The costume had been one he had worn at a fancy ball of the winter
before. It had been made from a painting at Windsor of one of the Dukes
of Buckingham, and it made a perfect foil for Shirley's white.

The eleven knights of the tourney, each with his chosen lady, if less
splendid, were tricked out in sufficiently gorgeous attire. The Knight
of Castlewood was in olive velveteen slashed with yellow, with Nancy
Chalmers, in flowered panniers and beaded pompadour, on his arm. The
Lord of Brandon wore black and silver, and Westover's champion was in
forest green. Many an ancient brocade had been awakened for the nonce
from its lavender bed, and ruffs and gold-braid were at no premium.

To the twanging of the deft black fingers, they passed in gorgeous array
between files of low-cut gowns and flower-like faces and masculine
swallow-tails, to the yellow parlor. Once there the music ceased with
a splendid crash, the eleven knights each dropped upon one knee, the
eleven ladies-in-waiting curtsied low, and Shirley, seated upon the
dais, leaned her burnished head to receive the crown. What though the
bauble was but bristol-board, its jeweled chasing but tinsel and paste?
On her head it glowed and trembled, a true diadem. As Valiant set the
glittering thing on those rich and wonderful coils, the music of her
presence was singing a swift melody in his blood.

His coronation address held no such flowery periods as would have rolled
from the major's soul. He had chosen a single paragraph he had lighted
on in an old book in the library--a history of the last Crusade in
French black-letter. He had translated and memorized the archaic
phrasing, keeping the quaint feeling of the original:

"These noble Knights bow in your presence, fair lady, as their Liege,
whom they know as even in judgment, as dainty in fulfilling these our
acts of arms, and do recommend their all unto your Good Grace in as
lowly wise as they can. O Queen, in whom the whole story of virtue is
written with the language of beauty, your eyes, which have been only
wont to discern the bowed knees of kneeling hearts and, inwardly turned,
found always the heavenly solace of a sweet mind, see them, ready in
heart and able with hands not only to assailing but to prevailing."

A hushed rustle of applause--not loud: the merest whisper of silken feet
and feathered fans tapped softly--testified to a widespread approbation.
It was the first sight many there had had of John Valia