His attitude therefore was much the same toward women as it was toward men, except that he had sworn always to protect them. Possibly, in a way, he looked up to womankind, if it could be said that Norman of Torn looked up to anything: God, man or devil—it being more his way to look down upon all creatures whom he took the trouble to notice at all. As his glance rested upon this woman, whom fate had destined to alter the entire course of his life, Norman of Torn saw that she was beautiful, and that she was of that class against whom he had preyed for years with his band of outlaw cut-throats. Then he turned once more to face her enemies with the strange inconsistency which had ever marked his methods. Tomorrow he might be assaulting the ramparts of her father’s castle, but today he was joyously offering to sacrifice his life for her—had she been the daughter of a charcoal burner he would have done no less. It was enough that she was a woman and in need of protection. The three knights were now fairly upon him, and with fine disregard for fair play, charged with couched spears the unarmored man on foot. But as the leading knight came close enough to behold his face, he cried out in surprise and consternation: “Mon Dieu, le Prince!” He wheeled his charging horse to one side. His fellows, hearing his cry, followed his example, and the three of them dashed on down the high road in as evident anxiety to escape as they had been keen to attack. “One would think they had met the devil,” muttered Norman of Torn, looking after them in unfeigned astonishment. “What means it, lady?” he asked turning to the damsel, who had made no move to escape. “It means that your face is well known in your father’s realm, my Lord Prince,” she replied. “And the King’s men have no desire to antagonize you, even though they may understand as little as I why you should espouse the cause of a daughter of Simon de Montfort.” “Am I then taken for Prince Edward of England?” he asked. “An’ who else should you be taken for, my Lord?” “I am not the Prince,” said Norman of Torn. “It is said that Edward is in France.” “Right you are, sir,” exclaimed the girl. “I had not thought on that; but you be enough of his likeness that you might well deceive the Queen herself. And you be of a bravery fit for a king’s son. Who are you then, Sir Knight, who has bared your steel and faced death for Bertrade, daughter of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester?” “Be you De Montfort’s daughter, niece of King Henry?” queried Norman of Torn, his eyes narrowing to mere slits and face hardening. “That I be,” replied the girl, “an’ from your face I take it you have little love for a De Montfort,” she added, smiling. “An’ whither may you be bound, Lady Bertrade de Montfort? Be you niece or daughter of the devil, yet still you be a woman, and I do not war against women. Wheresoever you would go will I accompany you to safety.”