As the procession of contestants enters the arena, the sound of wild, barbaric music rends the air—a mixture of trumpets, cymbals, bells, and other instruments brought back from the East by the crusaders. It is a goodly and at the same time an anxious sight to behold so many gallant champions, mounted bravely and armed richly, awaiting the signal of encounter with the same ardor as their generous steeds, neighing and pawing the ground. The knights hold their long lances upright, their bright points glancing in the sun, and the streamers with which they are decorated fluttering over the plumage of their helmets. All is ready; the heralds make proclamation of the conditions of the tourney; the marshals of the field proclaim; the trumpets sound; the signal words, _Laissez aller_! [French for “Go!”] are shouted; spears drop to a horizontal, spurs are sunk in the steeds, and fifty knights crash together in full gallop. Anon the dust rises and the fight becomes visible; we see half the knights dismounted, some not to rise, others already on their feet fighting hand to hand with mace or ax amid a struggling pile of disabled horses, wounded men, broken spears and armor, the still mounted knights trampling and fighting with swords, the crash of which on iron helmets and shields makes an infernal din, over which roar the shouts of the champions, and the more excited shouts of the crazed spectators, the shriller encouragement of ladies and the clang of trumpets. The splendid armor is now defaced with dust and blood; the gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifts upon the breeze like snowflakes; all the beautiful and graceful has disappeared, and what remains ought only to awaken terror or compassion. But all, including delicate and high bred ladies, cheer on the combatants; while the heralds spur back and forth on the borders of the _melee_, crying, “Fight on, brave knights! man dies, but glory lives—death is better than defeat! Fight on! for bright eyes behold your deeds!” Now, at length, the combatants have thinned out until only one knight is left on one side to meet three powerful antagonists. It is fighting in earnest now, and Prince John incites the three to the destruction of the one whom he hates as a friend of the absent Richard. “The Disinherited Knight” is sure to be overpowered. Suddenly a voice like a trumpet-call sounds, “To the rescue!” and a horseman in black armor, not yet seen in the fray, spurs like a thunderbolt on the three. One is unhorsed in the shock; another is cut down by the sword, the last falls under his horse helpless, and the tournament is ended. Eight knights were killed, upwards of thirty wounded, several disabled for life. This is known in history as the “Gentle and joyous Passage-at-Arms of Ashby.” “Hearty in their sports,” were those old knights. They were “chock full of fun.”