The Hon. Sam rose, with his watch in one hand and stilling the tumult with the other. Dead silence came at once.
“I fear me,” he said, “that the good knight, the Discarded, has failed to make the course in the time required by the laws of the tournament.” Bedlam broke loose again and the Hon. Sam waited, still gesturing for silence.
“Summon the time-keeper!” he said.
The time-keeper appeared from the middle of the field and nodded.
“Eight seconds!” “The Knight of the Cumberland wins,” said the Hon. Sam.
The little sister, unconscious of her own sad face, nudged me to look at the Blight—there were tears in her eyes.
Before the grandstand the knights slowly drew up again. Marston's horse was so lame and tired that he dismounted and let a darky boy lead him under the shade of the trees. But he stood on foot among the other knights, his arms folded, worn out and vanquished, but taking his bitter medicine like a man. I thought the Blight's eyes looked pityingly upon him.
The Hon. Sam arose with a crown of laurel leaves in his hand:
“You have fairly and gallantly won, Sir Knight of the Cumberland, and it is now your right to claim and receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty the chaplet of honor which your skill has justly deserved. Advance, Sir Knight of the Cumberland, and dismount!”
The Knight of the Cumberland made no move nor sound.