Upon this my master hung his head.  “Peter,” he said, “do not think I attempt this because it is the easier way.”

“It comes easier than fighting with a woman,” I answered.  “But you will find it hard enow when the old man begins to haggle.”

I did not know then that the lad’s heart was honestly given to this maid; but so it was, and had been from the moment when she stood before him in the gateway.

So to Egeskov we rode, and there found no less than forty suitors assembled, and some with a hundred servants in retinue.  Sir Borre received us with no care to hide his scorn, though the hour had not come for putting it into words; and truly my master’s arms were old-fashioned, and with the dents they had honourably taken when they cased his father, made a poor battered show, for all my scouring.

Nevertheless, I had no fear when his turn came to ride the ring.  Three rides had each wooer under the lady Mette’s eyes, and three rings Ebbe carried off and laid on the cushion before her.  She stooped and passed about his neck the gold chain which she held for the prize; but I think they exchanged no looks.  Only one other rider brought two rings, and this was a son of Lars Trolle, Olaf by name, a tall young knight, and well-favoured, but disdainful; whom I knew Sir Borre must favour if he could.

I could not see that the maiden favoured him above the rest, yet I kept a close eye upon this youth, and must own that in the jousting which followed he carried himself well.  For this the most of the wooers had fresh horses, and I drew a long breath when, at the close of the third course, my master, with two others, remained in the lists.  For it had been announced to us that the last courses should be ridden on the morrow.  But now Sir Borre behaved very treacherously, for perceiving (as I am sure) that the horse Holgar was overwearied and panting, he gave word that the sport should not be stayed.  More by grace of Heaven it was than by force of riding that Ebbe unhorsed his next man, a knight’s son from Smalling; but in the last course, which he rode against Olaf of Trolle, who had stood a bye, his good honest beast came to the tilt-cloth with knees trembling, and at a touch rolled over, though between the two lances (I will swear) there was nothing to choose.  I was quick to pick up my dear lad; but he would have none of my comfort, and limped away from the lists as one who had borne himself shamefully.  Yea, and my own heart was hot as I led Holgar back to stable, without waiting to see the prize claimed by one who, though a fair fighter, had not won it without foul aid.

Having stalled Holgar I had much ado to find his master again, and endless work to persuade him to quit his sulks and join the other suitors in the hall that night, when each presented his bride-gift.  Even when I had won him over, he refused to take the coffer I placed in his hands, though it held his mother’s jewels, few but precious.  But entering with the last, as became his humble rank of esquire, he laid nothing at the lady’s feet save his sword and the chain that she herself had given him.