She had seen that look on his face before and read it aright. John Valiant had striven in many contests, not only of skill but of strength and daring, before crowded grand stands. But never in all his life had he so desired to pluck the prize. His grip was tense on the lance as the yellow doublet and olive plume of Castlewood shot away for a last time—and failed. An instant later the Knight of the Crimson Rose flashed down the lists with the last ring on his pike. And the tourney was won. In the shouting and hand-clapping Valiant took the rose from his hat-band and bound it with a shred of his sash to his lance-point. As he rode slowly toward the massed stand, the whole field was so still [Pg 298]that he could hear the hoofs of the file of knights behind him. The people were on their feet. The mounted herald blew his blast. “By the Majesties of St. Michael and St. George,” he proclaimed, “I declare the Knight of the Crimson Rose the victor of this our tourney, and do charge him now to choose his Queen of Beauty, that all may do her homage!” Shirley saw the horse coming down the line, its rider bareheaded now, and her heart began to race wildly. Beyond wanting him to take part, she had not thought. She looked about her, suddenly dismayed. People were smiling at her and clapping their hands. From the other end of the stand she saw Nancy Chalmers throwing her a kiss, and beside her a tall pale girl in champagne-color staring through a jeweled lorgnette. She was conscious all at once that the flanneled rider was very close ... that his pike-point, with its big red blossom, was stretching up to her. With the rose in her hand she curtsied to him, while the blurred throng cheered itself hoarse, and the band struck up You Great Big Beautiful Doll, with extraordinary rapture, to the tune of which the noise finally subsided to a battery of hilarious congratulations which left her flushed and a little breathless. Nancy Chalmers and Betty Page had burst upon her like petticoated whirlwinds and presently, [Pg 299]when the crowd had lessened, the judge came to introduce his visitor. “Mr. Fargo and his daughter are our guests at Gladden Hall,” he told her. “They are old friends of Valiant’s, by the way; they knew him in New York.” “Katharine’s lighting her incense now, I guess,” observed Silas Fargo. “See there!” He pointed across the stand, where stood a willowy tan figure, one hand beckoning to the concourse below, where Valiant stood, the center of a shifting group, round which the white bulldog, mad with recovered liberty, tore in eccentric circles. As they looked, she called softly, “John! John!” Shirley saw him start and face about, then come quickly toward her, amazement and welcome in his eyes.