his high trilling voice sang a fool's song to the fighting twain:

"Who would lie down and close his eyes
While yet the lark sings o'er the dale?
Who would to Love make no replies,
Nor drink the nut-brown ale,
While throbs the pulse, and full 's the purse
And all the world 's for sale?"

Suddenly a cry of relief, of roaring excitement, burst from the people.
Both horsemen and their chargers were on the ground. The fight was over,
the fierce game at an end. That which all had feared, even the Queen
herself, as the fight fared on, had not come to pass--England's champion
had not been beaten by the armed mystery, though the odds had seemed
against him.

"Though wintry blasts may prove unkind,
When winter's past we do forget;
Love's breast in summer time is kind,
And all 's well while life 's with us yet
Hey, ho, now the lark is mating,
Life's sweet wages are in waiting!"

Thus sang the fool as the two warriors were helped to their feet.
Cumbered with their armour, and all dust-covered and blood-stained,
though not seriously hurt, they were helped to their horses, and rode to
the dais where the Queen sat.

"Ye have fought like men of old," she said, "and neither had advantage
at the last. England's champion still may cry his challenge and not be