“Cowards!”
“What means this, girl?” demanded De Montfort, “Art gone stark mad? Know thou that this fellow be the Outlaw of Torn?”
“If I had not before known it, My Lord,” she replied haughtily, “it would be plain to me now as I see forty cowards hesitating to attack a lone man. What other man in all England could stand thus against forty? A lion at bay with forty jackals yelping at his feet.”
“Enough, girl,” cried the King, “what be this knave to thee?”
“He loves me, Your Majesty,” she replied proudly, “and I, him.”
“Thou lov’st this low-born cut-throat, Bertrade,” cried Henry. “Thou, a De Montfort, the daughter of my sister; who have seen this murderer’s accursed mark upon the foreheads of thy kin; thou have seen him flaunt his defiance in the King’s, thy uncle’s, face, and bend his whole life to preying upon thy people; thou lov’st this monster?”
“I love him, My Lord King.”
“Thou lov’st him, Bertrade?” asked Philip of France in a low tone, pressing nearer to the girl.
“Yes, Philip,” she said, a little note of sadness and finality in her voice; but her eyes met his squarely and bravely.
Instantly, the sword of the young Prince leaped from its scabbard, and facing De Montfort and the others, he backed to the side of Norman of Torn.