And all the world’s for sale?”
Suddenly a cry of relief, of roaring excitement, burst from the people. Both horsemen and their chargers were on the ground. The fight was over, the fierce game at an end. That which all had feared, even the Queen herself, as the fight fared on, had not come to pass—England’s champion had not been beaten by the armed mystery, though the odds had seemed against him.
“Though wintry blasts may prove unkind,
When winter’s past we do forget;
Love’s breast in summer-time is kind,
And all’s well while life’s with us yet—
Hey, ho, now the lark is mating,
Life’s sweet wages are in waiting!”
Thus sang the fool as the two warriors were helped to their feet. Cumbered with their armor, and all dust-covered and blood-stained, though not seriously hurt, they were helped to their horses, and rode to the dais where the Queen sat.
“Ye have fought like men of old,” she said, “and neither had advantage at the last. England’s champion still may cry his challenge and not be forsworn, and he who challenged goeth in honor again from the lists. You, sir, who have challenged, shall we not see your face or hear your voice? For what country, for what prince lifted you the gauge and challenged England’s honor?”