In the center
the green strip of marshy meadowland, with the water squirting
from the galloping hoofs, and the two crouching men, gleaming
bright in the evening sun, on one side the half circle of
motionless horsemen, some in steel, some in velvet, silent and
attentive, dogs, hawks, and horses all turned to stone; on the
other the old peaked bridge, the blue lazy river, the group of
openmouthed rustics, and the dark old manor-house with one grim
face which peered from the upper window.
A good man was John Widdicombe, but he had met a better that day.
Before that yellow whirlwind of a horse and that rider who was
welded and riveted to his saddle his knees could not hold their
grip. Nigel and Pommers were one flying missile, with all their
weight and strength and energy centered on the steady end of the
lance. Had Widdicombe been struck by a thunderbolt he could not
have flown faster or farther from his saddle. Two full
somersaults did he make, his plates clanging like cymbals, ere he
lay prone upon his back.
For a moment the King looked grave at that prodigious fall. Then
smiling once more as Widdicombe staggered to his feet, he clapped
his hands loudly in applause. "A fair course and fairly run!" he
cried. "The five scarlet roses bear themselves in peace even as I
have seen them in war. How now, my good Walter? Have you another
Squire or will you clear a path for us yourself?"
Manny's choleric face had turned darker as he observed the
mischance of his representative.
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