“Yea, even with my life and honor, my father,” replied the outlaw.
“Then promise me, that with the old man of Torn alone, thou wilt come hither when I bidst thee and meet Simon de Montfort, and abide by his decision should my surmises concerning thee be correct. He will be the best judge of any in England, save two who must now remain nameless.”
“I will come, Father, but it must be soon for on the fourth day we ride south.”
“It shall be by the third day, or not at all,” replied Father Claude, and Norman of Torn, rising to leave, wondered at the moving leaves of the lilac bush without the window, for there was no breeze.
Spizo, the Spaniard, reached Torn several minutes before the outlaw chief and had already poured his tale into the ears of the little, grim, gray, old man.
As the priest’s words were detailed to him the old man of Torn paled in anger.
“The fool priest will upset the whole work to which I have devoted near twenty years,” he muttered, “if I find not the means to quiet his half-wit tongue. Between priest and petticoat, it be all but ruined now. Well then, so much the sooner must I act, and I know not but that now be as good a time as any. If we come near enough to the King’s men on this trip south, the gibbet shall have its own, and a Plantagenet dog shall taste the fruits of his own tyranny,” then glancing up and realizing that Spizo, the Spaniard, had been a listener, the old man, scowling, cried:
“What said I, sirrah? What didst hear?”
“Naught, My Lord; thou didst but mutter incoherently,” replied the Spaniard.
The old man eyed him closely.