According to the wont of chivalry, and to keep the point of the spear from harm, the top of the unknown knight’s lance was shielded with a bung, which the warrior removed; and galloping up to Barbazure’s pavilion, over which his shield hung, touched that noble cognizance with the sharpened steel.  A thrill of excitement ran through the assembly at this daring challenge to a combat a l’outrance.  “Hast thou confessed, Sir Knight?” roared the Barbazure; “take thy ground, and look to thyself; for by heaven thy last hour is come!” “Poor youth, poor youth!” sighed the spectators; “he has called down his own fate.”  The next minute the signal was given, and as the simoom across the desert, the cataract down the rock, the shell from the howitzer, each warrior rushed from his goal.

*****

“Thou wilt not slay so good a champion?” said the Grand Duke, as at the end of that terrific combat the knight in rose armor stood over his prostrate foe, whose helmet had rolled off when he was at length unhorsed, and whose bloodshot eyes glared unutterable hate and ferocity on his conqueror.

“Take thy life,” said he who had styled himself the Jilted Knight; “thou hast taken all that was dear to me.”  And the sun setting, and no other warrior appearing to do battle against him, he was proclaimed the conqueror, and rode up to the duchess’s balcony to receive the gold chain which was the reward of the victor.  He raised his visor as the smiling princess guerdoned him—­raised it, and gave one sad look towards the Lady Fatima at her side!

“Romane de Clos-Vougeot!” shrieked she, and fainted.  The Baron of Barbazure heard the name as he writhed on the ground with his wound, and by his slighted honor, by his broken ribs, by his roused fury, he swore revenge; and the Lady Fatima, who had come to the tourney as a queen, returned to her castle as a prisoner.

(As it is impossible to give the whole of this remarkable novel, let it suffice to say briefly here, that in about a volume and a half, in which the descriptions of scenery, the account of the agonies of the baroness, kept on bread and water in her dungeon, and the general tone of morality, are all excellently worked out, the Baron de Barbazure resolves upon putting his wife to death by the hands of the public executioner.)

*****

Two minutes before the clock struck noon, the savage baron was on the platform to inspect the preparation for the frightful ceremony of mid-day.

The block was laid forth—­the hideous minister of vengeance, masked and in black, with the flaming glaive in his hand, was ready.  The baron tried the edge of the blade with his finger, and asked the dreadful swordsman if his hand was sure?  A nod was the reply of the man of blood.  The weeping garrison and domestics shuddered and shrank from him.  There was not one there but loved and pitied the gentle lady.