The hall was filled with knights and gentlewomen and house servants and men-at-arms. Fifty swords flashed from fifty scabbards as the men of the party saw the hostile appearance of their visitors, but before a blow could be struck, Norman of Torn, grasping his sword in his right hand, raised his left aloft in a gesture for silence.
“Hold!” he cried, and, turning directly to Roger de Leybourn, “I have no quarrel with thee, My Lord, but again I come for a guest within thy halls. Methinks thou hast as bad taste in whom thou entertains as didst thy fair lady.”
“Who be ye, that thus rudely breaks in upon the peace of my castle, and makes bold to insult my guests?” demanded Roger de Leybourn.
“Who be I! If you wait, you shall see my mark upon the forehead of yon grinning baboon,” replied the outlaw, pointing a mailed finger at one who had been seated close to De Leybourn.
All eyes turned in the direction that the rigid finger of the outlaw indicated, and there indeed was a fearful apparition of a man. With livid face he stood, leaning for support against the table; his craven knees wabbling beneath his fat carcass; while his lips were drawn apart against his yellow teeth in a horrid grimace of awful fear.
“If you recognize me not, Sir Roger,” said Norman of Torn, drily, “it is evident that your honored guest hath a better memory.”
At last the fear-struck man found his tongue, and, though his eyes never left the menacing figure of the grim, iron-clad outlaw, he addressed the master of Leybourn; shrieking in a high, awe-emasculated falsetto:
“Seize him! Kill him! Set your men upon him! Do you wish to live another moment, draw and defend yourselves for he be the Devil of Torn, and there be a great price upon his head.
“Oh, save me, save me! for he has come to kill me,” he ended in a pitiful wail.
The Devil of Torn! How that name froze the hearts of the assembled guests.