A sound body overcame an uneasy mind and conscience, however, and he slept peacefully through the fog, with nothing more alarming than a multitude of shadowy de Claverloks to inhabit his dreams. In the morning he was awake betimes, broke his fast, and then wandered out to view the lists, which would soon resound with the huzzas of excited spectators, and the tumult of friendly striving. To the northward of the walls of the castle tents were thickly dotted over the hillsides, the blue smoke of their fires rising high into the keen, clear air. Horses were tethered to almost every tree; oxen were moving about over the slopes, grazing the frosty grass. In the open spaces knots of men and women were gathered, eating, drinking, and singing. Snatches of their rude songs reached to the young knight's ears as he stood watching the interesting spectacle. Within the space reserved for the uses of the knights who were to engage in the games, he noted a pavilion bearing his cognizance emblazoned above its entrance. He walked across, stopping in front of it to look up along the decorated stand, with its ribbon-twined pillars, its manifold pennants, its blaze of multi-colored banners all snapping and fluttering in the crisp breeze. It was a brave sight, and sent Sir Richard's blood tingling through his veins. He grew conscious of a keen desire to feel the first shock of the combat. By now other knights were passing beside him, many of whom were not strangers to Sir Richard's prowess with the sword. They gave him the morning's greeting and passed within their tents. Heralds and pursuivants, dressed in the brightest and gaudiest of liveries, were moving busily about the tilting-yard, engaged upon their tasks of observing that everything was in cap-a-pie order. Presently Lord Douglas and his retinue of inseparable jackdaws entered the stand across the covered bridge that gave into it from the castle. They moved in a body to the front and bowed in concert, wishing him a row of solemn good-morrows. Sir Richard grew to speculating as to what was taking place within their teeming brains. He wished that he might have lifted their coverings for a moment to have a peep within. Upon returning their ceremonious salutations, he parted the curtained entrance and walked within his tent. No sooner was he come inside when a seam opened to the right, disclosing a hand holding a parchment with ribbons dangling from its great seal. Sir Richard instantly recognized it to be the document that had been stolen from his wallet. The seam gaped wider then, and Tyrrell's grim visage appeared above the hand.