“Your gift,” he cried back to Rosamund, and her answer came clear and sweet: “Bear it like your fathers, Wulf. Bear it as it was last borne in the hall at Steeple.” Then there was another silence—a silence long and deep. Wulf looked at the white and narrow ribbon of the bridge, looked at the black gulf on either side, looked at the blue sky above, in which floated the great globe of the golden moon. Then he leant forward and patted Smoke upon the neck. For the third time the trumpets blew, and from either end of that bridge, two hundred paces long, the knights flashed towards each other like living bolts of steel. The multitude rose to watch; even Sinan rose. Only Rosamund sat still, gripping the cushions with her hands. Hollow rang the hoofs of the horses upon the stonework, swifter and swifter they flew, lower and lower bent the knights upon their saddles. Now they were near, and now they met. The spears seemed to shiver, the horses to hustle together on the narrow way and overhang its edge, then on came the black horse towards the inner city, and on sped Smoke towards the further gulf. “They have passed! They have passed!” roared the multitude. Look! Lozelle approached, reeling in his saddle, as well he might, for the helm was torn from his head and blood ran from his skull where the lance had grazed it. “Too high, Wulf; too high,” said Godwin sadly. “But oh! if those laces had but held!” Soldiers caught the horse and turned it. “Another helm!” cried Lozelle. “Nay,” answered Sinan; “yonder knight has lost his shield. New lances—that is all.” So they gave him a fresh lance, and, presently, at the blast of the trumpets again the horses were seen speeding together over the narrow way. They met, and lo! Lozelle, torn from his saddle, but still clinging to the reins, was flung backwards, far backwards, to fall on the stonework of the bridge. Down, too, beneath the mighty shock went his black horse, a huddled heap, and lay there struggling. “Wulf will fall over him!” cried Rosamund. But Smoke did not fall; the stallion gathered itself together—the moonlight shone so clear that every watcher saw it—and since stop it could not, leapt straight over the fallen black horse—ay, and over the rider beyond—and sped on in its stride. Then the black found its feet again and galloped forward to the further gate, and Lozelle also found his feet and turned to run. “Stand! Stand, coward!” yelled ten thousand voices, and, hearing them, he drew his sword and stood. Within three great strides Wulf dragged his charger to its haunches, then wheeled it round. “Charge him!” shouted the multitude; but Wulf remained seated, as though unwilling to attack a horseless man. Next he sprang from his saddle, and accompanied by the horse Smoke, which followed him as a dog follows its master, walked slowly towards Lozelle, as he walked casting away his lance and drawing the great, cross-hilted sword. Again the silence fell, and through it rang the cry of Godwin: