Great tufts of flowers grew in the cool shadows. There were no signs of life, save the birds whirring through the leaves, the plants nodding in the breeze. The rider dismounted, and tied his horse to the low bough of a large beech, flinging himself on the space of cleared ground beneath with a sigh. He wore a dress of peacock-colored velvet, tumbled and torn, and, save for a richly-jeweled dagger, more for ornament than use, was unarmed; but in the fight from which Count Conrad had just engaged, though a fight with two, weapons had not been needed; persuasion had done the work, and he had come out victorious. In a bundle on his saddle hung his spoils, and as he discontentedly sucked the scratches on his wrist, he looked at them with interest and triumph. Presently he fell to fingering his hair, then, sitting suddenly upright, drew his dagger with fine resolution. He seized the first of his long curls and severed it. Grimly, not giving himself time to pause, he proceeded to the next, and one by one hacked them from his head, his beautiful blond, perfumed curls. Conrad sighed as he saw them lying on the grass, and felt his shorn head. He longed for a mirror in which to see the extent of his disfigurement, but there was not even a pool near. Disconsolately he arose, and detaching the bundle from the saddle, he laid it upon the ground and opened it. It contained a monk's robe, a rosary, a book, a wallet, and a girdle. Conrad opened the wallet, and found food therein, and he was growing hungry; but when he came to consider it, he sickened at its coarseness. Scraps of fat, sour, hard cakes, mostly soaked in stale wine--the refuse of farmhouses. "Have I parleyed with and robbed a begging friar?" cried the Count in high disgust, and flung the wallet far into the bushes. "Food for hogs!" Then with many sighs he removed the peacock-colored doublet and hose, and donned the monk's garb, drawing the hood over his shorn head, tying the girdle around his waist. The robe was rather short, and Conrad noticed with dismay that his laced white shoes showed beneath. "Saint Dominick, curse him, but I forgot to take his sandals!" he cried in a passion. But passion did not avail him; he must go barefoot. "Bleeding feet will complete the disguise," he thought bitterly, and flung off his shoes and stockings. The robe was rather dirty; Count Conrad's fastidious nostrils fancied it smelled of the roadside, "where the old wretch has often slept, I warrant," he said, then crossed himself in contrition at the sacrilege. Next he hung the rosary and crucifix about his neck--it was hatefully heavy--and the wallet about his shoulder. The strap galled him, and the wretched Count moaned at his fate. He was bound to admit he had brought it on himself; he would carry it through; and with a truly heroic air he strapped the velvet doublet on the horse, and taking the bridle, made his way back toward the road.