A well-skewered bleeding heart;
His yellow streamer on his spear,
Flew fluttering in the wind,
And thrice he waved it in the air,
As if to fan the ladies there,
And thrice his head inclined.

"Who's he, who's he?" cried Ravensbeard;
But no one there could say.
"Knowest thou him?" cried some who heard;
But each one answered Nay.
"I am Sir Peveril," said the knight,
"If you my name would learn,
And I will for fair Katharine fight,
A lady's love, and a lady's right,
And a lady's choice to earn."

The gauntlet thrown upon the ground,
Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy:
"Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee--
Methinks a beardless boy."
Nor sooner said than in he sprang
And aimed a mortal blow,
The crenel upon the buckler rang,
And having achieved an echoing clang,
It made no more ado.

The stranger knight wheeled quick as light,
And charging with gratitude,
Gave him good thank on his left flank,