His hair, worn in its natural length, fell in brown curls back from
his forehead almost to the shoulder, a style just then new, even in
France. His eyes were a deep blue, and his complexion, though browned
by exposure, held a tinge of beauty which the sun could not mar and a
girl might envy. He wore neither mustachio nor beard, as men now
disfigure their faces--since Francis I took a scar on his chin--and
his clear cut profile, dilating nostrils and mobile, though firm-set
mouth, gave pleasing assurance of tenderness, gentleness, daring and
strength.

I was standing near the queen, who called to me: "Who is the handsome
stranger that so gracefully asked our license to run?"

"I can not inform your majesty. I never saw him until now. He is the
goodliest knight I have ever beheld."

"That he is," replied the queen; "and we should like very much to know
him. Should we not, ladies?" There was a chorus of assent from a dozen
voices, and I promised, after the running, to learn all about him and
report.

It was at this point the heralds cried their "Oyes," and our
conversation was at an end for the time.

As to height, the stranger was full six feet, with ample evidence of
muscle, though no great bulk. He was grace itself, and the king
afterwards said he had never seen such strength of arm and skill in
the use of the lance--a sure harbinger of favor, if not of fortune,
for the possessor.