“Ye will fight with a blunted blade, Sir Jocelyn,” cried the King.  “We maun hae nae risk of life.  Our dear dog, Steenie, hath had his bonnie craig well-nigh broken, and we will hae nae mair mischief done.”

“The laws of the tilt-yard, with which Sir Jocelyn is doubtless well acquainted,” observed the marshal, “require that the edge of the sword shall be dull, as your Majesty hath stated, and that no blow shall be dealt with the point of the weapon.  These conditions must be strictly observed.”

“They shall be,” replied Sir Jocelyn; “and I pray you now to do your devoir, and make the proclamation.”

On this the marshal and his followers departed; and Sir Jocelyn, bowing reverently to the King, took his way after them, and descending the stairs, leaped on the back of his charger.

Soon after this, and while a sword, blunted in the manner prescribed, was girded round his waist by his esquire, the trumpets were sounded, and the challenge proclaimed by the marshal.  It was immediately responded to by a blast from the opposite end of the arena, and a herald, stationed at this point, called out in a loud voice that the challenge was accepted.  Again the excitement rose high among the spectators; again all eyes were directed towards Sir Jocelyn; and again many ardent aspirations were uttered by his numerous fair admirers for his success,—­though none so fervent as that breathed by Aveline.  Sir Jocelyn cast one glance towards that part of the ladies’ gallery where he knew her to be placed, and then prepared for his last essay.

As yet, he knew not who was to be his antagonist; but when a knight in sable armour, and with a sable plume upon his helm, rode from beneath the scaffold, he discovered, to his great indignation, that it was Sir Giles Mompesson.  After a moment’s reflection, he resolved upon a course of action.  When the signal for the combat was given by the marshal, and Sir Giles, sword in hand, dashed into the arena, Mounchensey rode towards him, but, without drawing his sword, and raising himself in the saddle, commanded him in a thundering voice to retire.

The impetuosity of Sir Giles’s career carried him past his antagonist, but he now wheeled round, and regarded Mounchensey fiercely from beneath the bars of his helmet.

“Retire, said you?” he exclaimed; “not unless you acknowledge yourself defeated.  In my turn, I bid you go back to the point you started from, and commence the combat in due form, or I shall hold you vanquished, and compel you to abase your crest.”

“Hear me,” cried Sir Jocelyn, “and let it be heard by all.  I challenged any true knight to the combat, but you answer not to the description.  I proclaim you publicly in this place as a false and felon knight, and declare you utterly unworthy of my sword.  Back to your starting-place, and if the heralds do their duty, they will hack off your spurs, and drive you with shame from the lists.”