While the tears of the two were yet mingling, the scene underwent a change corresponding with my anxiety for the _dénouement_. A vast area opened before me, surrounded by the seats and scaffolding as for a tourney, and the space was filling fast with spectators. I will not attempt to describe the splendor of the scene. Lords and ladies, in their most gorgeous attire, occupied the high places; princes were conspicuous; the people were assembled in thousands. At the sound of trumpets the king made his appearance. A grand burst of music announced that he was on his throne. Among the knights and nobles by whom he was attended, I readily distinguished “the Favorite.” He was in armor, but it was of an exceedingly simple pattern, and seemed designed for service rather than display. He looked grave and apprehensive, and his eyes were frequently turned upon the barriers, as if in anxious waiting for the champions. The accused was the first to appear. He was soon followed, however, by the accuser, and both made their way through the crowd to the foot of the throne. As the old man approached, the favorite drew nigh, and addressed him in subdued, but earnest accents. “It is not yet too late! Call upon me as thy champion. The king dare not refuse thee, and as I live, I will avenge mine own and thy wrongs together.” “It cannot be, my lord,” was the reply, with a sad shake of the head. “Besides,” he continued, “I have no wrongs to avenge. I seek for safety only. It is only as my life is pledged equally to the living and the dead, that I care to struggle for it, and to save.” The face of the favorite was clouded with chagrin. He led the way in silence to the foot of the throne, followed by the venerable man. There, the latter made obeisance, and encountered the hostile and fierce glance of his enemy, whom he regarded only with looks of sorrow and commisseration. A breathless silence pervaded the vast assembly as they beheld the white locks, the simple majesty of his face and air, and the costume—singular for such an occasion—which he wore. This did not in any degree differ from that in which he had always appeared habited before. It consisted of a loose, flowing robe of the purest white, most like, but more copious than the priestly cassock. His opponent, in complete steel, shining like the sun, with helmeted head and gauntleted hand, afforded to the spectators a most astonishing difference between the combatants. The wonder increased with their speculations. The surprise extended itself to the king, who proffered, as Saul had done to David, the proper armor of a warrior to the defenseless man. But this he steadily refused. The king, himself, condescended to remonstrate. “This is sheer madness, old man. Would’st thou run upon thy death with uncovered head and bosom?”