IT was nine o’clock in the morning. The heralds went about everywhere, shouting aloud, “Lace your helms, brave knights! lace your helms!”

The combatants got ready for the conflict. They examined for the last time with the greatest care every minute point of their armour, and made sure that their horses were properly equipped and saddled. These precautions taken, they hurried off to the lists; the Saracens by the southern gate, the Christians by the northern.

Charlemagne took his place in the Royal pavilion, with Himiltrude by his side. Aude placed herself on the throne reserved for the Queen of Beauty. Oghris laid himself at her feet, surveying the crowd with wondering eyes.

The benches were crowded. The knights took their places. Trumpet-peal and shout rent the air. The Emperor was in his place.

The heralds next proclaimed silence, read the conditions of the tournament, and called on the knights to do their duty, for the honour of Heaven, the Emperor, and the ladies. Then they called the two leaders, Christian and Saracen, to take command of their forces.

Garlan the Bearded rode forth, and reviewed his men. Miton did the same, and advanced into the centre of the lists. His novel style of armour attracted some attention.

“What is this?” said Charlemagne. “Is Miton out of his senses, or does he come here to seek certain death? Go instantly, and command him to quit the lists.”

Ogier the Dane darted forward to convey the Royal command, but was stopped by Turpin, who had heard Charles’s exclamation.

“Pardon me, sire, for thus suspending the execution of an order you have given; but Miton is performing a vow. Your Majesty would find it vain to forbid him the combat. Heaven alone is able to preserve him.” The severe eye of the bishop met the supplicating looks of Mita, and her eyes sought the ground.

Aude understood all, and wished to interpose.

“Sire, you will not suffer so brave a knight to be slain——”

Charlemagne shook his head sadly. “I know Miton, and nothing will prevent him from carrying out his enterprise.”

Then turning towards the suite of the Queen of Beauty, he said—

“I have among you, ladies, a cruel foe, who thus devotes to death one of my bravest knights. Let us say the prayer for the dead on behalf of the victim of this relentless beauty.”

All rose, and repeated the supplication in a low voice, Turpin leading them. The terrified Mita alone had not the power to rise. She sank on her knees, and would have remained there motionless and overcome, had not her sister raised her.

In the meantime Miton, ignorant of what was passing, and not even hearing the shouts of the crowd, or the entreaties of his comrades, who begged him not to devote himself in this way to destruction—

Miton, gay and proud, to think of the trial he was subjected to, had made all his dispositions for the combat.

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There were a hundred horsemen in the field—fifty on either side. Their leaders drew them up in two lines of twenty-five. It was truly an imposing sight—these brave fellows, clad in their glittering arms; in firm and compact lines, planted well in their war-saddles. One might have called them a column of iron. The horses, no less impatient than their masters, whinnied and pawed the ground.

At last Charlemagne gave the signal.

“Charge!” shouted the heralds.

Scarcely were their voices heard ere the first rank of combatants dashed forward. The two parties met halfway with an alarming crash. In vain did the spectators attempt to make out the result of this first onset. They were obliged to wait till the dust had blown off. The heart of Mita beat very fast during those few seconds, but at last she beheld her knight hand-to-hand with Garlan the Bearded. One half of the combatants were stretched on the earth; some so sorely wounded, that their squires had to come, raise them, and drag them out of the mÊlÉe. Others, however, got up without aid, and went to seek fresh adversaries.

Priamus had his spear broken, but he had kept his seat in the saddle. Seeing Girars of Roussillon engaged with Corsablix, a wild chief from the Atlas, he rushed towards them with uplifted blade. But the Burgundian knight perceived his approach, and rapidly dashing at his first opponent, he seized him by the throat, made him do service as a shield against the blows of the King of Persia, and finally flung him, a bleeding and mangled corpse, under the feet of the horses. Then, having but one enemy to deal with, he determined to seize Priamus’s horse, and made such good use of his feet, nails, and teeth, that in a twinkling he was in the saddle; while the King of Persia, rolling in the dust, yielded up his impious soul through twenty gaping wounds.

“Allah Akbar! Allah is great!” cried the Saracens.

“St. Denis, Montjoie! Montjoie!” cried the knights; and, lo! the second rank flung itself into the conflict.

The blare of trumpets and Saracen horns, the beating of drums and gongs, drowned the noise of groans and imprecations.

The dead and dying were once more dragged out. The wounded sought shelter as best they could. Forty warriors yet remained to contest the field—twenty-five Saracens and fifteen Franks.

For a quarter of an hour Miton and Garlan had fought together, with no advantage on either side. With his keen blade the Count of Rennes had cleft the casque of the Alcalde of Valentia, and would have split his skull open but for the turban, which deadened the blow. Garlan had hacked in pieces his adversary’s shield, and the corselet of cambric began to be marbled with streaks of gore. Miton saw that the ranks of his warriors were thinning, and was anxious to make an end of his foe in order to hasten to their aid. He closed with him, knee to knee, foot to foot, and, regardless of the danger to which he exposed himself, seized Garlan by the gorget of his coat of mail, dragged him from his horse, and then passing him from his right hand to his left, held the point of his sword to his throat, and compelled him to yield to his mercy. Then he sent the miscreant a foot beyond the barriers, and gave his charger to Thierry, Duke of Ardennes, who had just been unhorsed.

Cha’chaÂn el Da’djah, Emir of Toledo, entertained the presumptuous idea of avenging Garlan the Bearded, as if, because he had strangled a few lions in the desert, ripped up a few elephants, and cut in pieces a million or so of enemies, he could pretend to hope for, the conquest of a French knight. He shouted his war-cry, and darted forward to meet the Count of Rennes, brandishing, as he did so, a huge flail with seven chains, the same with which Attila armed himself when fighting the legions of AÉtius. But the blow was delivered in empty air—dragged the Emir forward, and made him lose his balance. Miton took advantage of this miss to seize Cha’chaÂn el Da’djah by the leg, and dragged him from his seat with such violence as to break the saddle, entangle him with the harness, and throw the horse down on its side. Then the spectators beheld a strange sight. The Count of Rennes grasped his foeman by the ankles, rose in his stirrups, and, using the body as a mace, swung it round his head, dashed into the thick of the fight, and began laying about right and left at the Saracens with the Emir. Every time this novel arm fell it encountered some weapon of defence, so that before long little was left of it but shreds. After a time the mortal instrument of war lost its weight, and became useless. When Miton flung it away it had stretched eight Saracens on the plain.

He cast his eye over the field. Marganice, Governor of Carthagena, was fighting with Roard of Limoges and Itiers of Clermont; Garnaille, King of Ethiopia, confronted Lambert the Short and Humbert, Count of Bourges; M’kamat Iladdada, Caliph of Mecca, was showing a bold front to Riol of Mans, HoËl of Nantes, and Bazin of Geneva. Alis, King of Morocco, was engaged with Pinabel; while Sangaran, who ruled at the source of the Niger, Baimalanko, chief of the tribes on the borders of the Dead Sea—each one of these two blacker than the other—and Zunizum-Kalakh, King of Garbe, pressed hard on Aimery of Narbonne, who was, however, giving them two blows for one.

Miton flew to his rescue, and in three minutes, and with twenty strokes of his sword, had ridded him of his foes. Sangaran and Baimalanko fell before his arm, and went to rejoin the Evil One whose livery they wore.

“Thanks, I owe you a similar service,” said Aimery to the Count of Rennes. “I shall have finished with this villain in a few seconds. I am not afraid of a single encounter, so leave me and go succour Pinabel, who has scarce blood enough left to keep him alive.”

And, in truth, the nephew of Ganelon was fighting in the dark, for he was blinded with his own blood. The King of Morocco, who saw a new foeman coming towards him, determined to abandon the contest with Pinabel and charge at once on Miton, a manouvre he accomplished so rapidly that he took the latter by surprise. For four seconds the Count of Rennes was exposed defenceless to the fury of Alis, and this unguarded moment cost him a gash which laid open his left arm from shoulder to elbow, and marked him with a purple chevron on the wrist. Mita uttered a shriek as if she had received the blow, and hid her face in her hands.

“See,” said Himiltrude, “what interest the little Mita takes in the combat, sire. The wound the Count of Rennes has just received makes her heart bleed.”

“Keep your nonsense to yourself, madam,” said the Emperor, who hated to be interfered with at the wrong moment. “When men wield the sword, women should not wag the tongue and he abruptly turned his back on his consort. In point of fact, it was not a well-chosen time for talking.”

And now Riol of Mans had, with a dexterous back stroke, sent the head of M’kamat Haddada flying, and this new kind of projectile had struck Marganice, Governor of Carthagena, in the face, and so confused him that he neglected to parry a furious blow aimed at him by Itiers of Clermont. This really excusable oversight cost him his life. One sharp thrust pinned him to his horse’s crupper like a butterfly on a cork.

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Garnaille also perceived his end approaching. Lambert the Short gave him no respite.

“It shall never be said,” cried, fiercely, the King of the Ethiopians, “that I received my death-blow from a Christian hand.” Thereupon, resting the pommel of his sword on the ground, he flung himself on the point and expired shouting, “Allah!”

Aimery of Narbonne, a lad of sixteen, seemed to be playing with his opponent.

“Dog!” exclaimed Zumzum-Ivalakh, “cannot you fight more steadily?”

“I will give you a lesson in politeness,” said Aimery, still smiling. “First of all, I don’t approve of people addressing me without baring their heads.” As he spoke, his sword sent the King of Garbe’s helm flying. It was one of the famous casques of the ancient tribes of Beni-Ad.

“Bravo, Pagan. Are not you afraid of getting sunburnt?”

A blow of the battle-axe, which shivered the Count of Narbonne’s shield, was all the answer vouchsafed by Zumzum-Ivalakh.

“Bless me! he’s getting vicious,” said Aimery, without being in the least put out. “We must teach him to say he’s sorry.”

His sword whirled in the air and smote off the wrist of the King of Garbe, and so brought the combat to a close.

The King of Morocco alone continued to make resistance. Miton hastened to dispatch him, for he felt his strength failing him. However, he would receive aid from no quarter save Heaven. His shield was riven, his left arm, laid open with a terrible gash, hung powerless by his side, and every blow he dealt his enemy cost him five in return.

Mita had no eyes for any but the Count of Rennes. She lived with his life, she suffered for his wounds, and she would have fallen dead had he perished. How she blamed her cruel commands, and how she hated the King of Morocco! In truth few men’s deaths have been as fervently prayed for as his was.

Miton felt a cold sweat seize him; a mournful singing in his ears made him fancy his end was approaching. He struggled against death, and gave one last blow at his opponent, then fell senseless under his horse’s hoofs. That blow was the last the Moorish king received. The sword pierced his bosom, and the steel remained fast in the wound. He was immediately seized with the death shudder, flung wide his arms, dropped his weapons, and uttered so terrible a cry that his frightened steed ran away at full speed straight ahead until he dashed against the walls of the lists. His rider rolled in the dust. The King of Morocco was no more.

Charlemagne sprang up beaming with joy.

“Ogier,” said he to the King of Denmark, “go bring me news of Miton, and tell him how I prize his valour. I am, moreover, not the only one who prizes him here, it appears. Well, little one,” he added, turning to Mita, “you have perilous fancies. For this once all has turned out well, but you must promise me not to tempt the devil a second time.”

Mita flung herself at the Emperor’s feet, and kissed his hand in silence. Charlemagne smiled.

“Come,” said he, “rise, Countess of Rennes.”

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