d in massed
panic, so on the day of the contest the world arrived in a swarm at
the castle of Cleon the Modest and prepared to be a witness, if not
the victor, in the winning of Jennifrella.

There were several dozen contenders in the contest, some quite
accomplished archers, some more or less dilettantish, and quite a
few whose skills put the spectators at random hazard. Amid the
noise and enthusiasm on this day stood a grim and silent Sir Philo,
deeply troubled about the proceedings for three reasons. First,
strictly from a philosophical standpoint, a shooting contest was
a completely irrational method of choosing either a spouse or a
future king, and irrationality like this always troubled the
young knight.

Second, though Sir Fassade was a very good shot, capable of
satisfactorily humiliating most of the other contestants, he was no
match for Sir Bargle. If they used the word then, I would have to
exaggerate only slightly to say that Sir Bargle was, as they say in
French, or maybe don't, a jerque. He punctuated nearly every
sentence with an oath or a belch, constantly leered at the ladies
in waiting (who knew all too well to keep a safe distance from him),
and those who attended carefully to his speech noted that the word
he used more than any other was "me." In a word (or fourteen,
actually), Sir Bargle was a man unlikely to put his personal
appetites in second place. The prospect of this knight nuzzling
the hair or nibbling the earlobes of Jennifrella was in itself
sufficiently revulsive to Sir Philo; the prospect of his becoming
king was absolutely unthinkable.

The third reason that the king's advisor was grieved about the
"score ahead and wed" method of selecting the princess' groom was
that the only person in all the realm who could outshoot Sir Bargle
was--Sir Philo.

Prithee, talk not to me about psychic conflict--nay, psychic trauma,
for I have seen it here, and it is not gentle. Sir Philo traced and
retraced many steps around the castle grounds, without thought of
direction or destination, the movement of his feet and the tension
on his face reflecting the turmoil in his soul. At length, in his
anxiety, the brave knight turned to his lady love for succor and
advice, and she, with a swiftness that surprised him and a nobility
that made him love her more deeply than ever, told him that of course
he must put the interest of the kingdom above his personal happiness.
She then flew into his arms an