“Boast not of that,” said a Knight of St. John, who was present; “your Temple champion had no better luck. I saw your brave lance, Bois-Guilbert, roll thrice over, grasping his hands full of sand at every turn.”

De Bracy, being attached to the Templars, would have replied, but was prevented by Prince John. “Silence, sirs!” he said; “what unprofitable debate have we here?”

“The victor,” said De Wyvil, “still waits the pleasure of your highness.”

“It is our pleasure,” answered John, “that he do so wait until we learn whether there is not someone who can at least guess at his name and quality. Should he remain there till nightfall, he has had work enough to keep him warm.”

“Your Grace,” said Waldemar Fitzurse, “will do less than due honour to the victor, if you compel him to wait till we tell your highness that which we cannot know; at least I can form no guess⁠—unless he be one of the good lances who accompanied King Richard to Palestine , and who are now straggling homeward from the Holy Land.”

“It may be the Earl of Salisbury ,” said De Bracy; “he is about the same pitch.”

“Sir Thomas de Multon, the Knight of Gilsland , rather,” said Fitzurse; “Salisbury is bigger in the bones.” A whisper arose among the train, but by whom first suggested could not be ascertained. “It might be the King⁠—it might be Richard Coeur-de-Lion himself!”