The gates were left open, and through them rode ten or twelve knights in chain armour, with different coloured plumes waving from their helmets, and long shields, pointed at the lower end and decorated in colour with various designs. Each knight carried a lance in his right hand, the butt-end resting on the mailed toe of his boot, the shining head, from which a gay pennant fluttered, high in air. The horses, wild with excitement, plunged and caracoled, their gorgeous trappings swinging about them, the gold and jewels on their bridles and on the curious high, boxlike saddles flashing many-coloured rays. Slowly this gallant company rode round the lists, while every one shouted and hurrayed. Then they gathered in two opposing clumps, waited a moment, and then with short, sharp cries, hurled themselves at full gallop each at each.
They met near the middle of the lists with a crash that must have been heard a long way off. Ruth and Rose grasped each other’s hands in a grip that hurt as they stared. A cloud of dust swept up into the air. Through it rolling shapes of men and horses showed dimly. As the light breeze cleared the view, the two girls saw that six of the knights lay on the ground. The rest had whirled about and were riding back to the starting point. The horses whose masters had been thrown were galloping wildly around, or struggling to their feet with snorts of terror. The fallen knights also began to get to their feet, and once up, to walk slowly toward the exits. Half way across, one of these staggered and fell.
“He is hurt,” said Rowena calmly. “Was it not a marvellous fine set-to? But see, the Queen of Beauty has taken her place.” Evidently the knight’s injuries might be either severe or slight for all she cared.
But the two sisters could not feel so little disturbed, and watched with anxious eyes as the knight was lugged off the field between two men-at-arms. He was carried into one of the pavilions, looking very much done up.
“Do you s’pose he’s killed?” whispered Rose. But Rowena was far too much interested in the scene opposite to answer.
In fact, the new arrivals surpassed the rest of the spectators in splendour. They looked like a bank of brilliant sunset clouds, so many-hued were the floating garments of the ladies and the embroidered doublets of the youths who filled the reserved space. In their midst, wonderful in silver and rose and pale blue, stood a straight, slender, graceful girl, with a hoop of sapphires confining her rich chestnut hair under its blue veil. She looked like something dreamed of rather than a reality, so lovely she was.
The King rose and bowed to her, and she returned the salutation with a deep courtesy. Renewed cheers burst out, there was a waving of furred caps and silken streamers. Then the girl and her companions took their seats.
“She is a Norman lady,” Rowena told the girls. “When will a Saxon sit in that throne?” and her voice had a bitter note.
But now the tourney began once more. It seemed to the two girls like a vast medley of colour and motion, sharp sounds, falling men and horses, flashing spears and swords. Here two combatants battered each other with inconceivable fury, their blades resounding on shields and head-pieces; here one stood over his fallen foe, shouting like a madman, and shaking his weapon in the air. There the crash of chargers meeting shook the ground. Intervals of rest occurred, while the strained lookers-on sat back more easily, exchanging laughing comment, or pointing out some friend in the crowd. Several of the knights had been wounded, blood had flowed, a horse had broken a leg ... the crowd leaned forward, yelling, while Rose saw the King lift a great silver cup to his lips, after raising it to the Queen of Beauty opposite....
Suddenly the lists were cleared and every one began to stream off toward the refreshments.