lance.'' The Hon. Sam heard me.

``Not on your life,'' he said
emphatically. ``I ain't takin' chances,'' and he
nodded toward the Blight. ``She's got to
win, no matter who loses.'' He rose to his
feet suddenly.

``Glory to the Brave--they're comin'!
Toot that horn, son,'' he said; ``they're
comin','' and the band burst into
discordant sounds that would have made the
``wild barbaric music'' on the field of
Ashby sound like a lullaby. The Blight
stifled her laughter over that amazing
music with her handkerchief, and even the
Hon. Sam scowled.

``Gee!'' he said; ``it is pretty bad, isn't
it?''

``Here they come!''

The nobles and ladies on the
grandstand, the yeomanry and spectators of
better degree, and the promiscuous multitude
began to sway expectantly and over the hill
came the knights, single file, gorgeous in
velvets and in caps, with waving plumes
and with polished spears, vertical, resting