ner in the trick,
that he could never have made the ruling but that he hoped it would be
reversed in the poetical contest yet to come.

III

THE "FLORAL GAMES"

O for a draught of vintage that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth.

KEATS.

The tournament of wits seemed to give, Richard one more chance to win
the prize he coveted; for this purpose it was originally instituted, and
it seemed to the luckless knight himself that here at last he had fair
play, since he was under no obligation to Aldobrandino to defer to him
in this contention, nor did he believe that Aldobrandino's talents were
superior to his own. The only other knight who had registered for this
contest was Barral des Baux, and this in despite of his bandaged visage,
for though his hurt permitted him not either to sing or to speak, yet by
good fortune he could write, having been instructed by the monks of
Mont Majour, and being violently in love with the fair Sancie, he would
bate no effort to win her. So though all the nine who had taken part in
the passage-at-arms were eligible, there were but three competitors, for
five had been so desperately wounded that they could not stand, and
Alphonso of Aragon so shamed and furious that he refused to take part.

But when his friends congratulated Richard that this was so, and
especially that Raymond of Toulouse was out of the reckoning (for he of
all the nine was the only troubadour of repute and the one likely to be
a formidable antagonist) though Richard's heart at first leapt at their
news, he liked it the less as he gave it more consideration. For he had
it on his conscience that he was responsible for Raymond's
incapacitation, and he wished not to win a victory on such terms.
Therefore he went to his wounded rival, tended and encouraged him, and
in the end brought him to the contest in a litter, thereby gravely
jeopardising his own chance of success. Richard, never at any time a
glib jingler of rhymes, was in sorry case, for now that he had most need
of his wits, his passion instead of sharpening them seemed to have
removed them utterly. If he had but known it, he had a good friend in
Queen Eleanor, who was determined that he should win, and she fancied
that she had hit upon a scheme which would aid him.

Angry was she that such an accomplished poet as Raymond of Toulouse must
be admitt