My horse was not above medium size, but he was alert, slender-limbed,
muscled with watchsprings, and just a greyhound to go. He was
a beauty, glossy as silk, and naked as he was when he was born,
except for bridle and ranger-saddle.
The iron tower and the gorgeous bedquilt came cumbrously but
gracefully pirouetting down the lists, and we tripped lightly up
to meet them. We halted; the tower saluted, I responded; then
we wheeled and rode side by side to the grand-stand and faced
our king and queen, to whom we made obeisance. The queen exclaimed:
"Alack, Sir Boss, wilt fight naked, and without lance or sword or--"
But the king checked her and made her understand, with a polite
phrase or two, that this was none of her business. The bugles
rang again; and we separated and rode to the ends of the lists,
and took position. Now old Merlin stepped into view and cast
a dainty web of gossamer threads over Sir Sagramor which turned
him into Hamlet's ghost; the king made a sign, the bugles blew,
Sir Sagramor laid his great lance in rest, and the next moment here
he came thundering down the course with his veil flying out behind,
and I went whistling through the air like an arrow to meet him
--cocking my ear the while, as if noting the invisible knight's
position and progress by hearing, not sight.
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