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“I am Prince John and Waldemar and all the rest of ’em this day,” he said, “and ‘it is thus,'” quoting Sir Walter, “that we set the dutiful example of loyalty to the Queen of Love and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the throne which she must this day occupy.” And so saying, the Hon. Sam marshalled the Blight to a seat of honor next his own.

“And how do you know she is going to be the Queen of Love and Beauty?” asked the little sister. The Hon. Sam winked at me.

“Well, this tournament lies between two gallant knights. One will make her the Queen of his own accord, if he wins, and if the other wins, he’s got to, or I’ll break his head. I’ve given orders.” And the Hon. Sam looked about right and left on the people who were his that day.

“Observe the nobles and ladies,” he said, still following Sir Walter, and waving at the towns-people and visitors in the rude grandstand. “Observe the yeomanry and spectators of a better degree than the mere vulgar”–waving at the crowd on either side of the stand–“and the promiscuous multitude down the river banks and over the woods and clinging to the tree-tops and to yon telegraph-pole. And there is my herald”–pointing to the cornetist of the local band–“and wait–by my halidom–please just wait until you see my knight on that black charger o’ mine.”

The Blight and the little sister were convulsed and the Hon. Sam went on:

“Look at my men-at-arms”–the volunteer policemen with bulging hip-pockets, dangling billies and gleaming shields of office–“and at my refreshment tents behind”–where peanuts and pink lemonade were keeping the multitude busy–“and my attendants”–colored gentlemen with sponges and water-buckets–“the armorers and farriers haven’t come yet. But my knight–I got his clothes in New York–just wait–Love of Ladies and Glory to the Brave!” Just then there was a commotion on the free seats on one side of the grandstand. A darky starting, in all ignorance, to mount them was stopped and jostled none too good-naturedly back to the ground.

“And see,” mused the Hon. Sam, “in lieu of the dog of an unbeliever we have a dark analogy in that son of Ham.”

The little sister plucked me by the sleeve and pointed toward the entrance. Outside and leaning on the fence were Mollie, the big sister, and little Buck. Straightway I got up and started for them. They hung back, but I persuaded them to come, and I led them to seats two tiers below the Blight–who, with my little sister, rose smiling to greet them and shake hands–much to the wonder of the nobles and ladies close about, for Mollie was in brave and dazzling array, blushing fiercely, and little Buck looked as though he would die of such conspicuousness. No embarrassing questions were asked about Mart or Dave Branham, but I noticed that Mollie had purple and crimson ribbons clinched in one brown hand. The purpose of them was plain, and I whispered to the Blight:

“She’s going to pin them on Dave’s lance.” The Hon. Sam heard me.

“Not on your life,” he said emphatically. “I ain’t takin’ chances,” and he nodded toward the Blight. “She’s got to win, no matter who loses.” He rose to his feet suddenly.

“Glory to the Brave–they’re comin’! Toot that horn, son,” he said; “they’re comin’,” and the band burst into discordant sounds that would have made the “wild barbaric music” on the field of Ashby sound like a lullaby. The Blight stifled her laughter over that amazing music with her handkerchief, and even the Hon. Sam scowled.

“Gee!” he said; “it is pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“Here they come!”

The nobles and ladies on the grandstand, the yeomanry and spectators of better degree, and the promiscuous multitude began to sway expectantly and over the hill came the knights, single file, gorgeous in velvets and in caps, with waving plumes and with polished spears, vertical, resting on the right stirrup foot and gleaming in the sun.