“Come, come, Father,” replied the outlaw, “what do I that I have not good example for from the barons, and the King, and Holy Church. Murder, theft, rapine! Passeth a day over England which sees not one or all perpetrated in the name of some of these? “Be it wicked for Norman of Torn to prey upon the wolf, yet righteous for the wolf to tear the sheep? Methinks not. Only do I collect from those who have more than they need, from my natural enemies; while they prey upon those who have naught. “Yet,” and his manner suddenly changed, “I do not love it, Father. That thou know. I would that there might be some way out of it, but there is none. “If I told you why I wished it, you would be surprised indeed, nor can I myself understand; but, of a verity, my greatest wish to be out of this life is due to the fact that I crave the association of those very enemies I have been taught to hate. But it is too late, Father, there can be but one end and that the lower end of a hempen rope.” “No, my son, there is another way, an honorable way,” replied the good Father. “In some foreign clime there be opportunities abundant for such as thee. France offers a magnificent future to such a soldier as Norman of Torn. In the court of Louis, you would take your place among the highest of the land. You be rich and brave and handsome. Nay do not raise your hand. You be all these and more, for you have learning far beyond the majority of nobles, and you have a good heart and a true chivalry of character. With such wondrous gifts, naught could bar your way to the highest pinnacles of power and glory, while here you have no future beyond the halter. Canst thou hesitate, Norman of Torn?” The young man stood silent for a moment, then he drew his hand across his eyes as though to brush away a vision. “There be a reason, Father, why I must remain in England for a time at least, though the picture you put is indeed wondrous alluring.” And the reason was Bertrade de Montfort. CHAPTER IX The visit of Bertrade de Montfort with her friend Mary de Stutevill was drawing to a close. Three weeks had passed since Roger de Conde had ridden out from the portals of Stutevill and many times the handsome young knight’s name had been on the lips of his fair hostess and her fairer friend. Today the two girls roamed slowly through the gardens of the great court, their arms about each other’s waists, pouring the last confidences into each other’s ears, for tomorrow Bertrade had elected to return to Leicester. “Methinks thou be very rash indeed, my Bertrade,” said Mary. “Were my father here he would, I am sure, not permit thee to leave with only the small escort which we be able to give.”