Although denied the society of such as these throughout his entire life, yet it seemed that he fell as naturally into the ways of their kind as though he had always been among them. His starved soul, groping through the darkness of the empty past, yearned toward the feasting and the light of friendship, and urged him to turn his back upon the old life, and remain ever with these people, for Simon de Montfort had offered the young man a position of trust and honor in his retinue. “Why refused you the offer of my father?” said Bertrade to him as he was come to bid her farewell. “Simon de Montfort is as great a man in England as the King himself, and your future were assured did you attach yourself to his person. But what am I saying! Did Roger de Conde not wish to be elsewhere, he had accepted and, as he did not accept, it is proof positive that he does not wish to bide among the De Montforts.” “I would give my soul to the devil,” said Norman of Torn, “would it buy me the right to remain ever at the feet of Bertrade Montfort.” He raised her hand to his lips in farewell as he started to speak, but something—was it an almost imperceptible pressure of her little fingers, a quickening of her breath or a swaying of her body toward him?—caused him to pause and raise his eyes to hers. For an instant they stood thus, the eyes of the man sinking deep into the eyes of the maid, and then hers closed and with a little sigh that was half gasp, she swayed toward him, and the Devil of Torn folded the King’s niece in his mighty arms and his lips placed the seal of a great love upon those that were upturned to him. The touch of those pure lips brought the man to himself. “Ah, Bertrade, my Bertrade,” he cried, “what is this thing that I have done! Forgive me, and let the greatness and the purity of my love for you plead in extenuation of my act.” She looked up into his face in surprise, and then placing her strong white hands upon his shoulders, she whispered: “See, Roger, I am not angry. It is not wrong that we love; tell me it is not, Roger.” “You must not say that you love me, Bertrade. I am a coward, a craven poltroon; but, God, how I love you.” “But,” said the girl, “I do love—” “Stop,” he cried, “not yet, not yet. Do not say it till I come again. You know nothing of me, you do not know even who I be; but when next I come, I promise that ye shall know as much of me as I myself know, and then, Bertrade, my Bertrade, if you can then say, ‘I love you’ no power on earth, or in heaven above, or hell below shall keep you from being mine!” “I will wait, Roger, for I believe in you and trust you. I do not understand, but I know that you must have some good reason, though it all seems very strange to me. If I, a De Montfort, am willing to acknowledge my love for any man, there can be no reason why I should not do so, unless,” and she started at the sudden thought, wide-eyed and paling, “unless there be another woman, a—a—wife?”