VII
AT LAST—THE TOURNAMENT A Knight of the Cumberland | ||
7. VII
AT LAST—THE TOURNAMENT
AT last—the tournament! Ever afterward the Hon. Samuel Budd called it “The Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms—not of Ashby— but of the Gap, by-suh!” The Hon. Samuel had arranged it as nearly after Sir Walter as possible. And a sudden leap it was from the most modern of games to a game most ancient.
No knights of old ever jousted on a lovelier field than the green little valley toward which the Hon. Sam waved one big hand. It was level, shorn of weeds, elliptical in shape, and bound in by trees that ran
The Hon. Sam had seen us coming from afar apparently, had come forward to meet us, and he was in high spirits.
“I am Prince John and Waldemar and all the rest of 'em this day,” he said, “and
“And how do you know she is going to be the Queen of Love and Beauty?” asked the little sister. The Hon. Sam winked at me.
“Well, this tournament lies between two gallant knights. One will make her the Queen of his own accord, if he wins, and if the other wins, he's got to, or I'll break his head. I've given orders.” And the Hon. Sam looked about right and left on the people who were his that day.
“Observe the nobles and ladies,” he said, still following Sir Walter, and waving
The Blight and the little sister were convulsed and the Hon. Sam went on:
“Look at my men-at-arms”—the volunteer policemen with bulging hip-pockets, dangling billies and gleaming shields of office—“and at my refreshment tents behind” —where peanuts and pink lemonade
“And see,” mused the Hon. Sam, “in lieu of the dog of an unbeliever we have a dark analogy in that son of Ham.”
The little sister plucked me by the sleeve and pointed toward the entrance. Outside and leaning on the fence were Mollie, the big sister, and little Buck. Straightway I got up and started for them. They hung
“She's going to pin them on Dave's lance.” The Hon. Sam heard me.
“Not on your life,” he said emphatically. “I ain't takin' chances,” and he nodded toward the Blight. “She's got to
“Glory to the Brave—they're comin'! Toot that horn, son,” he said; “they're comin',” and the band burst into discordant sounds that would have made the “wild barbaric music” on the field of Ashby sound like a lullaby. The Blight stifled her laughter over that amazing music with her handkerchief, and even the Hon. Sam scowled.
“Gee!” he said; “it is pretty bad, isn't it?”
“Here they come!”
The nobles and ladies on the grandstand, the yeomanry and spectators of better degree, and the promiscuous multitude began to sway expectantly and over the hill came the knights, single file, gorgeous in velvets and in caps, with waving plumes
“A goodly array!” murmured the Hon. Sam.
A crowd of small boys gathered at the fence below, and I observed the Hon. Sam's pockets bulging with peanuts.
“Largesse!” I suggested.
“Good!” he said, and rising he shouted:
“Largessy! largessy!” scattering peanuts by the handful among the scrambling urchins.
Down wound the knights behind the back stand of the base-ball field, and then, single file, in front of the nobles and ladies, before whom they drew up and faced, saluting with inverted spears.
The Hon. Sam arose—his truncheon a
Not all will be mentioned, but among them was the Knight of the Holston— Athelstanic in build—in black stockings, white negligee shirt, with Byronic collar, and a broad crimson sash tied with a bow at his right side. There was the Knight of the Green Valley, in green and gold, a green hat with a long white plume, lace ruffles at his sleeves, and buckles on dancing-pumps; a bonny fat knight of Maxwelton Braes, in Highland kilts and a plaid; and the Knight at Large.
“He ought to be caged,” murmured the Hon. Sam; for the Knight at Large wore plum-colored velvet, red base-ball stockings,
“And your name, Sir Knight?”
“The Discarded,” said Marston, with steady eyes. I felt the Blight start at my side and sidewise I saw that her face was crimson.
The Hon. Sam sat down, muttering, for he did not like Marston:
“Wenchless springal!”
Just then my attention was riveted on Mollie and little Buck. Both had been staring silently at the knights as though they were apparitions, but when Marston faced them I saw Buck clutch his sister's arm suddenly and say something excitedly in her ear. Then the mouths of both tightened
“I wonder whar's Dave?” but Mollie did not answer.
“Which is yours, Mr. Budd?” asked the little sister. The Hon. Sam had leaned back with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his white waistcoat.
“He ain't come yet. I told him to come last.”
The crowd waited and the knights waited—so long that the Mayor rose in his seat some twenty feet away and called out:
“Go ahead, Budd.”
“You jus' wait a minute—my man ain't come yet,” he said easily, but from
“I wonder what is the matter?” he added in a lower tone. “I dressed him myself more than an hour ago and I told him to come last, but I didn't mean for him to wait till Christmas—ah!”
The Hon. Sam sank back in his seat again. From somewhere had come suddenly the blare of a solitary trumpet that rang in echoes around the amphitheatre of the hills and, a moment later, a dazzling something shot into sight above the mound that looked like a ball of fire, coming in mid-air. The new knight wore a shining helmet and the Hon. Sam chuckled at the murmur that rose and then he sat up suddenly. There was no face under
“Bully—bully! I never thought of it —I never thought of it—bully!”
This was thrilling, indeed—but there was more; the strange knight's body was cased in a flexible suit of glistening mail, his spear point, when he raised it on high, shone like silver, and he came on like a radiant star—on the Hon. Sam's charger, white-bridled, with long mane and tail and black from tip of nose to tip of that tail as midnight. The Hon. Sam was certainly doing it well. At a slow walk the stranger drew alongside of Marston and turned his spear point downward.
“Gawd!” said an old darky. klux done come again.” And, indeed, it looked like a Kuklux mask, white, dropping
The eyes of Buck and Mollie were turned from Marston at last, and open-mouthed they stared.
“Hit's the same hoss—hit's Dave!” said Buck aloud.
“Well, my Lord!” said Mollie simply.
The Hon. Sam rose again.
“And who is Sir Tardy Knight that hither comes with masked face?” he asked courteously. He got no answer.
“What's your name, son?”
The white mask puffed at the wearer's lips.
“The Knight of the Cumberland,” was the low, muffled reply.
“Make him take that thing off!” shouted some one.
“What's he got it on fer?” shouted another.
“I don't know, friend,” said the Hon. Sam; “but it is not my business nor prithee thine; since by the laws of the tournament a knight may ride masked for a specified time or until a particular purpose is achieved, that purpose being, I wot, victory for himself and for me a handful of byzants from thee.”
“Now, go ahead, Budd,” called the Mayor again. “Are you going crazy?”
The Hon. Sam stretched out his arms once to loosen them for gesture, thrust his chest out, and uplifted his chin: “Fair ladies, nobles of the realm, and good knights,” he said sonorously, and he raised one hand to his mouth and behind it spoke aside to me:
“How's my voice—how's my voice?”
“Great!”
His question was genuine, for the mask of humor had dropped and the man was transformed. I knew his inner seriousness, his oratorical command of good English, and I knew the habit, not uncommon among stump-speakers in the South, of falling, through humor, carelessness, or for the effect of flattering comradeship, into all the lingual sins of rural speech; but I was hardly prepared for the soaring flight the Hon. Sam took now. He started with one finger pointed heavenward:
And their good swords are rast;
Their souls are with the saints, we trust.
“Scepticism is but a harmless phantom in these mighty hills. We believe that with the saints is the good knight's soul, and if,
“The tournament, some say, goes back to the walls of Troy. The form of it passed with the windmills that Don Quixote charged. It is with you to keep the high spirit of it an ever-burning vestal fire. It was a deadly play of old—it is a harmless play to you this day. But the prowess of the game is unchanged; for the skill to strike those pendent rings is no less than was the skill to strike armor-joint, visor, or plumed crest. It was of old an exercise for deadly combat on the field of battle; it is no less an exercise now to you for the field of life—for the quick eye, the steady nerve, and the deft hand which shall
Perfect silence honored the Hon. Samuel Budd. The Mayor was nodding vigorous approval, the jeering ones kept still, and when after the last deep-toned word passed like music from his lips the silence held sway for a little while before the burst of applause came. Every knight had straightened in his saddle and was looking very grave. Marston's eyes never left the speaker's face, except once, when they turned with an unconscious appeal, I thought, to the downcast face of Blight—
“Your colors, Sir Knights,” he said, with a commanding wave of his truncheon, and one by one the knights spurred forward and each held his lance into the grandstand that some fair one might tie thereon the colors he was to wear. Marston, without looking at the Blight, held his up to the little sister and the Blight carelessly turned her face while the demure sister
“What!” said the Hon. Sam, rising to his feet, his eyes twinkling and his mask of humor on again; “sees this masked springal”—the Hon. Sam seemed much enamored of that ancient word—“no maid so fair that he will not beg from her the boon of colors gay that he may carry them to victory and receive from her hands a wreath therefor?” Again the Knight of the Cumberland seemed not to know that the Hon. Sam's winged words were meant for him, so the statesman translated them into a mutual vernacular.
“Remember what I told you, son,” he said. “Hold up yo' spear here to someone
“The fool don't know you—he don't know you.”
For the Knight of the Cumberland had turned the black horse's head and was riding, like Ivanhoe, in front of the nobles and ladies, his eyes burning up at them through the holes in his white mask. Again he turned, his mask still uplifted, and the behavior of the beauties there, as on the field of Ashby, was no whit changed: “Some blushed, some assumed an air of pride and dignity, some looked straight
“Dave ain't going to pick you out, I
“You hush!” said Mollie indignantly.
It looked as though the Knight of the Cumberland had grown rebellious and meant to choose whom he pleased, but on his way back the Hon. Sam must have given more surreptitious signs, for the Knight of the Cumberland reined in before the Blight and held up his lance to her. Straightway the colors that were meant for Marston fluttered from the Knight of the Cumberland's spear. I saw Marston bite his lips and I saw Mollie's face aflame with fury and her eyes darting lightning—no longer at Marston now, but at the Blight. The mountain girl held nothing against the city girl because of the Wild Dog's infatuation, but that her own lover, no matter
The Knight of the Cumberland reined in before the Blight.
“Love of ladies,” he shouted, “splintering of lances! Stand forth, gallant knights. Fair eyes look upon your deeds! Toot again, son!”
Now just opposite the grandstand was a post some ten feet high, with a small beam projecting from the top toward the spectators. From the end of this hung a wire, the end of which was slightly upturned in line with the course, and on the tip of this wire a steel ring about an inch in diameter hung lightly. Nearly forty yards below this was a similar ring similarly arranged; and at a similar distance below that was still another, and at the blast from the
“The Knight of the Holston!”
Farther down the lists a herald took up the same cry and the good knight of Athelstanic build backed his steed from the line and took his place at the head of the course.
With his hickory truncheon the Hon.
“Now, son!” he said.
With the blare of the trumpet Athelstane sprang from his place and came up the course, his lance at rest; a tinkling sound and the first ring slipped down the knight's spear and when he swept past the last post there was a clapping of hands, for he held three rings triumphantly aloft. And thus they came, one by one, until each had run the course three times, the Discarded jousting next to the last and the Knight of the Cumberland, riding with a reckless Cave, Adsum air, the very last. At the second joust it was quite evident that the victory lay between these two, as they only had not lost a single ring, and when the black horse thundered by, the Hon. Sam shouted “Brave lance!” and jollied his
“Egad!” quoth the Hon. Sam. “Did yon lusty trencherman of Annie Laurie's but put a few more layers of goodly flesh about his ribs, thereby projecting more his frontal Falstaffian proportions, by my halidom, he would have to joust tandem!”
On came Athelstane and the Knight of the Green Valley, both with but two rings to their credit, and on followed the Discarded, riding easily, and the Knight of the Cumberland again waving his lance between the posts, each with three rings on his spear. At the end the Knight at Large stood third, Athelstane second, and the Discarded and the Knight of the Cumber
The excitement was intense now. Many people seemed to know who the Knight of the Cumberland was, for there were shouts of “Go it, Dave!” from everywhere; the rivalry of class had entered the contest and now it was a conflict between native and “furriner.” The Hon. Sam was almost beside himself with excitement; now and then some man with whom he had made a bet would shout jeeringly at him and the Hon. Sam would shout back defiance. But when the trumpet sounded he sat leaning forward with his brow wrinkled and his big hands clinched tight. Marston sped up the course first—three rings—and there was a chorus of applauding yells.
“His horse is gittin' tired,” said the Hon. Sam jubilantly, and the Blight's face, I noticed, showed for the first time faint traces of indignation. The Knight of the Cumberland was taking no theatrical chances now and he came through the course with level spear and, with three rings on it, he shot by like a thunderbolt.
“Hooray!” shouted the Hon. Sam. “Lord, what a horse!” For the first time the Blight, I observed, failed to applaud, while Mollie was clapping her hands and Buck was giving out shrill yells of encouragement. At the next tilt the Hon. Sam had his watch in his hand and when he saw the Discarded digging in his spurs he began to smile and he was looking at his watch when the little tinkle in front told him that the course was run.
“Did he get 'em all?”
“Yes, he got 'em all,” mimicked the Blight.
“Yes, an' he just did make it,” chuckled the Hon. Sam. The Discarded had wheeled his horse aside from the course to watch his antagonist. He looked pale and tired—almost as tired as his foam-covered steed—but his teeth were set and his face was unmoved as the Knight of the Cumberland came on like a demon, sweeping off the last ring with a low, rasping oath of satisfaction.
“I never seed Dave ride that-a-way afore,” said Mollie.
“Me, neither,” chimed in Buck.
The nobles and ladies were waving handkerchiefs, clapping hands, and shouting. The spectators of better degree were throwing up their hats and from every part
“Go it, Dave! Hooray for Dave!” while the boy on the telegraph-pole was seen to clutch wildly at the crossbar on which he sat—he had come near tumbling from his perch.
The two knights rode slowly back to the head of the lists, where the Discarded was seen to dismount and tighten his girth.
“He's tryin' to git time to rest,” said the Hon. Sam. “Toot, son!”
“Shame!” said the little sister and the Blight both at once so severely that the Hon. Sam quickly raised his hand.
“Hold on,” he said, and with hand still uplifted he waited till Marston was mounted again. “Now!”
The Discarded came on, using his spurs
“Tied—tied!” was the shout; “they've got to try it again! they've got to try it again!”
The Hon. Sam rose, with his watch in
“I fear me,” he said, “that the good knight, the Discarded, has failed to make the course in the time required by the laws of the tournament.” Bedlam broke loose again and the Hon. Sam waited, still gesturing for silence.
“Summon the time-keeper!” he said.
The time-keeper appeared from the middle of the field and nodded.
“Eight seconds!”
“The Knight of the Cumberland wins,” said the Hon. Sam.
The little sister, unconscious of her own sad face, nudged me to look at the Blight —there were tears in her eyes.
Before the grandstand the knights slowly drew up again. Marston's horse
The Hon. Sam arose with a crown of laurel leaves in his hand:
“You have fairly and gallantly won, Sir Knight of the Cumberland, and it is now your right to claim and receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty the chaplet of honor which your skill has justly deserved. Advance, Sir Knight of the Cumberland, and dismount!”
The Knight of the Cumberland made no move nor sound.
“Get off yo' hoss, son,” said the Hon. Sam kindly, “and get down on yo' knees at the feet of them steps. This fair young Queen is a-goin' to put this chaplet on your shinin' brow. That horse'll stand.”
The Knight of the Cumberland, after a moment's hesitation, threw his leg over the saddle and came to the steps with a slouching gait and looking about him right and left. The Blight, blushing prettily, took the chaplet and went down the steps to meet him.
“Unmask!” I shouted.
“Yes, son,” said the Hon. Sam, “take that rag off.”
Then Mollie's voice, clear and loud, startled the crowd. “You better not, Dave Branham, fer if you do and this other gal puts that thing on you, you'll never—” What penalty she was going to
“Lord God!” she said almost in anguish, and then she dropped quickly to her seat again.
The Knight of the Cumberland had gone back to his horse as though to get something from his saddle. Like lightning he vaulted into the saddle, and as the black horse sprang toward the opening tore his mask from his face, turned in his stirrups, and brandished his spear with a yell of defiance, while a dozen voices shouted:
“The Wild Dog!” Then was there an uproar.
“Goddle mighty!” shouted the Hon. Sam. “I didn't do it, I swear I didn't know it. He's tricked me—he's tricked me! Don't shoot—you might hit that hoss!”
There was no doubt about the Hon. Sam's innocence. Instead of turning over an outlaw to the police, he had brought him into the inner shrine of law and order and he knew what a political asset for his enemies that insult would be. And there was no doubt of the innocence of Mollie and Buck as they stood, Mollie wringing her hands and Buck with open mouth and startled face. There was no doubt about the innocence of anybody other than Dave Branham and the dare-devil Knight of the Cumberland.
Marston had clutched at the Wild Dog's bridle and missed and the outlaw struck
The law does not prescribe with what weapon the lawless shall be subdued, and Marston's spear was the only weapon he had. Moreover, the Wild Dog's yell was a challenge that set his blood afire and the girl both loved was looking on. The crowd gathered the meaning of the joust— the knights were crashing toward each
VII
AT LAST—THE TOURNAMENT A Knight of the Cumberland | ||