The last trumpet sounded--tantara! tantara!--its shrill call rang over the wide plains, and the wide plains gave back no answer. Again!--but when its notes died away, there was only a mournful, an awful silence. “Farewell, my child,” said the Prince, bulkily lifting himself into his battle-saddle. “Remember the dagger. Hark! the trumpet sounds for the third time. Open, warders! Sound, trumpeters! and good St. Bendigo guard the right.” But Puffendorff, the trumpeter, had not leisure to lift the trumpet to his lips: when, hark! from without there came another note of another clarion!--a distant note at first, then swelling fuller. Presently, in brilliant variations, the full rich notes of the “Huntsman's Chorus” came clearly over the breeze; and a thousand voices of the crowd gazing over the gate exclaimed, “A champion! a champion!” And, indeed, a champion HAD come. Issuing from the forest came a knight and squire: the knight gracefully cantering an elegant cream-colored Arabian of prodigious power--the squire mounted on an unpretending gray cob; which, nevertheless, was an animal of considerable strength and sinew. It was the squire who blew the trumpet, through the bars of his helmet; the knight's visor was completely down. A small prince's coronet of gold, from which rose three pink ostrich-feathers, marked the warrior's rank: his blank shield bore no cognizance. As gracefully poising his lance he rode into the green space where the Rowski's tents were pitched, the hearts of all present beat with anxiety, and the poor Prince of Cleves, especially, had considerable doubts about his new champion. “So slim a figure as that can never compete with Donnerblitz,” said he, moodily, to his daughter; “but whoever he be, the fellow puts a good face on it, and rides like a man. See, he has touched the Rowski's shield with the point of his lance! By St. Bendigo, a perilous venture!” The unknown knight had indeed defied the Rowski to the death, as the Prince of Cleves remarked from the battlement where he and his daughter stood to witness the combat; and so, having defied his enemy, the Incognito galloped round under the castle wall, bowing elegantly to the lovely Princess there, and then took his ground and waited for the foe. His armor blazed in the sunshine as he sat there, motionless, on his cream-colored steed. He looked like one of those fairy knights one has read of--one of those celestial champions who decided so many victories before the invention of gun powder.