in my helmet and breastplate, with all the trumpets blowing and drums beating at the time.  Captain Tagrag was my opponent, and preciously we poked each other, till, prancing about, I put my foot on my horse’s petticoat behind, and down I came, getting a thrust from the Captain, at the same time, that almost broke my shoulder-bone.  “This was sufficient,” they said, “for the laws of chivalry;” and I was glad to get off so.

After that the gentlemen riders, of whom there were no less than seven, in complete armor, and the professionals, now ran at the ring; and the Baron was far, far the most skilful.

“How sweetly the dear Baron rides,” said my wife, who was always ogling at him, smirking, smiling, and waving her handkerchief to him.  “I say, Sam,” says a professional to one of his friends, as, after their course, they came cantering up, and ranged under Jemmy’s bower, as she called it:—­“I say, Sam, I’m blowed if that chap in harmer mustn’t have been one of hus.”  And this only made Jemmy the more pleased; for the fact is, the Baron had chosen the best way of winning Jemimarann by courting her mother.

The Baron was declared conqueror at the ring; and Jemmy awarded him the prize, a wreath of white roses, which she placed on his lance; he receiving it gracefully, and bowing, until the plumes of his helmet mingled with the mane of his charger, which backed to the other end of the lists; then galloping back to the place where Jemimarann was seated, he begged her to place it on his helmet.  The poor girl blushed very much, and did so.  As all the people were applauding, Tagrag rushed up, and, laying his hand on the Baron’s shoulder, whispered something in his ear, which made the other very angry, I suppose, for he shook him off violently.  “Chacun pour soi,” says he, “Monsieur de Taguerague,”—­which means, I am told, “Every man for himself.”  And then he rode away, throwing his lance in the air, catching it, and making his horse caper and prance, to the admiration of all beholders.

After this came the “Passage of Arms.”  Tagrag and the Baron ran courses against the other champions; ay, and unhorsed two apiece; whereupon the other three refused to turn out; and preciously we laughed at them, to be sure!

“Now, it’s our turn, Mr. Chicot,” says Tagrag, shaking his fist at the Baron:  “look to yourself, you infernal mountebank, for, by Jupiter, I’ll do my best!” And before Jemmy and the rest of us, who were quite bewildered, could say a word, these two friends were charging away, spears in hand, ready to kill each other.  In vain Jemmy screamed; in vain I threw down my truncheon:  they had broken two poles before I could say “Jack Robinson,” and were driving at each other with the two new ones.  The Baron had the worst of the first course, for he had almost been carried out of his saddle.  “Hark you, Chicot!” screamed out Tagrag, “next time look to your head!” And next time, sure enough, each aimed at the head of the other.