ught of him
since his evanishment with a regret less sharp for being glozed with a
certain contempt.

The discovery of him to-day had dissipated this. She had an unerring
sense of social values and she made no error in her estimate of the
people by whom she was now surrounded. The recital of the Valiant
generations, the size of the estate, the position into which its heir
had stepped by very reason of being who he was, appealed to her instinct
and imagination and respect for blood. She had a sudden conception of
new values, beside which money counted little. The last of a line more
ancient than the state itself, master of a homestead famous throughout
its borders, John Valiant loomed larger in her eyes at the moment than
ever before.

The trumpet again pealed its silvery proclamation. Judge Chalmers was
on his feet. "Fifty to ten on the Crimson Rose," he cried. This time,
however, there were no takers. He called again, but none heard him; the
last tilts were too absorbing.

Where had John Valiant learned that trick of the loose wrist and
inflexible thrust, but at the fencing club? Where that subconscious
management of the rein, that nice gage of speed and distance, but on the
polo field? The old sports stood him now in good stead. "Why, he has a
seat like a centaur!" exclaimed the judge--praise indeed in a community
where riding was a passion and horse-flesh a fetish!

"Oh, dear!" mourned Nancy Chalmers. "I've bet six pairs of gloves on
Quint Carter. Never mind; if it has to be anybody else, I'd rather it
were Mr. Valiant. It's about time Damory Court got something after
Rip-Van-Winkling it for thirty years. Besides, he's giving us the dance,
and I _love_ him for that! Quint still has a chance, though. If he takes
the next two, and Mr. Valiant misses--"

Katherine looked at her with a little smile. "He won't miss," she said.

She had seen that look on his face before and read it aright. John
Valiant had striven in many contests, not only of skill but of strength
and daring, before crowded grand stands. But never in all his life had
he so desired to pluck the prize. His grip was tense on the lance as the
yellow doublet and olive plume of Castlewood shot away for a last
time--and failed. An instant later the Knight of the Crimson Rose
flashed down the lists with the last ring on his pike.

And the tourney was won.

In the shouting and hand-clapping Valiant took the rose from his
hat-band and bound it with a shre