But, John, who is it that you would uphold in this knightly and pleasing fashion?

'Why, John, so strong and strange a tilter must fight for the brightness of his lady's eyes or the curve of her eye-lash, even as Sir Nigel does for the Lady Loring.'

'I know not about that,' said the big archer, scratching his head in perplexity. Since Mary hath played me false, I can scarce fight for her.'

"Yet any woman will serve.'

'There is my mother then,' said John. She was at much pains at my upbringing, and, by my soul! I will uphold the curve of her eye-lashes, for it tickleth my very heart-root to think of her. But who is here?'

'It is Sir William Beauchamp. He is a valiant man, but I fear that he is scarce firm enough upon the saddle to bear the thrust of such a tilter as this stranger promises to be.'

Aylward's words were speedily justified, for even as he spoke the two knights met in the centre of the lists. Beauchamp struck his opponent a shrewd blow upon the helmet, but was met with so frightful a thrust that he whirled out of his saddle and rolled over and over upon the ground. Sir Thomas Percy met with little better success, for his shield was split, his vambrace torn, and he himself wounded slightly in the side. Lord Audley and the unknown knight struck each other fairly upon the helmet; but, while the stranger sat as firm and rigid as ever upon his charger, the Englishman was bent back to his horse's crupper by the weight of the blow, and had galloped half-way down the lists ere he could recover himself. Sir Thomas Wake was beaten to the ground with a battle-axe-that being the weapon which he had selected -and had to be carried to his pavilion. These rapid successes, gained one after the other over four celebrated warriors, worked the crowd up to a pitch of wonder and admiration. Thunders of applause from the English soldiers, as well as from the citizens and peasants, showed how far the love of brave and knightly deeds could rise above the rivalries of race.

"By my soul! John,' cried the prince, with his cheek flushed and his eyes shining, 'this is a man of good courage and great hardiness. I could not have thought that there was any single arm upon earth which could have overthrown these four champions.'

‘He is indeed, as I have said, sire, a knight from whom much honour is to be gained. But the lower edge of the sun is wet, and it will be beneath the sea ere long.'

'Here is Sir Nigel Loring, on foot and with his sword,' said the prince. I have heard that he is a fine swordsman.'

'The finest in your army, sire,' Chandos answered. Yet I doubt not that he will need all his skill this day.'

As he spoke, the two combatants advanced from either end in full armour with their two-handed swords sloping over their shoulders. The stranger walked heavily and with a measured stride, while the English knight advanced as briskly as though there was no iron shell to weigh down the freedom of his limbs. At four paces distance they stopped, eyed each other for a moment, and then in an instant fell to work with a clatter and clang as though two sturdy smiths were busy upon their anvils. Up and down went the long shining blades, round and round they circled in curves of glimmering light, crossing, meeting, disengaging, with flash of sparks at every parry. Here and there bounded Sir Nigel, his head erect, his jaunty plume fluttering in the air, while his dark opponent sent in crashing blow upon blow, following fiercely up with cut and with thrust, but never once getting past the practised blade of the skilled swordsman. The crowd roared with delight as Sir Nigel would stoop his head to avoid a blow, or by some slight movement of his body allow some terrible thrust to glance harmlessly past him. Suddenly, however, his time came. The Frenchman, whirling up his sword, showed for an instant a chink betwixt his shoulder-piece and the rerebrace which guarded his upper arm. In dashed Sir Nigel, and out again so swiftly that the eye could not follow the quick play of his blade, but a trickle of blood from the stranger's shoulder, and a rapidly widening red smudge upon his white surcoat, showed where the thrust had taken effect. The wound was, however, but a slight one, and the Frenchman was about to renew his onset, when, at a sign from the prince, Chandos threw down his bâton, and the marshals of the lists struck up the weapons and brought the

contest to an end.

'It were time to check it,' said the prince, smiling, 'for Sir Nigel is too good a man for me to lose, and, by the five holy wounds! if one of those cuts came home I should have fears for our champion. What think you, Pedro ?'

'I think, Edward, that the little man was very well able to

take care of himself. For my part, I should wish to see so well matched a pair fight on while a drop of blood remained in their veins.'

'We must have speech with him. Such a man must not go from my court without rest or sup. Bring him hither, Chandos, and, certes, if the Lord Loring hath resigned his claim upon this goblet, it is right and proper that this cavalier should carry it to France with him as a sign of the prowess that he has shown this day.'

As he spoke, the knight-errant, who had remounted his warhorse, galloped forward to the royal stand, with a silken kerchief bound round his wounded arm. The setting sun cast a ruddy glare upon his burnished armour, and sent his long black shadow streaming behind him up the level clearing. Pulling up his steed, he slightly inclined his head, and sat in the stern and composed fashion with which he had borne himself throughout, heedless of the applauding shouts and the flutter of kerchiefs from the long lines of brave men and of fair women who were looking down upon him.

'Sir knight,' said the prince, we have all marvelled this day at this great skill and valour with which God has been pleased to endow you. I would fain that you should tarry at our court, for a time at least, until your hurt is healed and your horses rested.'

'My hurt is nothing, sire, nor are my horses weary,' returned the stranger in a deep stern voice.

'Will you not at least hie back to Bordeaux with us, that you may drain cup of muscadine and sup at our table?'

'I will neither drink your wine nor sit at your table,' returned the other. 'I bear no love for you or for your race, and there is naught that I wish at your hands until the day when I see the last sail which bears you back to your island vanishing away against the western sky.'

'These are bitter words, sir knight,' said Prince Edward, with an angry frown.

'And they come from a bitter heart,' answered the unknown. knight. How long is it since there has been peace in my hapless. country? Where are the steadings, and orchards, and vineyards. which made France fair? Where are the cities which made her great? From Provence to Burgundy we are beset by every prowling hireling in Christendom, who rend and tear the country which you have left too weak to guard her own marches. Is it not a

by-word that a man may ride all day in that unhappy land without seeing thatch upon roof or hearing the crow of cock? Does not one fair kingdom content you, that you should strive so for this other one which has no love for you? Pardieu! a true Frenchman's words may well be bitter, for bitter is his lot and bitter his thoughts as he rides through his thrice unhappy country.'

'Sir knight,' said the prince, 'you speak like a brave man, and our cousin of France is happy in having a cavalier who is so fit to uphold his cause either with tongue or with sword. But if you think such evil of us, how comes it that you have trusted yourself to us without warranty or safe-conduct ?'

'Because I knew that you would be here, sire. Had the man who sits upon your right been ruler of this land, I had indeed thought twice before I looked to him for aught that was knightly or generous.' With a soldierly salute, he wheeled round his horse, and, galloping down the lists, disappeared amid the dense crowd of footmen and of horsemen who were streaming away from the scene of the tournament.

The insolent villain!' cried Pedro, glaring furiously after him. 'I have seen a man's tongue torn from his jaws for less. Would it not be well even now, Edward, to send horsemen to hale him back? Bethink you that it may be one of the royal house of France, or at least some knight whose loss would be a heavy blow to his master. Sir William Felton, you are well mounted, gallop after the caitiff, I pray you.'

'Do so, Sir William,' said the prince, and give him this purse of a hundred nobles as a sign of the respect which I bear for him; for, by St. George! he has served his master this day even as I would wish liegeman of mine to serve me.' So saying, the prince turned his back upon the King of Spain, and, springing upon his horse, rode slowly homewards to the Abbey of Saint Andrew's.

(To be continued.)

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

SEPTEMBER 1891.

THE NEW RECTOR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.'

CHAPTER X.

OUT WITH THE SHEEP.

STEPHEN CLODE had no idea, as he stood listening with a certain pleasure to the archde on's hints, of the good turn which fortune was about to do him. If he had foreseen it, he would probably have taken a bolder part in the conversation, and parted from the elder clergyman with a more jubilant step. As it was, he heard no rumour that evening; nor was it until ten o'clock on the Sunday morning that he learned anything was amiss. But, calling at the house in the churchyard at that hour, he was received by Mrs. Baker herself; and he remarked at once that the housekeeper's face fell in a manner far from flattering when she recognised him. 'Oh, it is you, is it, Mr. Clode?' she said, her tone one of disappointment. 'You have not seen him, sir, have you?' ́she added anxiously.

'Seen whom?' the curate replied in surprise.

'Mr. Lindo, sir.'

'Why? Is he not here?

'Not here? No, sir, he is not,' the housekeeper said, putting

her head out to look up and down.

night, and we have not heard of him.

'He never came back last

I sent across to the Town

House to inquire, and the only thing Mrs. Hammond could say was that Mr. Lindo was to follow them, and they supposed he had come.' "Well, but-who is to do the duty at the church?' Clode VOL. XVII.-NO. 99, N.S.

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