All went well and Joan was laughing merrily at the fears of those who had attempted to dissuade her when, at a cross road, they discovered two parties of armed men approaching from opposite directions. The leader of the nearer party spurred forward to intercept the little band, and, reining in before them, cried brusquely, “Who be ye?” “A party on a peaceful mission to the shops of London,” replied Norman of Torn. “I asked not your mission,” cried the fellow. “I asked, who be ye? Answer, and be quick about it.” “I be Roger de Conde, gentleman of France, and these be my sisters and servants,” lied the outlaw, “and were it not that the ladies be with me, your answer would be couched in steel, as you deserve for your boorish insolence.” “There be plenty of room and time for that even now, you dog of a French coward,” cried the officer, couching his lance as he spoke. Joan de Tany was sitting her horse where she could see the face of Roger de Conde, and it filled her heart with pride and courage as she saw and understood the little smile of satisfaction that touched his lips as he heard the man’s challenge and lowered the point of his own spear. Wheeling their horses toward one another, the two combatants, who were some ninety feet apart, charged at full tilt. As they came together the impact was so great that both horses were nearly overturned and the two powerful war lances were splintered into a hundred fragments as each struck the exact center of his opponent’s shield. Then, wheeling their horses and throwing away the butts of their now useless lances, De Conde and the officer advanced with drawn swords. The fellow made a most vicious return assault upon De Conde, attempting to ride him down in one mad rush, but his thrust passed harmlessly from the tip of the outlaw’s sword, and as the officer wheeled back to renew the battle, they settled down to fierce combat, their horses wheeling and turning shoulder to shoulder. The two girls sat rigid in their saddles watching the encounter, the eyes of Joan de Tany alight with the fire of battle as she followed every move of the wondrous swordplay of Roger de Conde. He had not even taken the precaution to lower his visor, and the grim and haughty smile that played upon his lips spoke louder than many words the utter contempt in which he held the sword of his adversary. And as Joan de Tany watched, she saw the smile suddenly freeze to a cold, hard line, and the eyes of the man narrow to mere slits, and her woman’s intuition read the death warrant of the King’s officer ere the sword of the outlaw buried itself in his heart. The other members of the two bodies of royalist soldiers had sat spellbound as they watched the battle, but now, as their leader’s corpse rolled from the saddle, they spurred furiously in upon De Conde and his little party.