And a gleam of joy and hope flashed on the youth’s heart, and shone brighter as he participated in the solemn Mass in preparation for the combat. This over, each champion made oath of the justice of his quarrel in the hands of his godfather before the Prince: Hamlyn de Valence swearing that to the best of his belief, Richard de Montfort was a traitor, in league with his brothers, and art and part in the murder of Prince Henry of Almayne, and offering to prove it on his body; while on the other hand Richard swore that he was a true and faithful liegeman to the King, free from all intercourse with his brethren, and sackless of the death of Prince Henry. Then each mounted on horseback, the trumpets sounded, the sponsors led them to their places, and the Prince’s clear voice exclaimed, “And so God show the right.” One glance of pitying sympathy would have filled Richard’s arm with fresh vigour. The two youths closed with shivered lances, and horses reeling from the shock. Backing their steeds, each received a fresh lance. Again they met; Richard felt the point of Hamlyn’s lance glint against his breastplate, glide down, enter, make its way into his flesh; but at the same instant his lance was pushing, driving, bearing on Hamlyn before him; the sheer force in his Plantagenet shoulders was telling now, the very pain seemed as it were to add to the energy with which he pressed on—on, till the hostile spear dropped from his own side, and Hamlyn was borne backwards over the croup of the staggering horse, till he fell with crashing ringing armour upon the ground. Little John clapped his hands, and shouted for joy; but no one responded. Richard leapt down in another second, and stood over him. “Yield thee, Hamlyn de Valence. Confess that thou hast slandered me with an ungrounded accusation.” Hamlyn had no choice. “Let me rise,” he said sullenly; “I will confess, so thou letst me open my visor.” And Richard standing aside, Hamlyn spoke out in a dogged formal tone. “I hereby own, that by the judgment of Heaven, Richard de Montfort hath cleared himself of all share in the foul murder of Lord Henry, whose soul Heaven assoilzie. Also that he hath disproven the charge of leaguing with his brethren.” Richard was the victor, but where were the gratulations? Young John’s hearty but slender hurrah was lost in the general silence. The Prince reared his stately form, and said, “The judgment of Heaven is final. Richard de Montfort is pronounced free of all penalty for treason in the matter of the death of our dear cousin, and is free to go where he will.” Cold as ice was the Prince’s face. That Richard meant murder to Henry, he had never believed; but that he had hankered after his brothers, and held dangerous communings with them, was evidently still credited and unforgiven. The very form of words was a dismissal—and the youth’s heart was wrung.