They rode for many miles in silence when suddenly she turned, saying:
“You take your time, Sir Knight, in answering my query. Who be ye?”
“I am Nor—” and then he stopped. Always before he had answered that question with haughty pride. Why should he hesitate, he thought. Was it because he feared the loathing that name would inspire in the breast of this daughter of the aristocracy he despised? Did Norman of Torn fear to face the look of seem and repugnance that was sure to be mirrored in that lovely face?
“I am from Normandy,” he went on quietly. “A gentleman of France.”
“But your name?” she said peremptorily. “Are you ashamed of your name?”
“You may call me Roger,” he answered. “Roger de Conde.”
“Raise your visor, Roger de Conde,” she commanded. “I do not take pleasure in riding with a suit of armor; I would see that there is a man within.”
Norman of Torn smiled as he did her bidding, and when he smiled thus, as he rarely did, he was good to look upon.
“It is the first command I have obeyed since I turned sixteen, Bertrade de Montfort,” he said.
The girl was about nineteen, full of the vigor and gaiety of youth and health; and so the two rode on their journey talking and laughing as they might have been friends of long standing.