For an instant, the girl stood frozen with horror, unable to move a finger or to cry out; but only for an instant, and then, regaining control of her muscles, she stooped quickly and, grasping a heavy foot-stool, hurled it full at Peter of Colfax. It struck him below the knees and toppled him to the floor just as the knight’s sword passed through the throat of his final antagonist. As the Baron fell, he struck heavily upon a table which supported the only lighted cresset within the chamber. In an instant, all was darkness. There was a rapid shuffling sound as of the scurrying of rats and then the quiet of the tomb settled upon the great hall. “Are you safe and unhurt, my Lady Bertrade?” asked a grave English voice out of the darkness. “Quite, Sir Knight,” she replied, “and you?” “Not a scratch, but where is our good friend the Baron?” “He lay here upon the floor but a moment since, and carried a thin long dagger in his hand. Have a care, Sir Knight, he may even now be upon you.” The knight did not answer, but she heard him moving boldly about the room. Soon he had found another lamp and made a light. As its feeble rays slowly penetrated the black gloom, the girl saw the bodies of the three men-at-arms, the overturned table and lamp, and the visored knight; but Peter of Colfax was gone. The knight perceived his absence at the same time, but he only laughed a low, grim laugh. “He will not go far, My Lady Bertrade,” he said. “How know you my name?” she asked. “Who may you be? I do not recognize your armor, and your breastplate bears no arms.” He did not answer at once and her heart rose in her breast as it filled with the hope that her brave rescuer might be the same Roger de Conde who had saved her from the hirelings of Peter of Colfax but a few short weeks since. Surely it was the same straight and mighty figure, and there was the marvelous swordplay as well. It must be he, and yet Roger de Conde had spoken no English while this man spoke it well, though, it was true, with a slight French accent. “My Lady Bertrade, I be Norman of Torn,” said the visored knight with quiet dignity. The girl’s heart sank, and a feeling of cold fear crept through her. For years that name had been the symbol of fierce cruelty, and mad hatred against her kind. Little children were frightened into obedience by the vaguest hint that the Devil of Torn would get them, and grown men had come to whisper the name with grim, set lips. “Norman of Torn!” she whispered. “May God have mercy on my soul!” Beneath the visored helm, a wave of pain and sorrow surged across the countenance of the outlaw, and a little shudder, as of a chill of hopelessness, shook his giant frame. “You need not fear, My Lady,” he said sadly. “You shall be in your father’s castle of Leicester ere the sun marks noon. And you will be safer under the protection of the hated Devil of Torn than with your own mighty father, or your royal uncle.”