All the men had on wadded cotton tunics, covered with bull’s-hide armor, put together in strips and riveted with brass bosses. They wore visored helmets, and carried circular shields of burnished bronze. Before they had encircled the ring, it was evident that it was a sham attack on Yermah. They tried to ride him down, but Cibolo foiled them with an instinct almost human. They often fired at the rider, but were never able to hit him. Yermah returned arrow for arrow, sometimes from behind his shield, sometimes forward, more often backward, single arrows, and three at a time. Throwing up his shield to protect himself, or dropping over on the side of his horse so there was but one leg over the saddle, on and on he went. At an unexpected moment, Yermah wheeled and charged furiously, lassoing the horse ridden by Setos, and then, by a skillful maneuver and a daring leap, broke through the circle which had formed around him. He escaped into the tower of refuge—a low semi-circle in front of the pavilion—taking his captive with him. When Yermah rode out to receive the yew wreath and red ribbon of valor, there was not an arrow in his armor nor a dent in his shield. He had escaped without a single scratch. While his name was on every one’s lips, he modestly sought Kerœcia. There were tears in her eyes, which welled over on the two bright red spots on either cheek, as she turned to greet him. Her lips trembled, but she smiled while giving him her hand. He sat down beside her almost equally overcome. Close to her ear he said earnestly, and but little above a whisper: “I love thee. It is thine opinion I value. All else is naught.” He read his triumph in her eyes; she heard the one declaration in the world for her. They were alone in the crowd, whose unheeded plaudits came to them in an impersonal sort of way. They had a few minutes’ respite from the duties of the hour, a little season of quiet communion, while a feeling of adoration welled up from their hearts and submerged all the other senses. It created a halo about them and moistened the shining eyes gazing steadfastly at one another. Overpowering emotion rendered them speechless, while the soul union, the mating of their real selves, was consummated in a wordless covenant. During the eloquent silence each had knowledge that the other had set up a shrine in the holy of holies of their being which none of the trials of after-life would desecrate, nor would either ever be capable of violating its sanctity. In this expression of love was that perfect blending of ideality and desire which is the very essence of marriage. It is the molding and cementing influences which, in fortunate cases, so dominates such intimate and close association that in old age they look, speak and act alike. Nor does death finally take one and leave the other.