De Montfort led the young man to a small chamber where they were greeted by Princess Eleanor, his wife, and by Bertrade de Montfort. The girl was frankly glad to see him once more and laughingly chide him because he had allowed another to usurp his prerogative and rescue her from Peter of Colfax. “And to think,” she cried, “that it should have been Norman of Torn who fulfilled your duties for you. But he did not capture Sir Peter’s head, my friend; that is still at large to be brought to me upon a golden dish.” “I have not forgotten, Lady Bertrade,” said Roger de Conde. “Peter of Colfax will return.” The girl glanced at him quickly. “The very words of the Outlaw of Torn,” she said. “How many men be ye, Roger de Conde? With raised visor, you could pass in the King’s court for the King’s son; and in manner, and form, and swordsmanship, and your visor lowered, you might easily be hanged for Norman of Torn.” “And which would it please ye most that I be?” he laughed. “Neither,” she answered, “I be satisfied with my friend, Roger de Conde.” “So ye like not the Devil of Torn?” he asked. “He has done me a great service, and I be under monstrous obligations to him, but he be, nathless, the Outlaw of Torn and I the daughter of an earl and a king’s sister.” “A most unbridgeable gulf indeed,” commented Roger de Conde, drily. “Not even gratitude could lead a king’s niece to receive Norman of Torn on a footing of equality.” “He has my friendship, always,” said the girl, “but I doubt me if Norman of Torn be the man to impose upon it.” “One can never tell,” said Roger de Conde, “what manner of fool a man may be. When a man’s head be filled with a pretty face, what room be there for reason?” “Soon thou wilt be a courtier, if thou keep long at this turning of pretty compliments,” said the girl coldly; “and I like not courtiers, nor their empty, hypocritical chatter.” The man laughed. “If I turned a compliment, I did not know it,” he said. “What I think, I say. It may not be a courtly speech or it may. I know nothing of courts and care less, but be it man or maid to whom I speak, I say what is in my mind or I say nothing. I did not, in so many words, say that you are beautiful, but I think it nevertheless, and ye cannot be angry with my poor eyes if they deceive me into believing that no fairer woman breathes the air of England. Nor can you chide my sinful brain that it gladly believes what mine eyes tell it. No, you may not be angry so long as I do not tell you all this.” Bertrade de Montfort did not know how to answer so ridiculous a sophistry; and, truth to tell, she was more than pleased to hear from the lips of Roger de Conde what bored her on the tongues of other men. De Conde was the guest of the Earl of Leicester for several days, and before his visit was terminated, the young man had so won his way into the good graces of the family that they were loath to see him leave.