Mary Gifford followed, and, feeling Ambrose was safe, was glad he should be gratified with so little trouble and risk. She rested herself on a large stone by the wall, Ambrose standing above her, held there by the strong arm of the man who had befriended them.
The tilt was not very exciting, for many of the best horses and men had been called into requisition by the gentry of the neighbourhood, for the far grander and more important show to come off at Whitehall in the following week.
The spectators, however, seemed well satisfied, to judge by their huzzas and cheers which hailed the victor in every passage of arms—cheers in which little Ambrose, from his vantage ground, heartily joined.
At last it was over, and the throng came out of the field, the victor bearing on the point of his tilting pole a crown made of gilded leaves, which was a good deal battered, and had been competed for by these village knights on several former occasions.
Like the challenge cups and shields of a later time, these trophies were held as the property of the conqueror, till, perhaps, at a future trial, he was vanquished, and then the crown passed into the keeping of another victor.
Mary Gifford thanked the man, who had been so kind to her boy, with one of her sweetest smiles, and Ambrose, at her bidding, said,—
'Thank you, kind sir, for letting me see the show. I'd like to see the game of bowls now where all the folk are going.'
'No, no, Ambrose! you have had enough. We must go home, and you must get to bed early, for your little legs must be tired.'
'Tired! I'd never be tired of seeing horses gallop and prance. Only, I long to be astride of one, as I was of Mr Philip Sidney's.'
Mother and son pursued their way up the hill, Ambrose going over the events of the day in childish fashion—wanting no reply, nor even attention from his mother, while she was thinking over the different ways in matters of religion of those who called themselves Christians.