Red Shandy, Norman of Torn has fought and sacked and pillaged for
the love of it, and for a principle which was at best but a vague
generality. Tonight we ride to redress a wrong done to My Lady Bertrade
de Montfort, and that, Shandy, is a different matter. The torch, Shandy,
from tower to scullery, but in the service of My Lady, no looting."

"Yes, My Lord," answered Shandy, and departed with his little
detachment.

In a half hour he returned with a dozen prisoners, but no Peter of
Colfax.

"He has flown, My Lord," the big fellow reported, and indeed it was
true. Peter of Colfax had passed through the vaults beneath his castle
and, by a long subterranean passage, had reached the quarters of some
priests without the lines of Norman of Torn. By this time, he was
several miles on his way to the coast and France; for he had recognized
the swordsmanship of the outlaw, and did not care to remain in England
and face the wrath of both Norman of Torn and Simon de Montfort.

"He will return," was the outlaw's only comment, when he had been fully
convinced that the Baron had escaped.

They watched until the castle had burst into flames in a dozen places,
the prisoners huddled together in terror and apprehension, fully
expecting a summary and horrible death.

When Norman of Torn had assured himself that no human power could now
save the doomed pile, he ordered that the march be taken up, and the
warriors filed down the roadway behind their leader and Bertrade de
Montfort, leaving their erstwhile prisoners sorely puzzled but unharmed
and free.

As they looked back, they saw the heavens red with the great flames
that sprang high above the lofty towers. Immense volumes of dense smoke
rolled southward across the sky line. Occasionally it would clear away
from the burning castle for an instant to show the black walls pierced
by their hundreds of embrasures, each lit up by the red of the raging
fire within. It was a gorgeous, impressive spectacle, but one so common
in those fierce, wild days, that none thought it worthy of more than a
passing backward glance.

Varied emotions filled the breasts of the several riders who wended
their slow way down the mud-slippery road. Norman of Torn was both
elated and sad. Elated that he had been in time to save this girl
who awakened such strange emotions in his breast; sad that he was a
loathesome thing in her eyes. But that it was pure happiness just to be
near her, sufficed him for the t