be thy best friends now—that thou should know, so that thou may rest in peace until thou be better.” He groped for her hand, and, finding it, closed his eyes with a faint sigh. They bore him to a cot in an apartment next the Queen’s, and all that night the mother and the promised wife of the Outlaw of Torn sat bathing his fevered forehead. The King’s chirurgeon was there also, while the King and De Montfort paced the corridor without. And it is ever thus; whether in hovel or palace; in the days of Moses, or in the days that be ours; the lamb that has been lost and is found again be always the best beloved. Toward morning, Norman of Torn fell into a quiet and natural sleep; the fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect health and iron constitution. The chirurgeon turned to the Queen and Bertrade de Montfort. “You had best retire, ladies,” he said, “and rest. The Prince will live.” Late that afternoon he awoke, and no amount of persuasion or commands on the part of the King’s chirurgeon could restrain him from arising. “I beseech thee to lie quiet, My Lord Prince,” urged the chirurgeon. “Why call thou me prince?” asked Norman of Torn. “There be one without whose right it be to explain that to thee,” replied the chirurgeon, “and when thou be clothed, if rise thou wilt, thou mayst see her, My Lord.” The chirurgeon aided him to dress and, opening the door, he spoke to a sentry who stood just without. The sentry transmitted the message to a young squire who was waiting there, and presently the door was thrown open again from without, and a voice announced: “Her Majesty, the Queen!”