So, with all the pomp of ecclesiastical ceremony, with gorgeous vestments, lighted tapers, and clouds of incense, the new building was dedicated to God.

And then, while the preparations for the evening banquet in the hall were being made by the menials of the kitchen, the guests had a grand tournament on the open mead in front of the castle, where they did not study how to perform works of mercy.

We have not space to tell who won the prizes in this famous passage of arms—­who was unhorsed—­whom the fair ladies crowned—­save that the young Etienne (now in his eighteenth year) distinguished himself in every trial of skill or courage, unhorsed three youths successively who opposed him, bore off the suspended ring—­while riding at full speed—­on the top of his lance, and received the garland from the hands of the fair Countess of Warwick, who presided as Queen of the Jousts, amidst the applause of all present, who declared that so brave and knightly a youth ought to have his spurs at once.

He looked, indeed, handsome and brave, that typical Norman youth, as he advanced with becoming modesty to kneel and receive the token of his valour and success; his gallant demeanour and bright eyes—­albeit he was somewhat olive in complexion—­did great execution amongst the ladies, and they congratulated Hugo of Malville and Aescendune upon his hopeful son and heir.  No one thought of poor Wilfred, save perhaps to reflect that he was well out of the way.

The bishop and his clergy departed to the priory, but the greater number of the laity remained for the evening banquet at the hall, served with all the magnificence for which the Normans were so renowned, while the prior and his brethren entertained the ecclesiastics at a more sober repast.

The hall was filled by an assemblage of lords and ladies, arrayed in such gorgeous apparel that it would need a far better milliner than the writer to describe it; all the colours of the rainbow were there, and the men had their share of the gaudy hues as well as the women.  Hugo was quite a sight, as he sat upon a dais, at the head of the table, with his hopeful son—­the hero of the day—­on his right.

And then the viands—­there was venison dressed a dozen different ways, beef and mutton, chine and haunch of the wild boar:  peacocks—­feathers and all, the feathers not roasted but stuck in their proper places after the poor bird left the oven—­very beautiful, but very tough was this piece de resistance.  There were all sorts of gravies, all kinds of soups.

Then the fish—­the turbot, the salmon, and the perch, chub, trout, and eel from the inland streams.  Pike had not yet appeared in our waters—­they were a later importation—­and other fish were more plentiful in consequence.

Then the pastry—­the castles in pie crust, with fruity warriors to man their battlements—­how should aught but cook describe them properly?

For awhile there was no conversation, save an occasional interjectional exclamation—­“How good this fish!” “How tender this fowl!” Wines of Gascony and Burgundy were circulating freely, and were as usual brightening the eyes, quickening the tongue, and stimulating the palate.