seats, and as usual there was a good deal
of riding one against the other at the lists, and shivering of lances;
while some knights were borne backwards, horse and all, others had their
helmets carried off; but Rene, who sat in great enjoyment, with his
staff in hand, between his sister and her husband, King Charles, had
taken care that all the weapons should be blunted. Sigismund, a tall,
large, strongly made man, was for some time the leading champion.
Perhaps there was an understanding that the Lion of Hapsburg and famed
Eagle of the Tyrol was to carry all before him and win, in an undoubted
manner, the prize of the tourney, and the hand of the Infanta Yolande.
Certainly the colour rose higher and higher in her delicate cheek, but
those nearest could see that it was not with pleasure, for she bit her
lip with annoyance, and her eyes wandered in search of some one.

Presently, in a pause, there came forward on a tall white horse a
magnificently tall man, in plain but bright armour, three allerions or
beakless eagles on his breast, and on his shield a violet plant, with
the motto, Si douce est la violette. The Dauphiness leant across her
sister and squeezed Yolande's hand vehemently, as the knight inclined
his lance to the King, and was understood to crave permission to show
his prowess. Charles turned to Rene, whose good-humoured face looked
annoyed, but who could not withhold his consent. The Dauphiness, whose
vehement excitement was more visible than even Yolande's, whispered to
Eleanor that this was Messire Ferry de Vaudemont, her true love, come to
win her at point of the lance.

History is the parent of romance, and romance now and then becomes
history. It is an absolute and undoubted fact that Count Frederic or
Ferry de Vaudemont, the male representative of the line of Charles the
Great, did win his lady-love, Yolande of Anjou, by his good lance within
the lists, and that thus the direct descent was brought eventually back
to Lorraine, though this was not contemplated at the time, since Yolande
had then living both a brother and a nephew, and it was simply for her
own sake that Messire Ferry, in all the strength and beauty that
descended to the noted house of Guise, was now bearing down all before
him, touching shield after shield, only to gain the better of their
owners in the encounter. Yolande sat with a deep colour in her cheeks,
and her hands clasped rigidly together without a movement, while the
Lorrainer