Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered with broken armour
and the bodies of slain and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists
again conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John's throne.
"Disinherited Knight," said Prince John, "since by that title only
you will consent to be known to us, we a second time award to you the
honours of this tournament, and announce to you your right to claim and
receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of
Honour which your valour has justly deserved." The Knight bowed low and
gracefully, but returned no answer.
While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their voices in
proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor--while ladies
waved their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks
joined in a clamorous shout of exultation, the marshals conducted the
Disinherited Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of
honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena.
On the lower step of this throne the champion was made to kneel down.
Indeed his whole action since the fight had ended, seemed rather to have
been upon the impulse of those around him than from his own free will;
and it was observed that he tottered as they guided him the second time
across the lists. Rowena, descending from her station with a graceful
and dignified step, was about to place the chaplet which she held in her
hand upon the helmet of the champion, when the marshals exclaimed with
one voice, "It must not be thus--his head must be bare." The knight
muttered faintly a few words, which were lost in the hollow of his
helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that his casque might
not be removed.
Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the marshals paid no
attention to his expressions of reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting
the laces of his casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When
the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt features of a
young man of twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair
hair. His countenance was as pale as death, and marked in one or two
places with streaks of blood.
Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a faint shriek; but at
once summoning up the energy of her disposition, and compelling herself,
as it were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled with the violence
of sudden emotion, she placed upon the drooping head of the victor
the splendid chaplet which was the destined reward of the day, and
pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these words: "I bestow on thee
this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to this day's
victor:" Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added, "And upon
brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be placed!"