Count Archimbald now formally requested leave of absence from the lady, and went away, on her right hand, to mount his charger. Meanwhile, Sir Folko was already visible on her left, at the extremity of the ring, seated on a graceful light-footed grey horse, with a close-visored golden helmet on his head. His opponent not being yet ready, he pranced about in a playful manner along the turf, guiding his horse, as it seemed, more by words than by management of the reins. On coming near Gabrielle, the animal, on a secret signal from his rider, bent his knees for a moment in respectful homage, then started up with a fine capriole, continuing to bound and curvet so lightly and so elegantly, that he seemed almost to move on wings; the golden bells of the saddle and head-gear making pleasant music, till at length the rider regained his former position in the distance. There the horse stood obedient and tranquil like a statue, turning back his elegantly-formed head towards the knight, as if in friendly confidence, and asking whether he had performed his part correctly? whereupon Sir Folko took off his iron glove, and kindly clapped him on the neck. During all this while, it afforded a strange contrast, to observe how Count Archimbald’s charger, his dark coat spotted with foam, plunged, reared, and struggled, so that two squires, with their utmost exertions, were scarcely able to hold him. In the midst of his fury, the Count sprung upon his back, and with violent strokes of the spur, made him plunge more wildly than ever, galloped him several times up and down with great strength of limbs and skill of bridle; till at last the horse knew his master, and stood, as if rooted to the ground, waiting his commands. Still, however, his eyes flamed so wildly, that they might be compared to the red glare of the torches; and with his right fore-hoof he began to paw and tear up the turf, as if he would prepare a grave for his rider’s opponent.