He was instantly confronted by one of the four knights who were about to encounter the St. Yvon brothers, and the two hurtled together in the midst of the open space with the rush of two conflicting whirlwinds.
The unknown staggered slightly, and his steed was thrown back on its haunches; but his opponent was hurled from his seat like a stone from a sling, with a crash that echoed all round the lists.
A second and a third knight rode out to meet this terrible jouster, only to share the same fate; but the fourth was a more formidable champion—no other than Olivier de Clisson, whose name in after-years won a dreadful pre-eminence in the wars of that grim period as one equally without fear, without faith, and without mercy.
De Clisson was already famed as one of the most redoubtable jousters of Brittany, and when he was seen to ride forth against the nameless cavalier, every one expected to see the latter go down like a ninepin.
The crash of their meeting was like the rending of an oak, and for a moment it seemed as if both had fallen, for each man bent backward till he all but touched the flanks of his horse; but both instantly recovered themselves, and, wheeling their steeds, rode back to their places, and took fresh lances for a second course.
The burst of applause with which the spectators hailed this well-contested encounter was plainly given more to the unknown than to Clisson; for, having fully expected to see the former fall before Olivier’s charge, their admiration was all the greater for the strength and skill with which he had foiled it.
De Clisson, already chafed by this unexpected check from a nameless opponent, was so enraged at the clamorous applause which greeted it, that he lost all his coolness just when it was most needed, and gave the stranger an advantage which the latter was not slow to use. A quick movement of his shield dexterously turned aside the terrific shock of the Breton’s lance, while his own, striking Olivier full on the breast, bore him fairly backward to the ground.
This time the lookers-on were too much amazed to utter their wonted shout; but Clisson’s men-at-arms were heard to mutter hoarsely to each other—
“This champion must be the Evil One himself; for since he first couched lance, our young lord hath never been overthrown by mortal man.”
Only the three St. Yvon brothers were now left to dispute the prize with this unknown warrior; and they might have been expected to consider that a jouster who had overthrown De Clisson himself would be a match for the best of them. But their defiant bearing showed that even this formidable proof of the stranger’s prowess had not shaken their swaggering self-confidence; and, as if in sheer bravado, the first who came forth to meet the Black Champion was Huon, the youngest and least powerful of the three.