On Lammas day the Londoners flocked towards Westminster to witness the great wrestling match which was to decide the comparative superiority of the athletes of the city and the suburbs. Long ere noon the level turf which had been railed off for the encounter was surrounded by a crowd impatient for the commencement of the combat--so impatient, indeed, that they would not deign to be diverted by the gleemen, and jongleurs, and mountebanks, and merry-andrews, and tymberteres, who nevertheless made every effort to attract attention. Curiosity as to the champion who was to encounter Martin Girder had reached a high pitch, and was all the keener that even his name had not transpired. At length, just before noon, Constantine Fitzarnulph, coming from London, and the abbot’s steward, coming from Westminster, reached the ground, where tents had been erected for the champions; and while the men of Westminster loudly cheered the steward, the Londoners raised their voices not less loudly in praise of Fitzarnulph, some of them adding, “Hail, Constantine, King of the People!” At the appointed hour, and while yet this storm of cheers was raging, a signal was given for the champions to come into the arena, and forthwith Martin Girder presented himself, looking so big and strong and in such excellent order that the Londoners signified their enthusiasm by cheering him to the skies. Ere the din had subsided, Martin’s adversary, a young man of twenty-one, came from his tent, and his appearance so much disappointed the spectators who wished him well as the steward’s champion, that hardly a voice was raised in his encouragement, and the Londoners laughed loudly in scorn of his audacity. Only one person--the landlord of the Walnut-tree, out of which William de Collingham and Oliver Icingla had been hunted by Sir Anthony Waledger on the day when Prince Louis entered London--expressed confidence in the champion, and spoke favourably of his chance. “Cog’s wounds!” exclaimed mine host, “I know the younker well. It is Wolf, the son of Styr, my wife’s kinsman; and, albeit he does not inherit the height or bulk of his father, yet he has enough of old Styr’s pluck and devilry to make the London loons laugh on the wrong side of their mouths ere he is done with their champion. As the Scots say, ‘muckleness is no’ manliness, or a cow could catch a hare.’” “Right, mine host,” said a tall archer who stood by, and who was one of the heroes of the camp of refuge; “the son of Styr is game to the backbone like his father before him, and the Icingla spoiled a stout soldier when he made Wolf the forester he is.”