With an effort Blake pulled himself together, gathered his reins and finally managed to get his horse under control, and it was not until he had reined him about that he got his first glimpse of the result of the opening encounter. A half dozen chargers were scrambling to their feet and nearly a score more were galloping, riderless, about the lists. A full twenty-five knights lay upon the field and twice that many squires and serving men were running in on foot to succor their masters.
Already several of the knights had again set their lances against an enemy and Blake saw one of the Knights of the Sepulcher bearing down upon him, but he raised his broken spear shaft above his head to indicate that he was momentarily hors de combat and galloped swiftly back to his own end of the lists where Edward was awaiting him with a fresh weapon.
“Thou didst nobly well, beloved master,” cried Edward.
“Did I get my man?” asked Blake.
“That thou didst, sir,” Edward assured him, beaming with pride and pleasure, “and al be thou breakest thy lance upon his shield thou didst e’en so unhorse him.”
Armed anew Blake turned back toward the center of the lists where many individual encounters were taking place. Already several more knights were down and the victors looking for new conquests in which the stands were assisting with hoarse cries and advice, and as Blake rode back into the lists he was espied by many in the north stands occupied by the knights and followers of the Sepulcher.
“The black knight!” they cried. “Here! Here! Sir Wildred! Here is the black knight that overthrew Sir Guy. Have at him, Sir Wildred!”
Sir Wildred, a hundred yards away, couched his lance. “Have at thee, Sir Black Knight!” he shouted.
“You’re on!” Blake shouted back, putting spurs to the great black.
Sir Wildred was a large man and he bestrode a rawboned roan with the speed of a deer and the heart of a lion. The pair would have been a match for the best of Nimmr’s knighthood.
Perhaps it was as well for Blake’s peace of mind that Wildred appeared to him like any other knight and that he did not know that he was the most sung of all the heroes of the Sepulcher.
As a matter of fact, any knight looked formidable to Blake, who was still at a loss to understand how he had unhorsed his man in the first encounter of this event.
“The bird must have lost both stirrups,” is what he had mentally assured himself when Edward had announced his victory.
But he couched his lance like a good sir knight and true and bore down upon the redoubtable Sir Wildred. The Knight of the Sepulcher was charging diagonally across the field from the south stands. Beyond him Blake caught a glimpse of a slim, girlish figure standing in the central loge. He could not see her eyes, but he knew that they were upon him.
“For my Princess!” he whispered as Sir Wildred loomed large before him.
Lance smote on shield as the two knights crashed together with terrific force and Blake felt himself lifted clear of his saddle and hurled heavily to the ground. He was neither stunned nor badly hurt and as he sat up a sudden grin wreathed his face, for there, scarce a lance length from him, sat Sir Wildred. But Sir Wildred did not smile.
“ ’Sdeath!” he cried. “Thou laughest at me, sirrah?”
“If I look as funny as you do,” Blake assured him, “you’ve got a laugh coming too.”
Sir Wildred knit his brows. “ ’Od’s blud!” he exclaimed. “An thou beest a knight of Nimmr I be a Saracen! Who beest thou? Thy speech savoreth not of the Valley.”
Blake had arisen. “Hurt much?” he asked stepping forward. “Here, I’ll give you a hand up.”
“Thou art, of a certainty, a strange sir knight,” said Wildred. “I recall now that thou didst offer succor to Sir Guy when thou hadst fairly vanquished him.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” asked Blake. “I haven’t anything against you. We’ve had a bully good scrap and are out of it. Why should we sit here and make faces at one another?”
Sir Wildred shook his head. “Thou are beyond my comprehension,” he admitted.
By this time their squires and a couple of serving men had arrived, but neither of the fallen knights was so badly injured that he could not walk without assistance. As they started for their respective tilts Blake turned and smiled at Wildred.
“So long, old man!” he cried cheerily. “Hope we meet again some day.”
Still shaking his head Sir Wildred limped away, followed by the two who had come to assist him.
At his tilt Blake learned that the outcome of the Great Tourney still hung in the balance and it was another half hour before the last of the Knights of Nimmr went down in defeat, leaving two Knights of the Sepulcher victorious upon the field. But this was not enough to overcome the lead of four points that the Fronters had held at the opening of the last event and a moment later the heralds announced that the Knights of Nimmr had won the Great Tourney by the close margin of two points.
Amidst the shouting of the occupants of the stands at the south the Knights of Nimmr who had taken part in the tourney and had won points for the Fronters formed to ride upon the lists and claim the grand prize. Not all were there, as some had been killed or wounded in encounters that had followed their victories, though the toll on both sides had been much smaller than Blake had imagined that it would be. Five men were dead and perhaps twenty too badly injured to ride, the casualties being about equally divided.
As the Knights of Nimmr rode down the field to claim the five maidens from the City of the
