The gentlemen of England fared ill that day in the sight of all the people, for the challenger of the Knights-Tilters was more than a match for each that came upon him. He rode like a wild horseman of Yucatan. Wary, resourceful, sudden in device and powerful in onset, he bore all down, until the Queen cried: “There hath not been such skill in England since my father rode these lists. Three of my best gentlemen down, and it hath been but breathing to him. Now, Sir Harry Lee, it is thy turn,” she laughed, as she saw the champion ride forward; “and next ’tis thine, Leicester. Ah, Leicester, would have at him now?” she added, sharply, as she saw the favorite spur forward before the gallant Lee. “He is full of choler--it becomes him, but it shall not be; bravery is not all. And if he failed”--she smiled acidly--“he would get him home to Kenilworth and show himself no more--if he failed, and the white knight failed not! What think you, dove?” she cried to the Duke’s Daughter. “Would he not fall in the megrims for that England’s honor had been overthrown? Leicester could not live if England’s honor should be toppled down like my dear Chris Hatton and his gallants, yonder.” The Duke’s Daughter courtesied. “Methinks England’s honor is in little peril--your Majesty knows well how to ‘fend it. No subject keeps it.” “If I must ‘fend it, dove, then Leicester there must not fight to-day. It shall surely be Sir Harry Lee. My Lord Leicester must have the place of honor at the last,” she called aloud. Leicester swung his horse round, and galloped to the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he cried, in suppressed anger, “must I give place?” “When all have failed and Leicester has won, then all yield place to Leicester,” said the Queen, dryly.