“Now, gallants! for your ladies’ sake,
  Upon them with the lance!”

seemed to answer every purpose, and Valentine was instructed to commit it to memory, as the event proved, with but indifferent success.  He comprehended, in a vague way, that the warriors were to do battle for the honor of their true loves, but, at the critical moment, the lines escaped him and he had to improvise.  The lances were rake-handles, and, as this was not to be a fray a l’outrance, about the end of each formidable weapon was wadded and tied an empty flour bag.

The unwilling, lumbering mares were brought upon the ground, and Valentine held the headstall reins while a preliminary ceremony was performed, for your perfect knight omits no courteous detail.  Gloves were unknown about the farm, but Grant drew from his pocket a buckskin mitten, and with it slapped Alf suddenly in the face.  It was to be regretted that the aggressor had somewhat exaggerated the mediaeval glove idea, and had not previously explained to Alf that to fling one’s glove in a foeman’s face was one proper form of deadly insult preceding mortal combat, for, ignoring lances, steeds and all about them, the assailed personage immediately “clinched,” and the boys rolled over in a struggle, earnest, certainly, but altogether commonplace.  It was with the greatest difficulty, while defending himself, that Grant was enabled to explain that his act was one rendered necessary by the laws of chivalry and a part of the preliminaries of the occasion, instead of an attack in cold blood upon an unwarned adversary.  Alf accepted the apology gloweringly, and manifested great anxiety to secure his lance, and mount.  It was evident the encounter would be deadly.

Some hundred yards apart, with the perplexed, astonished old mares facing each other, sat the warriors in their saddles, or, rather, in the place where their saddles would have been had they possessed them.  Each grasped the headstall reins firmly in his left hand, and with his right aimed his top-heavy lance in a somewhat wobbling manner at his adversary.  It must soon be known to all the world of knighthood which was the grimmer champion!  At middle distance and well to one side, stood Grand Marshal Valentine, racking his brains for the lines which should give the signal for the shock, but all in vain.  Desperation gave him inspiration.  “Let ’er go for your girls!” he roared.

Never, even in the gentle and joyous passage of arms at Ashby, or on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, was afforded a more thrilling spectacle than when these two paladins rushed to the onset and met in mid-career.  Each gave a yell and dug his heels into his charger, and whacked her with the butt end of his lance, and forced her into a ponderous gallop for the meeting.  It matters not now what was the precise intent of either jouster, which of them aimed at gorget or head-piece, or at shield, for—­either because the flour bags made the lances difficult to manage or of some unevenness in the ground—­each missed his enemy in the encounter!  Not so the two old mares!  They came together with a mighty crash and rolled over in a great cloud of dust and grass and mane and tail and boy and spear and flour-bag!