The Outlaw of Torn by Edgar Rice Burroughs (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📕

of Torn; that the wily Frenchman saw; but now that death was so close upon him that he felt its cold breath condensing on his brow, he had no stomach to die, and so he cast about for any means whereby he might escape the result of his rash venture.

Presently he saw his opportunity. Norman of Torn stood beside the body of one of his earlier antagonists. Slowly the old man worked around until the body lay directly behind the outlaw, and then with a final rally and one great last burst of supreme swordsmanship, he rushed Norman of Torn back for a bare step—it was enough. The outlaw’s foot struck the prostrate corpse; he staggered, and for one brief instant his sword arm rose, ever so little, as he strove to retain his equilibrium; but that little was enough. It was what the gray old snake had expected, and he was ready. Like lightning, his sword shot through the opening, and, for the first time in his life of continual combat and death, Norman of Torn felt cold steel tear his flesh. But ere he fell, his sword responded to the last fierce command of that iron will, and as his body sank limply to the floor, rolling with outstretched arms, upon its back, the little, grim, gray man went down also, clutching frantically at a gleaming blade buried in his chest.

For an instant, the watchers stood as though petrified, and then Bertrade de Montfort, tearing herself from the restraining hand of her father, rushed to the side of the lifeless body of the man she loved. Kneeling there beside him she called his name aloud, as she unlaced his helm. Tearing the steel headgear from him, she caressed his face, kissing the white forehead and the still lips.

“Oh God! Oh God!” she murmured. “Why hast thou taken him? Outlaw though he was, in his little finger was more of honor, of chivalry, of true manhood than courses through the veins of all the nobles of England.

“I do not wonder that he preyed upon you,” she cried, turning upon the knights behind her. “His life was clean, thine be rotten; he was loyal to his friends and to the downtrodden, ye be traitors at heart, all; and ever be ye trampling upon those who be down that they may sink deeper into the mud. Mon Dieu! How I hate you,” she finished. And as she spoke the words, Bertrade de Montfort looked straight into the eyes of her father.

The old Earl turned his head, for at heart he was a brave, broad, kindly man, and he regretted what he had done in the haste and heat of anger.

“Come, child,” said the King, “thou art distraught; thou sayest what thou mean not. The world is better that this man be dead. He was an enemy of organized society, he preyed ever upon his fellows. Life in England will be safer after this day. Do not weep over the clay of a nameless adventurer who knew not his own father.”

Someone had lifted the little, grim, gray, old man to a sitting posture. He was not dead. Occasionally he coughed, and when he did, his frame was racked with suffering, and blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils.

At last they saw that he was trying to speak. Weakly he motioned toward the King. Henry came toward him.

“Thou hast won thy sovereign’s gratitude, my man,” said the King, kindly. “What be thy name?”

The old fellow tried to speak, but the effort brought on another paroxysm of coughing. At last he managed to whisper.

“Look—at—me. Dost thou—not—remember me? The—foils—the—blow—twenty-long-years. Thou—spat—upon—me.”

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.

“Oh God!” he cried, and buried his head in his arms.

The Queen had seen also, and with a little moan she sank beside the body of her second born, crying out:

“Oh Richard, my boy, my boy!” And as she bent still lower to kiss the lily mark upon the left breast of the son she had not seen to know for over twenty years, she paused, and with frantic haste she pressed her ear to his breast.

“He lives!” she almost shrieked. “Quick, Henry, our son lives!”

Bertrade de Montfort had regained consciousness almost before Philip of France had raised her from the floor, and she stood now, leaning on his arm, watching with wide, questioning eyes the strange scene being enacted at her feet.

Slowly, the lids of Norman of Torn lifted with returning consciousness. Before him, on her knees in the blood spattered rushes of the floor, knelt Eleanor, Queen of England, alternately chafing and kissing his hands.

A sore wound indeed to have brought on such a wild delirium, thought the Outlaw of Torn.

He felt his body, in a half sitting, half reclining position, resting against one who knelt behind him, and as he lifted his head to see who it might be supporting him, he looked into the eyes of the King, upon whose breast his head rested.

Strange vagaries of a disordered brain! Yes it must have been a very terrible wound that the little old man of Torn had given him; but why could he not dream that Bertrade de Montfort held him? And then his eyes wandered about among the throng of ladies, nobles and soldiers standing uncovered and with bowed heads about him. Presently he found her.

“Bertrade!” he whispered.

The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite the Queen.

“Bertrade, tell me thou art real; that thou at least be no dream.”

“I be very real, dear heart,” she answered, “and these others be real, also. When thou art stronger, thou shalt understand the strange thing that has happened. These who were thine enemies, Norman of Torn, be thy best friends now—that thou should know, so that thou may rest in peace until thou be better.”

He groped for her hand, and, finding it, closed his eyes with a faint sigh.

They bore him to a cot in an apartment next the Queen’s, and all that night the mother and the promised wife of the Outlaw of Torn sat bathing his fevered forehead. The King’s chirurgeon was there also, while the King and De Montfort paced the corridor without.

And it is ever thus; whether in hovel or palace; in the days of Moses, or in the days that be ours; the lamb that has been lost and is found again be always the best beloved.

Toward morning, Norman of Torn fell into a quiet and natural sleep; the fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect health and iron constitution. The chirurgeon turned to the Queen and Bertrade de Montfort.

“You had best retire, ladies,” he said, “and rest. The Prince will live.”

Late that afternoon he awoke, and no amount of persuasion or commands on the part of the King’s chirurgeon could restrain him from arising.

“I beseech thee to lie quiet, My Lord Prince,” urged the chirurgeon.

“Why call thou me prince?” asked Norman of Torn.

“There be one without whose right it be to explain that to thee,” replied the chirurgeon, “and when thou be clothed, if rise thou wilt, thou mayst see her, My Lord.”

The chirurgeon aided him to dress and, opening the door, he spoke to a sentry who stood just without. The sentry transmitted the message to a young squire who was waiting there, and presently the door was thrown open again from without, and a voice announced:

“Her Majesty, the Queen!”

Norman of Torn looked up in unfeigned surprise, and then there came back to him the scene in the Queen’s apartment the night before. It was all a sore perplexity to him; he could not fathom it, nor did he attempt to.

And now, as in a dream, he saw the Queen of England coming toward him across the small room, her arms outstretched; her beautiful face radiant with happiness and love.

“Richard, my son!” exclaimed Eleanor, coming to him and taking his face in her hands and kissing him.

“Madame!” exclaimed the surprised man. “Be all the world gone crazy?”

And then she told him the strange story of the little lost prince of England.

When she had finished, he knelt at her feet, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips.

“I did not know, Madame,” he said, “or never would my sword have been bared in other service than thine. If thou canst forgive me, Madame, never can I forgive myself.”

“Take it not so hard, my son,” said Eleanor of England. “It be no fault of thine, and there be nothing to forgive; only happiness and rejoicing should we feel, now that thou be found again.”

“Forgiveness!” said a man’s voice behind them. “Forsooth, it be we that should ask forgiveness; hunting down our own son with swords and halters.

“Any but a fool might have known that it was no base-born knave who sent the King’s army back, naked, to the King, and rammed the King’s message down his messenger’s throat.

“By all the saints, Richard, thou be every inch a King’s son, an’ though we made sour faces at the time, we be all the prouder of thee now.”

The Queen and the outlaw had turned at the first words to see the King standing behind them, and now Norman of Torn rose, half smiling, and greeted his father.

“They be sorry jokes, Sire,” he said. “Methinks it had been better had Richard remained lost. It will do the honor of the Plantagenets but little good to acknowledge the Outlaw of Torn as a prince of the blood.”

But they would not have it so, and it remained for a later King of England to wipe the great name from the pages of history—perhaps a jealous king.

Presently the King and Queen, adding their pleas to those of the chirurgeon, prevailed upon him to lie down once more, and when he had done so they left him, that he might sleep again; but no sooner had the door closed behind them than he arose and left the apartment by another exit.

It was by chance that, in a deep set window, he found her for whom he was searching. She sat looking wistfully into space, an expression half sad upon her beautiful face. She did not see him as he approached, and he stood there for several moments watching her dear profile, and the rising and falling of her bosom over that true and loyal heart that had beaten so proudly against all the power of a mighty throne for the despised Outlaw of Torn.

He did not speak, but presently that strange, subtle sixth sense which warns us that we are not alone, though our eyes see not nor our ears hear, caused her to turn.

With a little cry she arose, and then, curtsying low after the manner of the court, said:

“What would My Lord Richard, Prince of England, of his poor subject?” And then, more gravely, “My Lord, I have been raised at court, and I understand that a prince does not wed rashly, and so let us forget what passed between Bertrade de Montfort and Norman of Torn.”

“Prince Richard of England will in no wise disturb royal precedents,” he replied, “for he will wed not rashly, but most wisely, since he will wed none but Bertrade de Montfort.” And he who had been the Outlaw of Torn took the fair young girl in his arms, adding: “If she still loves me, now that I be a prince?”

She put her arms about his neck, and drew his cheek down close to hers.

“It was not the outlaw that I loved, Richard, nor be it the prince I love now; it be all the same to me, prince or highwayman—it be thee I love, dear heart—just thee.”

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of