The Outlaw of Torn

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Page 130

a few words
of instructions, to one of his men.

The fellow gathered up the head of Peter of Colfax, and placed it upon
the golden platter.

"I thank you, Sir Roger, for your hospitality," said Norman of Torn,
with a low bow which included the spellbound guests. "Adieu." Thus
followed by his men, one bearing the head of Peter of Colfax upon the
platter of gold, Norman of Torn passed quietly from the hall and from
the castle.




CHAPTER XVIII

Both horses and men were fairly exhausted from the gruelling strain of
many days of marching and fighting, so Norman of Torn went into camp
that night; nor did he again take up his march until the second morning,
three days after the battle of Lewes.

He bent his direction toward the north and Leicester's castle, where he
had reason to believe he would find a certain young woman, and though it
galled his sore heart to think upon the humiliation that lay waiting his
coming, he could not do less than that which he felt his honor demanded.

Beside him on the march rode the fierce red giant, Shandy, and the wiry,
gray little man of Torn, whom the outlaw called father.

In no way, save the gray hair and the parchment-surfaced skin, had
the old fellow changed in all these years. Without bodily vices, and
clinging ever to the open air and the exercise of the foil, he was still
young in muscle and endurance.

For five years, he had not crossed foils with Norman of Torn, but he
constantly practiced with the best swordsmen of the wild horde, so that
it had become a subject often discussed among the men as to which of the
two, father or son, was the greater swordsman.

Always taciturn, the old fellow rode in his usual silence. Long since
had Norman of Torn usurped by the force of his strong character and
masterful ways, the position of authority in the castle of Torn. The old
man simply rode and fought with the others when it pleased him; and he
had come on this trip because he felt that there was that impending for
which he had waited over twenty years.

Cold and hard, he looked with no love upon the man he still called "my
son." If he held any sentiment toward Norman of Torn, it was one of
pride which began and ended in the almost fiendish skill of his pupil's
mighty sword arm.

The little army had been marching for some hours when the advance guard
halted a party bound south upon a crossroad. There were some

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