Richard Longsword had watched the tourney from a lodge at the northern end of the lists beside his fidgeting father and grave-faced mother, trying to enjoy the contests and to forget himself in the tale Theroulde told, while they waited, of the redoubtable paynim knight Chernubles, who could toss four mules' loads like a truss of straw. Herbert growled advice in his ear. Sebastian said never a word, but Richard knew he had lain all that night before the altar, outstretched like a cross while invoking heavenly legions to speed his "spiritual son." Only when Musa and Iftikhar contended, Longsword forgot himself; thrilled at his friend's peril, rejoiced at his victory, and swore a deep, if silent, oath that the emir should not go scatheless on so poor excusings.
The interval ended at last—praised be all saints! The heedless chatter of the ladies, the braying laughs of the men-at-arms, were a little chilled. Slowly a great hush spread across the lists. Richard kissed father and mother, wrung Herbert's great scarred paw, and vanished in a tent at the northern end of the close. Here waited Sebastian and friendly Bishop Robert of Evroult, who brought the Host and heard Longsword's confession and shrived him. Richard vowed two tall candlesticks of good red gold to Our Lady of the Victory, if all went well; made testaments, if the day went ill. "Dominus absolvat," the Bishop had said ere the young man rose from his knees. But Sebastian was murmuring in his heart, "Oh, if he were but to ride for the love of Christ and His Holy City, and not for unchristian hate and love of the eyes of a sinful maid!"
Then Musa came to the tent, thrusting all the Cefalu squires aside, and himself put on the Norman's hauberk, drew the chainwork coif over the head for shield of throat and cheeks, clapped on the silvered helm, and made fast the leather laces, till Richard was hid save for the flashing of his eyes.
When all was ready they led him out, and Theroulde strode before, proud to play the knight's pursuivant. From the end of the lists the jongleur sounded his challenge:—
"Ho, Louis de Valmont! Ho, Louis de Valmont! My master awaits you! Here stands the good knight, Sir Richard of Cefalu, armed for fair battle, ready to make good on his body against cavalier or villain who denies that Louis de Valmont is base-born, unknightly, unworthy to wear his spurs of gold!"
Whereupon, from the other end of the arena, advanced a second pursuivant, Bernier by name, a dapper Provençal in a fantastic blue cloak, answering shrilly:—
"Ho, bold man! Who are you that mock Sir Louis de Valmont? He has no lance save for his peers."
Then Theroulde threw back, still advancing:—
"So tell your master to be well shriven, for my Lord Richard of Cefalu swears he will number him among the saints ere sunset!"