“That is not so, my lord,” exclaimed a poor man in the crowd; “he has not fled.”
“Ah! how sayest thou?”
“Even now he sleeps at my hut; last night I found him floating on his bed beneath the palace wall; I took him into my boat, and he is safe.”
“Thou hast done well; summon him to the list. Sir Plebeus, you shall not be disappointed of your combat. See, even now your adversary comes. Now, marshals, arm the stranger.”
“Nay, my good lord,” said the Dacian knight, “press not on the pilgrim; I pray you, my lord, give him time to recruit his strength.”
“Not for a minute, sir knight,” exclaimed the pilgrim as he entered the lists and hastened to don his armor; “not for a minute—I have much to reckon with you: remember last night.”
The combat was short: each knight struck twice without fatal effect; the pilgrim’s third blow ended the battle, and the Dacian rolled on the ground a headless corpse.
“Sir Pilgrim,” said the king, as he knelt before the throne, “God has defended the right; even now have I been told of the treachery of that senseless corpse, and of the villany of his sons towards thee; they now are going to their reward—to death. Come, sir knight, for thy sake I restore Sir Tyrius, renew his honors, and add to them those which you so steadfastly refuse. One boon I ask before you leave our court and our kingdom: disclose thy name; let me and my people know to whom they owe the punishment of a traitor and the defence of their best friend, their former preserver.”
“My lord,” replied the pilgrim, “my name is not unknown to you; I am the knight of the Holy Land—the Guido of whom men speak.”
Loud were the exclamations with which that famous name was hailed by the assembled Dacians, as their king fell on the pilgrim’s neck and embraced him as a brother.