"Dost remember how we fruitlessly pursued Roger de Horn into the forest long ago, and how he once and again escaped the fate he deserved? Well, he has not escaped it to-day. He has been eating and drinking and sleeping with the soldiers of young De Montfort since they came here. And now he lies in the trench with the slain, and will trouble the earth no more. He has met the fate his deeds deserve, albeit not as we once desired."
Hugh started at the sound of these words, and followed Gilbert quickly to the spot where the soldiers of Edward were burying the slain. If indeed this thing were so, he ought to know it for a certainty.
"See there," said Gilbert, pointing downwards; "methinks there is no mistaking that face!"
Hugh looked, and a slight shiver took hold upon him.
"True enough," he answered briefly, as he turned away; "that is the dead face of him who was Roger de Horn."
So Lotta was a widow!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE FATAL FIGHT.
The mellow light of an August evening was falling upon the cloistered walls of the Abbey of Evesham, and in deep thought a martial figure was pacing the smooth sward of the quadrangle formed by the various buildings.