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the twain dismounted, and stood side by side before their suzerain.

      "Sir knights," quoth Roger, soberly, "I like this combat little. You do ill, Sir Richard, to seek quarrel with a cavalier of long renown; you too, Sir Louis, to press a contest that will breed small glory if won, much sorrow if lost."

      Before either could reply, Mary Kurkuas arose and spoke also. "Since on my account you are at strife, as you love me, I command, even at this late hour, put wrath by. Be reconciled, or perchance whoever wins, I will forbid you both my face forever."

      And Richard, as he looked on those red cheeks, the brown hair blown out from the purple fillet and waving in little tresses to the wind, nigh felt a spell spread over him,—was half-ready to bow obedient and forget all hatred, not to displeasure so fair a vision. But Satan had entered into Louis de Valmont's heart, prompting him to answer, hollow and fierce, from the depths of his helmet.

      "Sweet lady, gracious lord, I am touched in honor. Gladly will I put all by with Sir Richard, if only he will confess freely that he spoke presumptuously for one of his few years, and was indiscreet in affecting to cross a cavalier of my fame in quest of gallantry."

      If Louis had been bent on dashing the last bridge of retreat, he had succeeded.

      "After Sir Louis's words," came the reply from Richard's casque at its haughty poise, "I see I need make no answer. Let us ride, my lord, and St. Michael speed us!"

      The Count frowned upon the Auvergner:—

      "Except you call back your words, Sir Louis, I must perforce order the combat. Yet you may well seek honorable reconciliation."

      "I have offered my terms, my lord," returned Louis; and deliberately mounting, he rode to his end of the lists.

      Tancred had stepped beside Richard.

      "Fair sir," said he, softly, "you are a young cavalier, but a right knightly one. Trust in St. Michael and your own stout heart. De Valmont seeks your life, but do not fear. And know this: I pass for a keen judge of man and maid,—if it is you that conquer, the Princess Mary will not greatly grieve."

      "Holy Mother, how know you this?" and Richard's hands dropped from the bridle. But Tancred only smiled.

      "Does a woman speak only with her lips? I saw your sword-play in Italy, and learned to love you. And now I tell you this, thinking it may make your blade dance swifter. Go, then,—and all the saints go with you!"

      "Let God judge betwixt them; and let them do their battle!" announced Count Roger, gravely, while the combatants were led to their places. Before each horse attendants stretched a cord, made fast to posts. Others measured two lances of equal length,—lances not blunted, but with bright steel heads and little pennons, Louis's with golden border; Longsword's, green blazoned with a silver lion. Then a herald made sure that neither knight had fastened himself to his saddle.

      The attendants scattered from the lists. De Valmont's horse was pawing and sniffing uneasily, but Rollo stood firm as a rock. The champions sat face to face, featureless, silent as of granite. No chatter now in the pavilions. Theroulde broke the stillness with his cry, "Go forward, brave son of a valiant father!" And Bernier forced a broad jest as he glanced at the ladies, "Joy here to pick out one's wife!"

      Richard was very calm. The moment had come. He and Louis de Valmont were face to face, under the eyes of Mary Kurkuas. Betwixt his helmet bars he could see that wonderful face, the head bent forward, the eyes brighter by day than ever stars by night,—at least to him. Holy saints! what deed could he not do with that gaze upon him, with the love of the Greek staked upon his strong arm and ready eye! "For Mary Kurkuas!" That was his battle-cry, though sounded only in his soul. It became stiller—he could hear Rollo's deep breathing. Count Roger had turned to Bishop Gerland. The prelate rose, held on high a brazen crucifix, at which both champions made the sign of the cross with their lance points. Four men with hatchets approached the cords before the chargers.

      "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," came the words slowly; and at the last, Roger signed to the four. "Cut!" his command. The axes fell as one. Their sound was hid by the bursting tumult. Quick as light the horses caught the greensward with mighty strides. Behind, the dust spumed thick. As they flew, each rider swung lightly forward, lance level with thigh, shield over the crouching chest.

      Crash! Both steeds were hurled on haunches, and struggled, tearing the ground. The riders reeled, staggered in the saddle. Then with a mighty tug at the reins, brought their beasts standing, and rode apart,—in the hands of each a broken butt, on the ground the flinders of stout hornbeam lances.

      Din unspeakable rang along the lists, as the two swung back to their stations. No more banter and jeers at Rollo. Old Herbert, whose eyes had danced with every gallop, muttered in the ear of poor Lady Margaret:—

      "Good cheer, sweet lady! The lad is a good lad. Did you see? The Auvergner was half slung from the saddle, but Richard met his lance like a rock."

      They brought new lances to the knights, and, while both waited for breath, Bernier came down the lists with his master's message.

      "My lord bids me say, fair knight," declared he to Longsword, "that he loves good jousting and did not expect so smart a tilt. Yet he warns Sir Richard, in fair courtesy and no jesting, he will make this next bout Sir Richard's last—therefore, if there be any parting message or token—"

      Sebastian, who stood by, cut him short.

      "Bear this back to Louis de Valmont, the murderous man of sin: It is written, 'Let not him that putteth on his armor, boast like him that taketh it off.'" And while Bernier was returning, half crestfallen, the good cleric was muttering: "Ah, blessed Mother of Pity, spare Richard, thy poor child. Make him conscious of his sin—his unholy passion, and presumption. Yet—it will be a rare thing to see De Valmont on his back. Holy saints—what do I say!"

      Again they rode; again the last vision before Richard's eyes, ere Rollo shot on the course, was that figure,—white face and brown hair, and those eyes upon him. All men knew Louis spurred with Satan behind him on the charger. Another shivering crash—more lances broken. When they parted, both shields were dinted by the shock. Many heard knights cry that the two were riding more madly than ever. A third time—behold! Louis de Valmont had been half lifted from his saddle; one foot had lost its stirrup; but Longsword sat as a tower. Those at the southern end heard the Auvergner cursing his squires and grooms, calling for a new horse, and invoking aid of all powers in heaven and hell when next he rode.

      A great hush again down all the lists. The pursuivants had no heart to cry. For a fourth time Richard Longsword and Louis de Valmont sat face to face,—and rode. The horses shot like bolts of lightning. The crash sounded from barrier to barrier. In the whirling murk of dust one could see naught; but out of it all sounded a shout of triumph,—Richard's voice: "St. Michael and Mary Kurkuas!" Then while men blinked, the dust was settled, and Louis de Valmont was rising from the sand, smitten clean from his horse. None beheld his face; but his mad cry of rage they heard, as his great sword flashed forth, when on foot he ran toward his foe. But lightly as a cat, Longsword had bounded from the saddle, faced the Auvergner, whom the tall Norman towered high above; and for the first time the multitude saw the sun glint on the long blade of Trenchefer. Right before Roger's pavilion, under Mary's eye, they fought, leaping in armor as though in silken vest, making their huge swords dance in their hands like willow wands. The blade of De Valmont rained down blows as of hail upon the bowing sedges. Fury and wounded pride sped might through his arm. For a twinkling Longsword gave way before his furious onset; as quickly stood firm, paying blow for blow. Not for life the Auvergner battled,—for dearer than life,—his knightly name. The best lance in the South Country dismounted, then mastered by a boy scarce knighted? A thousand deaths better! Thrice, all his strength flew with a downright stroke,—a smithy's sledge less crushing. But when he smote on Trenchefer the steels rang sharp; the blow was turned. From under their helms each beheld madness in his foeman's eyes, and flashed back equal madness. Richard fought the more slowly, his casque dented and his shield; but the Valencia mail was proof. After the first, he yielded not a step; and at each blow parried, at each stout stroke paid, the saints, if none other, heard him mutter across his teeth: "This, to win Mary Kurkuas! This, for the love of the Greek!"

      But

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