and the Blight's face was so indignant
and she rebuked him with such a knife-like
whisper that, humbled, the Hon. Sam collapsed
in his seat, muttering:

``The fool don't know you--he don't
know you.''

For the Knight of the Cumberland had
turned the black horse's head and was riding,
like Ivanhoe, in front of the nobles
and ladies, his eyes burning up at them
through the holes in his white mask.
Again he turned, his mask still uplifted, and
the behavior of the beauties there, as on
the field of Ashby, was no whit changed:
``Some blushed, some assumed an air of
pride and dignity, some looked straight
forward and essayed to seem utterly
unconscious of what was going on, some drew
back in alarm which was perhaps affected,
some endeavored to forbear smiling and
there were two or three who laughed
outright.'' Only none ``dropped a veil over
her charms'' and thus none incurred the
suspicion, as on that field of Ashby, that
she was ``a beauty of ten years' standing''
whose motive, gallant Sir Walter supposes
in defence, however, was doubtless ``a
surfeit of such vanities and a willingness