Tyrrell thereupon withdrew his head, and the man went about mending the rent. Sir Richard seated himself upon a stool, holding the unopened parchment. Even now he hesitated before reading its contents, believing that it would be a violation of King Henry's trust. He became convinced, finally, that it was a duty that he owed to himself to do so, whereupon he unfolded and began perusing the warrant. Having finished reading, he crumpled the paper and thrust it beneath his breast-plate. For a long time he sat motionless, with his hands knotted together upon his knees.
"This—this from Henry!" he thought. "Henry whom I have revered and loved and called companion from very childhood! This from the comrade by whose side I fought upon the field of Bosworth!"
A something there was went out of the young knight's life during that bitter moment which he felt that nothing could ever supplant.
Beyond a certain set firmness of his lips that had never been there before, however, when he stepped outside his tent, Sir Richard exhibited no traces of the fierce battle that had been waged within him. He took the seat that had been provided for him in front of his pavilion, and apparently surrendered himself to the full enjoyment of the games, which, by now, were in full swing. He even stamped his feet, clapped together his hands, and "bravaed!" with as unrestrained a vociferance as the most boisterous onlooker in the field.
Beginning next the stand, Sir Richard's tent was the first. Immediately beside it, Tyrrell's had been pitched. The redoubtable Bull Bengough's, who did not put in his appearance till well along in the day, was set beside the gate, the final one of the row.
The young knight remarked well his appearance as he shot into the lists to meet the victor of every preceding combat. The champion up to that hour.
His horse was a silver-gray stallion, broad hoofed, with fetlocks sweeping from above them to the ground. In the matter of gigantic proportions, the warrior bestriding its broad, round back, was in perfect keeping with the steed. He was harnessed in a suit of highly polished steel armor, fluted and damascened. He wore his beaver up, and the features displayed within the opening of his casque were singularly brutal. His eyes were like two glittering beads, hard and pitiless. Above them his black brows marked an uninterrupted and nearly straight line from temple to temple.
When everything was ready and the signal had been given, Bull Bengough charged, bellowing like his bovine namesake, upon his adversary. By sheer force of his superior weight and strength he vanquished his antagonist. Without making the slightest show of acknowledgment of the loud burst of acclamation that greeted his prowess, he rode on to the southern extremity of the lists, where he drew rein, disdainfully awaiting the signal to have at his next opponent.
With the customary long preamble, the heralds announced Sir Richard's name. Two grooms led his stallion to the front of his pavilion. Leaping lightly into his saddle the young knight cantered his horse toward his allotted station in the field.
His name was called through many pairs of lips as he passed beneath the stand. The young knight had won many friends and fair adherents during his stay in Castle Yewe. He signified his appreciation of their good wishes by reining to a halt before the stand and bowing gracefully to the spectators. There followed a renewed burst of applause and laughter when his stallion gravely bent his head, as though in a similar acknowledgment. It was a pretty trick, and one that Sir Richard had spent a great deal of time and patience to teach.