The unwilling, lumbering mares were brought upon the ground, and
Valentine held the headstall reins while a preliminary ceremony was
performed, for your perfect knight omits no courteous detail. Gloves
were unknown about the farm, but Grant drew from his pocket a buckskin
mitten, and with it slapped Alf suddenly in the face. It was to be
regretted that the aggressor had somewhat exaggerated the mediaeval
glove idea, and had not previously explained to Alf that to fling one's
glove in a foeman's face was one proper form of deadly insult preceding
mortal combat, for, ignoring lances, steeds and all about them, the
assailed personage immediately "clinched," and the boys rolled over in
a struggle, earnest, certainly, but altogether commonplace. It was
with the greatest difficulty, while defending himself, that Grant was
enabled to explain that his act was one rendered necessary by the laws
of chivalry and a part of the preliminaries of the occasion, instead of
an attack in cold blood upon an unwarned adversary. Alf accepted the
apology gloweringly, and manifested great anxiety to secure his lance,
and mount. It was evident the encounter would be deadly.

Some hundred yards apart, with the perplexed, astonished old mares
facing each other, sat the warriors in their saddles, or, rather, in
the place where their saddles would have been had they possessed them.
Each grasped the headstall reins firmly in his left hand, and with his
right aimed his top-heavy lance in a somewhat wobbling manner at his
adversary. It must soon be known to all the world of knighthood which
was the grimmer champion! At middle distance and well to one side,
stood Grand Marshal Valentine, racking his brains for the lines which
should give the signal for the shock, but all in vain. Desperation
gave him inspiration. "Let 'er go for your girls!" he roared.

Never, even in the gentle and joyous passage of arms at Ashby, or on