“Yours is no bitter ride by haunted tarn or through enchanted forest—no arrowed vigil on beleagered walls. You go not in gleaming steel and fretted mail to meet the bite of blade and crash of battle-ax. Yet is your trial one of honor and glory. I charge you that in the contest there be no darkling envy for the victor, but only true comradeship and that generosity which is the badge of noble minds. “I summon you to bow the knee loyally before your queen. For as the contest typifies life’s battle, so shall she stand for you as the type of womanhood, the crown of knighthood. The bravest thoughts of chivalry circle about her. The stars of heaven only may be above her head, the glowworm in the night-chill grasses the only fire at her feet; still the spot that holds her is richer than if ceiled with cedar and painted with vermilion, and sheds a light far for him who else were lampless. “Most Noble Knights! In the name of that high tradition which this day preserves! In the memory of those other knights who practised the tourney [Pg 292]in its old-time glory! In the sight of your Queen of Beauty! I charge you, Southern gentlemen, to joust with that valor, fairness and truth which are the enduring glories of the knighthood of Virginia!” Over the ringing applause Nancy Chalmers looked at him with a little smile, quizzical yet soft. “Dear old major!” she whispered to Betty Page. “How he loves the center of the stage! And he’s effective, too. Thirty years ago, father says, he might have been anything he wanted to—even United States Senator. But he would never leave the state. Not that I blame him for that,” she added; “I’d rather be a church-mouse in Virginia than Cr sus’ daughter anywhere else.” The twelve horsemen were now sitting their restive mounts in a group at one end of the lists. Two mounted monitors had stationed themselves on either side of the rope-barrier; a third stood behind the upright from whose arm was suspended the silver ring. The herald blew a blast, calling the title of the first of the knights. Instantly, with lance at rest, the latter galloped at full speed down the lists. There was a sharp musical clash, and as he dashed on, the ring flew the full length of its tether and swung back, whirling swiftly. It had been a close thrust, for the iron pike-point had smitten its rim. A cheer went up, under cover of [Pg 293]which the rider looped back outside the lists to his former position. In an upper tier of the stand a spectator made a cup of his hands. “The Knight of the Golden Spur against the field,” he called. “What odds?” “Five to one, Spotteswood,” a voice answered. “Ten dollars,” announced the first. “Good.” And both made memorandum on their cuffs. A second time the trumpet sounded, and the Knight of Castlewood flashed ingloriously down the roped aisle—a miss.