The Baron’s men put up a noble fight, but the odds were heavy and even with the mighty arm of Norman of Torn upon their side the outcome was apparent from the first. Five swords were flashing about the outlaw, but his blade was equal to the thrust and one after another of his assailants crumpled up in their saddles as his leaping point found their vitals. Nearly all of the Baron’s men were down, when one, an old servitor, spurred to the side of Joan de Tany and Mary de Stutevill. “Come, my ladies,” he cried, “quick and you may escape. They be so busy with the battle that they will never notice.” “Take the Lady Mary, John,” cried Joan, “I brought Roger de Conde to this pass against the advice of all and I remain with him to the end.” “But, My Lady—” cried John. “But nothing, sirrah!” she interrupted sharply. “Do as you are bid. Follow my Lady Mary, and see that she comes to my father’s castle in safety,” and raising her riding whip, she struck Mary’s palfrey across the rump so that the animal nearly unseated his fair rider as he leaped frantically to one side and started madly up the road down which they had come. “After her, John,” commanded Joan peremptorily, “and see that you turn not back until she be safe within the castle walls; then you may bring aid.” The old fellow had been wont to obey the imperious little Lady Joan from her earliest childhood, and the habit was so strong upon him that he wheeled his horse and galloped after the flying palfrey of the Lady Mary de Stutevill. As Joan de Tany turned again to the encounter before her, she saw fully twenty men surrounding Roger de Conde, and while he was taking heavy toll of those before him, he could not cope with the men who attacked him from behind; and even as she looked, she saw a battle axe fall full upon his helm, and his sword drop from his nerveless fingers as his lifeless body rolled from the back of Sir Mortimer to the battle-tramped clay of the highroad. She slid quickly from her palfrey and ran fearlessly toward his prostrate form, reckless of the tangled mass of snorting, trampling, steel-clad horses, and surging fighting-men that surrounded him. And well it was for Norman of Torn that this brave girl was there that day, for even as she reached his side, the sword point of one of the soldiers was at his throat for the coup de grace. With a cry, Joan de Tany threw herself across the outlaw’s body, shielding him as best she could from the threatening sword. Cursing loudly, the soldier grasped her roughly by the arm to drag her from his prey, but at this juncture, a richly armored knight galloped up and drew rein beside the party. The newcomer was a man of about forty-five or fifty; tall, handsome, black-mustached and with the haughty arrogance of pride most often seen upon the faces of those who have been raised by unmerited favor to positions of power and affluence.