were sick; that none needed to be privy thereto except my Lady Strafford and one of the grooms of her chamber. "She appeared to like that kind of language, only answered it with a sigh, saying: Alas, if I might do it thus."[195] Surely ladies who "appeared to like that kind of language," and men who were wont to use it, would be certain to accept with much pleasure representations in plays and novels of he-Rosalinds and she-Pyrocles. In the midst of battles, masques and eclogues, interludes are consecrated to fetes of chivalry. As much as in Italy, France or England, the knights of Arcady challenge each other, and in brilliant tournaments break lances in honour of their mistresses. Sidney himself was very skilful at these sports; he proved it about this time in the festivities of May, 1581, by attacking with his companions, the Castle of perfect Beauty, which was reputed to contain the grace and attractions of the Queen, a treasure as may well be believed, most allegorical. His sonnets more than once refer to his prowess in the lists: "Having this day, my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemie France. Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Towne-folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise; Some luckie wits impute it but a chance ... Stella lookt on...."[196] In his letters to his brother Robert, he is most particular as to the every-day exercise by which the young man should improve his fencing. He could not help giving his tastes to his Arcadian knights. They would, otherwise, have been considered by his lady-readers, uninteresting barbarians. He therefore allowed them good spurs and a ready lance; this meant civilization. On a certain day every knight appears in the vale of Arcady, with drawn sword, and carrying a portrait of his fair lady; the painting is to become the prey of the conqueror. The order of merit of the various beauties is thus determined by blows of the lance. Pyrocles, who, dressed as a woman, cannot take part in the fighting, has the mortification of seeing the champion of Philoclea bite the dust and give up her portrait. He goes immediately and secretly puts on some wretched armour, lowers his visor, and like a brave hero of romance, runs into the lists, throws every one to the ground, regains the portrait, and all the others as well. He is proclaimed conqueror of the tourney, and the first of knights, while at the same time, Philoclea becomes again the most beautiful of women.