"Well, you'd certainly surprise 'em if you rode into Jerusalem, or London, either," admitted Blake. "On the whole, Richard, I'd remain right here, if I were you. You see, after seven hundred and thirty-five years most of the home folks may have forgotten you and even the Saracens might not know what it was all about if you came charging into Jerusalem."
"Mayhap you speak wisely, James," said Richard, "and then, too, we be content here, knowing no other country."
For a while both men were silent, in thought. Blake was the first to speak. "This big tourney interests me," he said. "You say it starts the first Sunday in Lent. That's not far away."
"No, not far. Why?"
"I was wondering if you thought I'd be in shape to have a part in it. I'm getting better and better with the lance every day."
Sir Richard looked sadly at him and shook his head. "Tomorrow thou wilt be dead," he said.
"Say! You're a cheerful party," exclaimed Blake.
"I am only truthful, good friend," replied Richard. "It grieveth my heart sorely that it should be true, but true it be—thou canst not prevail over Sir Malud on the morrow. Wouldst that I might take thy place in the lists against him, but that may not be. But I console myself with the thought that thou wilt comport thyself courageously and die as a good sir knight should, with no stain upon thy escutcheon. Greatly will it solace the Princess Guinalda to know that thou didst die thus."
"You think so?" ventured Blake.
"Verily."