So spake the Lord of Ells and, beckoning to his esquires, did on his great tilting-helm and rode into the lists, whereon was mighty roar of welcome, for, though much hated, he was esteemed mighty at arms, and the accepted champion of the Duchy. So while the people thundered their acclaim the two knights galloped to their stations and, reining about, faced each other from either end of the lists,
And halted thus, their deadly spears they couched,
With helms stooped low, behind their shields they crouched;
Now rang the clarions; goading spurs struck deep,
The mighty chargers reared with furious leap
And, like two whirlwinds, met in full career,
To backward reel 'neath shock of splintering spear:
But, all unshaken, every eye might see
The bloody hand, the scarred gules falcons three.
Thrice thus they met, but at the fourth essay,
Rose sudden shout of wonder and dismay,
For, smitten sore through riven shield, Sir Gui
Thudded to earth there motionless to lie.
Thus Sir Gui, Lord of Ells and Seneschal of Raddemore, wounded and utterly discomfited, was borne raging to his pavilion while the air rang with the blare of trumpet and clarion in honour of the victor. Thereafter, since no other knight thought it prudent to challenge him, Sir Palamon of Tong was declared champion of the tournament, and was summoned by the Chief Herald to receive the victor's crown. But even as he rode towards the silk-curtained balcony, a distant trumpet shrilled defiance, and into the lists galloped a solitary knight.
Well-armed was he in proud and war-like trim,
Of stature tall and wondrous long of limb;
'Neath red surcoat black was the mail he wore;
His glitt'ring shield a rampant leopard bore,
Beholding which the crowd cried in acclaim,
“Ho for Sir Agramore of Biename!”
But from rosy-red to pale, from pale to rosy-red flushed the Duchess Benedicta, and clenching white teeth, she frowned upon Sir Agramore's fierce and warlike figure. Quoth she:
“Oh, sure there is no man so vile or so unworthy in all Christendom as this vile Lord of Biename!”
“Unless,” said Yolande, frowning also, “unless it be my Lord Gui of Ells!”
“True, my Yolanda! Now, as thou dost hate Sir Gui so hate I Sir Agramore, therefore pray we sweet maid, petition we the good Saints our valiant singer shall serve my hated Sir Agramore as he did thy hated Sir Gui—may he be bruised, may he be battered, may—”
“Oho, 'tis done, my sweeting! A-hee—a-hi, 'tis done!” croaked a voice, and starting about, the Duchess beheld a bent and hag-like creature,
With long, sharp nose that showed beneath her hood,
A nose that curved as every witch's should,
And glittering eye, before whose baleful light,
The fair Yolande shrank back in sudden fright.