“What means this, my son?” said the old man as Norman of Torn dismounted within the ballium. The youth narrated the events of the morning, concluding with, “These, then, be my men, father; and together we shall fare forth upon the highways and into the byways of England, to collect from the rich English pigs that living which you have ever taught me was owing us.” “’Tis well, my son, and even as I myself would have it; together we shall ride out, and where we ride, a trail of blood shall mark our way. “From now, henceforth, the name and fame of Norman of Torn shall grow in the land, until even the King shall tremble when he hears it, and shall hate and loathe ye as I have even taught ye to hate and loathe him. “All England shall curse ye and the blood of Saxon and Norman shall never dry upon your blade.” As the old man walked away toward the great gate of the castle after this outbreak, Shandy, turning to Norman of Torn, with a wide grin, said: “By the Pope’s hind leg, but thy amiable father loveth the English. There should be great riding after such as he.” “Ye ride after ME, varlet,” cried Norman of Torn, “an’ lest ye should forget again so soon who be thy master, take that, as a reminder,” and he struck the red giant full upon the mouth with his clenched fist—so that the fellow tumbled heavily to the earth. He was on his feet in an instant, spitting blood, and in a towering rage. As he rushed, bull-like, toward Norman of Torn, the latter made no move to draw; he but stood with folded arms, eyeing Shandy with cold, level gaze; his head held high, haughty face marked by an arrogant sneer of contempt. The great ruffian paused, then stopped, slowly a sheepish smile overspread his countenance and, going upon one knee, he took the hand of Norman of Torn and kissed it, as some great and loyal noble knight might have kissed his king’s hand in proof of his love and fealty. There was a certain rude, though chivalrous grandeur in the act; and it marked not only the beginning of a lifelong devotion and loyalty on the part of Shandy toward his young master, but was prophetic of the attitude which Norman of Torn was to inspire in all the men who served him during the long years that saw thousands pass the barbicans of Torn to crave a position beneath his grim banner. As Shandy rose, one by one, John Flory, James, his brother, One Eye Kanty, and Peter the Hermit knelt before their young lord and kissed his hand. From the Great Court beyond, a little, grim, gray, old man had watched this scene, a slight smile upon his old, malicious face. “’Tis to transcend even my dearest dreams,” he muttered. “’S death, but he be more a king than Henry himself. God speed the day of his coronation, when, before the very eyes of the Plantagenet hound, a black cap shall be placed upon his head for a crown; beneath his feet the platform of a wooden gibbet for a throne.” CHAPTER VII