He did not answer. His mind was a chaos of conflicting thoughts. The feel of her hands as they had lingered momentarily, and with a vague caress upon his cheek, and the pressure of her body as she leaned against him sent the hot blood coursing through his veins. He was puzzled, for he had not dreamed that friendship was so sweet. That she did not shrink from his encircling arms should have told him much, but Norman of Torn was slow to realize that a woman might look upon him with love. Nor had he a thought of any other sentiment toward her than that of friend and protector. And then there came to him as in a vision another fair and beautiful face—Bertrade de Montfort’s—and Norman of Torn was still more puzzled; for at heart he was clean, and love of loyalty was strong within him. Love of women was a new thing to him, and, robbed as he had been all his starved life of the affection and kindly fellowship, of either men or women, it is little to be wondered at that he was easily impressionable and responsive to the feeling his strong personality had awakened in two of England’s fairest daughters. But with the vision of that other face, there came to him a faint realization that mayhap it was a stronger power than either friendship or fear which caused that lithe, warm body to cling so tightly to him. That the responsibility for the critical stage their young acquaintance had so quickly reached was not his had never for a moment entered his head. To him, the fault was all his; and perhaps it was this quality of chivalry that was the finest of the many noble characteristics of his sterling character. So his next words were typical of the man; and did Joan de Tany love him, or did she not, she learned that night to respect and trust him as she respected and trusted few men of her acquaintance. “My Lady,” said Norman of Torn, “we have been through much, and we are as little children in a dark attic, and so if I have presumed upon our acquaintance,” and he lowered his arm from about her shoulder, “I ask you to forgive it for I scarce know what to do, from weakness and from the pain of the blow upon my head.” Joan de Tany drew slowly away from him, and without reply, took his hand and led him forward through a dark, cold corridor. “We must go carefully now,” she said at last, “for there be stairs near.” He held her hand pressed very tightly in his, tighter perhaps than conditions required, but she let it lie there as she led him forward, very slowly down a flight of rough stone steps. Norman of Torn wondered if she were angry with him and then, being new at love, he blundered. “Joan de Tany,” he said. “Yes, Roger de Conde; what would you?” “You be silent, and I fear that you be angry with me. Tell me that you forgive what I have done, an it offended you. I have so few friends,” he added sadly, “that I cannot afford to lose such as you.”