The look on his face was not good to see, but he saluted gravely and rode away to watch the encounter between the most gallant Knight-Tilter in England and the stranger. Rage was in his heart, and it blinded him to the certainty of his defeat, for he was not expert in the lists. But by a sure instinct he had guessed the identity of the white horseman, and every nerve quivered with desire to meet him in combat. Last night’s good work seemed to have gone for naught. Elizabeth’s humor had changed; and to-day she seemed set on humiliating him before the nobles who hated him, before the people who had found in him the cause why the Queen had not married, so giving no heir to the throne. Perturbed and charged with anger as he was, however, the combat now forward soon chained his attention. Not in many a year had there been seen in England such a display of skill and determination. The veteran Knight-Tilter, who knew that the result of this business meant more than life to him, and that more than the honor of his comrades was at stake--even the valor of England, which had been challenged--fought as he had never fought before, as no man had fought in England for many a year. At first the people cried aloud their encouragement; but as onset and attack after onset and attack showed that two masters of their craft, two desperate men had met, and that the great sport had become a vital combat between their own champion and the champion of another land--Spain, France, Denmark, Russia, Italy?--a hush spread over the great space, and every eye was strained; men gazed with bated breath. The green turf was torn and mangled, the horses reeked with sweat and foam, but overhead the soaring skylark sang, as it were, to express the joyance of the day. During many minutes the only sound that broke the stillness was the clash of armed men, the thud of hoofs, and the snorting and the wild breathing of the chargers. The lark’s notes, however, ringing out over the lists, freed the tongue of the Queen’s fool, who suddenly ran out into the lists, in his motley and cap and bells, and in his high, trilling voice sang a fool’s song to the fighting twain: “Who would lie down and close his eyes While yet the lark sings o’er the dale? Who would to Love make no replies, Nor drink the nut-brown ale, While throbs the pulse, and full’s the purse And all the world’s for sale?” Suddenly a cry of relief, of roaring excitement, burst from the people. Both horsemen and their chargers were on the ground. The fight was over, the fierce game at an end. That which all had feared, even the Queen herself, as the fight fared on, had not come to pass--England’s champion had not been beaten by the armed mystery, though the odds had seemed against him.