Henry knelt and peered into the dying face.
“De Vac!” he exclaimed.
The old man nodded. Then he pointed to where lay Norman of Torn.
“Outlaw—highwayman—scourge—of—England. Look—upon—his—face. Open—his tunic—left—breast.”
He stopped from very weakness, and then in another moment, with a final effort: “De—Vac’s—revenge. God—damn—the—English,” and slipped forward upon the rushes, dead.
The King had heard, and De Montfort and the Queen. They stood looking into each other’s eyes with a strange fixity, for what seemed an eternity, before any dared to move; and then, as though they feared what they should see, they bent over the form of the Outlaw of Torn for the first time.
The Queen gave a little cry as she saw the still, quiet face turned up to hers.
“Edward!” she whispered.
“Not Edward, Madame,” said De Montfort, “but—”
The King knelt beside the still form, across the breast of which lay the unconscious body of Bertrade de Montfort. Gently, he lifted her to the waiting arms of Philip of France, and then the King, with his own hands, tore off the shirt of mail, and with trembling fingers ripped wide the tunic where it covered the left breast of the Devil of Torn.