Encounter followed encounter as knight after knight took part. Now there were single combats and now mêlées. The dust rose in clouds, the trumpets brayed, the sun climbed high. Knights were unhorsed; a number had hurts, two or three had been dragged senseless to the barrier. Stephen the Marshal was the champion; all who came against him broke at last like waves against a rock. It was high noon and the duke had not yet jousted. The crowd was excited and began to murmur. It did not wish to be cheated—the greater he that jousted, the greater the show! Moreover it wished to be able to tell the points of him who might be going to wed Roche-de-Frêne. A statement had spread that the duke was a bold knight in a tourney—that he had an enchanted lance, a thread from Saint Martha’s wimple being tied around its head—that his black stallion had been brought from the land over the sea, and had been sired by a demon steed. The crowd wanted to see him joust against Stephen the Marshal. His honour would not allow him to strike a lesser shield. But then the prince would not wish Stephen to unhorse his guest. But perhaps Lord Stephen could not—the duke might be the bolder knight. But was the duke going to tilt? He was going to tilt. He came forth from his orange silk pavilion, in a hauberk covered with rings of steel, and his esquires helped him to mount the black stallion. He took and shook his lance; the sun made the sheath of his sword to flash; they gave him a heart-shaped shield. All around the lists sprang a rustling, buzzing, and clamour. The gallery of state rustled, whispered. “He is not a large man,” quoth Montmaure. “I have heard that he jousts well,” Prince Gaucelm answered. “My Lord Stephen the Marshal outmatches him.” “The marshal is a passing good knight. But he is wearied.” “Ha!” thought Montmaure, “you are so courteous that you mean the duke to win the wreath. Crown your daughter Queen of Love and Beauty? God’s teeth! I suppose he must do it if he wants Roche-de-Frêne—” The black stallion and his rider crossed to the marshal’s pavilion. The duke touched the shield with his lance, then backed the stallion to his own end of the meadow. Stephen the Marshal mounted his big grey and took a lance from his esquire. The field was left clear for the two. They met midway, in dust-cloud and clangour. Whether the marshal was tired, or whether he was as courteous as his lord, or whether the duke was truly great in the tourney, may be left to choice. Each lance splintered, but Stephen the Marshal, as his horse came back upon its haunches, lost his seat, recovered it only by clutching at the mane and swinging himself into the saddle. Every herald at once found voice—up hurried the marshals—silver trumpets told to the four quarters, name and titles of the victor.