And look, Benedicta--look! O, sure never rode knight in
like array--see how the very populace groweth dumb in its amaze!"
For now the crowd in wonderment grew mute,
To see this knight before him bare a lute,
While blooming roses his great helmet crowned,
They wreathed his sword, his mighty lance around.
Thus decked rode he in rosy pageantry,
And up the lists he ambled leisurely;
Till, all at once, from the astonied crowd
There brake a hum that swelled to laughter loud;
But on he rode, nor seemed to reck or heed,
Till 'neath the balcony he checked his steed.
Then, handing lance unto his tall esquire,
He sudden struck sweet chord upon his lyre,
And thus, serene, his lute he plucked until
The laughter died and all stood hushed and still;
Then, hollow in his helm, a clear voice rang,
As, through his lowered vizor, thus he sang:
"A gentle knight behold in me,
(Unless my blazon lie!)
For on my shield behold and see,
Upon field vert, gules falcons three,
Surcharged with heart ensanguiney,
To prove to one and all of ye,
A love-lorn knight am I.
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