He hastily crossed the field, while she leaned back, her eyes on the flanneled figure—long since recognized—under the purple pavilion. She saw the committee put their heads together and hurriedly enter.
In the moment’s wait, Shirley’s gloved fingers clasped and unclasped somewhat nervously. The riders had been chosen long before John Valiant’s coming. If a saddle, however, was perforce to be vacant, what more appropriate than that he should fill it? The thought had come to her instantly, bred of an underlying regret, which she had all along cherished, that he was not to take part. But beneath this was a deeper passionate wish that she did not attempt to analyze, to see him assume his place with others long habituated to that closed circle—a place rightfully his by reason of birth and name—and to lighten the gloomy shadow, that must rest on his thoughts of his father, with warmer sunnier things. She heaved a secret sigh of satisfaction as the white-clad figure rose in acquiescence.
The major returned to the grand stand and held up his hand for silence.
“Our gracious Liege,” he proclaimed, in his big vibrant voice, “Queen of Beauty yet unknown, Lords, Knights and Esquires, Fair Dames and gentles all! Whereas divers noble persons have enterprized and taken upon them to hold jousts royal and tourney, you are hereby acquainted that the lists of Runnymede are about to open for that achievement of arms and grand and noble tournament for which they have so long been famed. But an hour since one of our noble knights, pricking hither to tilt for his lady, was beset by a grievous malady. However, lest our jousting lack the royal number, a new champion hath at this last hour been found to fill the Table Round, who of his courtesy doth consent to ride without armor.”
A buzz ran over the assemblage. “It must be Pendleton who has defaulted,” said Judge Chalmers. “I heard this morning he was sick. Who’s the substitute knight, I wonder?”
At the moment a single mounted herald before the tents blew a long blast on a silver horn. Their flaps parted and eleven knights issued to mount their steeds and draw into line behind him. They were brilliantly decked in fleshlings with slashed doublets and plumed chapeaus, and short jeweled cloaks drooped from their shoulders. Pages handed each a long lance which was held perpendicular, the butt resting on the right stirrup.
“Why,” cried Katharine, “it’s like a bit out of the medieval pageant at Earl’s Court! Where do you get the costumes?”
“Some we make,” Judge Chalmers answered, “but a few are the real thing—so old they have to be patched up anew each year. The ancient lances have disappeared. The pikes we use now were found in ’61, hidden ready for the negro insurrection, when John Brown should give the signal.”
Under the pavilion, just for the fraction of a second, Valiant hesitated. Then he turned swiftly to the twelfth tent. Its flag-staff bore a long streamer of deep blood-red. He snatched this from its place, flung it about his waist and knotted it sash-wise. He drew the rose from his lapel and thrust it through the band of his Panama, leaped to the saddle of the horse the major had beckoned, and with a quick thrust of his heel, swung to the end of the stamping line.
The field and grand stand had seen the quick decision, with its instant action, and as the hoofs thudded over the turf, a wave of hand-clapping ran across the seats like a silver rain. “Neatly done, upon my word!” said the judge, delighted. “What a daring idea! Who is it? Is it—bless my soul, it is!”