“And at times, Father Claude, as I grow older, I doubt much that the nameless old man of Torn is my father, so little do I favor him, and never in all my life have I heard a word of fatherly endearment or felt a caress, even as a little child. What think you, Father Claude?” “I have thought much of it, my son,” answered the priest. “It has ever been a sore puzzle to me, and I have my suspicions, which I have held for years, but which even the thought of so frightens me that I shudder to speculate upon the consequences of voicing them aloud. Norman of Torn, if you are not the son of the old man you call father, may God forfend that England ever guesses your true parentage. More than this, I dare not say except that, as you value your peace of mind and your life, keep your visor down and keep out of the clutches of your enemies.” “Then you know why I should keep my visor down?” “I can only guess, Norman of Torn, because I have seen another whom you resemble.” The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from without; the sound of horses’ hoofs, the cries of men and the clash of arms. In an instant, both men were at the tiny unglazed window. Before them, on the highroad, five knights in armor were now engaged in furious battle with a party of ten or a dozen other steel-clad warriors, while crouching breathless on her palfry, a young woman sat a little apart from the contestants. Presently, one of the knights detached himself from the melee and rode to her side with some word of command, at the same time grasping roughly at her bridle rein. The girl raised her riding whip and struck repeatedly but futilely against the iron headgear of her assailant while he swung his horse up the road, and, dragging her palfrey after him, galloped rapidly out of sight. Norman of Torn sprang to the door, and, reckless of his unarmored condition, leaped to Sir Mortimer’s back and spurred swiftly in the direction taken by the girl and her abductor. The great black was fleet, and, unencumbered by the usual heavy armor of his rider, soon brought the fugitives to view. Scarce a mile had been covered ere the knight, turning to look for pursuers, saw the face of Norman of Torn not ten paces behind him. With a look of mingled surprise, chagrin and incredulity the knight reined in his horse, exclaiming as he did so, “Mon Dieu, Edward!” “Draw and defend yourself,” cried Norman of Torn. “But, Your Highness,” stammered the knight. “Draw, or I stick you as I have stuck an hundred other English pigs,” cried Norman of Torn. The charging steed was almost upon him and the knight looked to see the rider draw rein, but, like a black bolt, the mighty Sir Mortimer struck the other horse full upon the shoulder, and man and steed rolled in the dust of the roadway.