“Ha, thou nameless dog!” cried he, brandishing his heavy lance, “be thou serf or noble, art an errant liar—­so will I slay thee out of hand!” Thus saying, he reined round the great roan stallion he bestrode, and galloped to one end of the lists.  Now spake Black Roger low-voiced, and his hand shook upon his bridle: 

“Master, now do I fear for thee.  Sir Gilles is a mighty jouster and skilled withal, moreover he rideth his famous horse Mars—­a noble beast and fresh, while thine is something wearied.  And then, master, direst of all, she thou would’st champion is a witch—­”

“That worketh no evil by day, Roger.  So do I charge thee, whatsoe’er betide, look to the maid, take her across thy saddle and strive to bring her to safety.  As for me, I will now with might and main seek to make an end of Sir Gilles of Brandonmere.”

So saying, Beltane rode to the opposite extremity of the lists.

And now, while the trumpets blared, the two knights took their ground, Sir Gilles resplendent in lofty crest and emblazoned surcoat, the three stooping falcons conspicuous on his shield, his mighty roan charger pawing the ling with impatient hoof; his opponent, a gleaming figure astride a tall black horse, his round-topped casque unadorned by plume or crest.  So awhile they remained, very still and silent, what time a single trumpet spake, whereat—­behold! the two long lances sank feutred to the charge, the broad shields flashed, glittered and were still again; and from that great concourse a sound went up—­a hum, that swelled, and so was gone.

The maid Mellent had sunk upon her knees and was praying desperate prayers with face upturned to heaven; but none was there to mark her now amid that silent gathering—­all eyes were strained to watch those grim and silent horsemen that fronted each other, the length of the lists between; even Duke Ivo, leaning on lazy elbow, looked with glowing eye and slow-flushing cheek, ere he let fall his truncheon.

And, on the instant, shrill and fierce the trumpets brayed, and on the instant each knight struck spurs, the powerful horses reared, plunged, and sprang away at speed.  Fast and faster they galloped, their riders low-stooped above the high-peaked saddles, shields addressed and lances steady, with pounding hooves that sent the turves a-flying, with gleaming helms and deadly lance-points a-twinkle; fast and ever faster they thundered down upon each other, till, with a sudden direful crash, they met in full career with a splintering of well-aimed lances, a lashing of wild hooves, a rearing of powerful horses, staggering and reeling beneath the shock.  And now a thunderous cry went up, for the tall black horse, plunging and snorting, went down rolling upon the sward.  But his rider had leapt clear and, stumbling to his feet, stood swaying unsteadily, faint and dazed with the blow of Sir Gilles’ lance that had borne down the great black horse and torn the heavy casque from