“Joan,” he said, “I would but now have wronged thee. Forgive me. Forget what has passed between us until I can come to you in my rightful colors, when the spell of the moonlight and adventure be no longer upon us, and then,”—he paused—“and then I shall tell you who I be and you shall say if you still care to call me friend—no more than that shall I ask.” He had not the heart to tell her that he loved only Bertrade de Montfort, but it had been a thousand times better had he done so. She was about to reply when a dozen armed men sprang from the surrounding shadows, calling upon them to surrender. The moonlight falling upon the leader revealed a great giant of a fellow with an enormous, bristling mustache—it was Shandy. Norman of Torn lowered his raised sword. “It is I, Shandy,” he said. “Keep a still tongue in thy head until I speak with thee apart. Wait here, My Lady Joan; these be friends.” Drawing Shandy to one side, he learned that the faithful fellow had become alarmed at his chief’s continued absence, and had set out with a small party to search for him. They had come upon the riderless Sir Mortimer grazing by the roadside, and a short distance beyond, had discovered evidences of the conflict at the cross-roads. There they had found Norman of Torn’s helmet, confirming their worst fears. A peasant in a nearby hut had told them of the encounter, and had set them upon the road taken by the Earl and his prisoners. “And here we be, My Lord,” concluded the great fellow. “How many are you?” asked the outlaw. “Fifty, all told, with those who lie farther back in the bushes.” “Give us horses, and let two of the men ride behind us,” said the chief. “And, Shandy, let not the lady know that she rides this night with the Outlaw of Torn.” “Yes, My Lord.” They were soon mounted, and clattering down the road, back toward the castle of Richard de Tany. Joan de Tany looked in silent wonder upon this grim force that sprang out of the shadows of the night to do the bidding of Roger de Conde, a gentleman of France. There was something familiar in the great bulk of Red Shandy; where had she seen that mighty frame before? And now she looked closely at the figure of Roger de Conde. Yes, somewhere else had she seen these two men together; but where and when? And then the strangeness of another incident came to her mind. Roger de Conde spoke no English, and yet she had plainly heard English words upon this man’s lips as he addressed the red giant. Norman of Torn had recovered his helmet from one of his men who had picked it up at the crossroads, and now he rode in silence with lowered visor, as was his custom. There was something sinister now in his appearance, and as the moonlight touched the hard, cruel faces of the grim and silent men who rode behind him, a little shudder crept over the frame of Joan de Tany. Shortly before daylight they reached the castle of Richard de Tany, and a great shout went up from the watch as Norman of Torn cried: