“Nay, then,” replied Dalzel, with affected gravity, “methinks thou shouldst give me good store of thanks, Sir Knight, for having brought so many bright and so many brave eyes to look upon the high perfections of thee and thy buzzard.”
“My liege,” replied Courtenay, no longer able to stand the laugh that ran around from window to window at his expense, “am I to have thy Royal license?”
“Go, then, without further let,” said the King; “let the heralds of the lists proclaim the challenge.”
The usual ceremonies were now gone through, and Sir Piers Courtenay rode off to the barrier lately tenanted by the Lord Welles. Dalzel sat looking after him for some seconds, until he was master of his attitude, and then turning his horse, cantered off to his own barrier, so perfectly caricaturing the proud and indignant seat of the raging Courtenay, that he carried a peal of laughter along with him. But the universal merriment was much increased when the banner of the falcon was contrasted with that of the pie, which was raised in opposition to it. It was silenced, however, by the trumpets of warning, that now brayed loudly from either side of the bridge.
A second and a third time they sounded, and Courtenay flew against his opponent with a fury equal to the rage he felt. Even [[503]]the serious nature of the combat could not tame the waggery of the roguish Dalzel, who, though he failed not to give due attention to the manner in which he bore his shield, as well as to the firmness of his seat, rode his career in a manner so ludicrous as altogether to overcome that solemn silence of expectation that generally awaited the issue of a combat where death might ensue. The spectators, indeed, were made to forget the probability of such a consequence, and Courtenay’s ears continued to be mortified by the loud laugh which, though it followed his adversary, fell with all its blistering effect upon him. Though much disconcerted, the English knight bore his lance’s point bravely and truly against Dalzel’s helmet; but the cunning Scot had left it unlaced, so that it gave way as it was touched, and fell back on his shoulders without his feeling the shock; whilst his own lance passed high over the head of his antagonist.
This appeared to be the result of accident, and they prepared to run again. The signal was given, the encounter came, Dalzel’s helmet gave way a second time, whilst he with great adroitness pierced the silken wreath supporting the falcon that soared over Courtenay’s casque, and bore it off in triumph.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, “by St. Andrew, but I have the popinjay!” And so saying, he waited not for further talk, but rode off along the bridge with pompous air, and returned bearing it on high, to the great mortification of Courtenay, and the no small amusement of the spectators.
Courtenay’s ire was now excited to the utmost. The trumpet sounded for the third career, and he ran to Dalzel with the fullest determination to unhorse him; but again the treacherous helmet defeated him, while he received the point of his adversary’s lance so rudely on the bars of the vizor, that they gave way before it.
“Come hither, come hither quickly,” cried Courtenay to his esquire. “By the blessed St. George, I have suffered most fatal damage, the which the clownish life of that caitiff Scot would but poorly compensate.”
All eyes were now turned towards him; and his esquire having released him from his helmet, showed his mouth bleeding so profusely, that those who were near him began seriously to fear that he had really suffered some fatal injury.