He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speech was the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even a murmur.

“I may say enthusiastically,” he added.

Not a sound.

“Precisely,” said the king, ever tactful. “And now—you were saying?”

“I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills,” said the damsel, “and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knight against a fiery dragon that ravages the countryside.”

“A dragon, gentlemen,” said the king, aside. It was usually a safe draw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk bout with a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence.

“Fiery,” said the king.

Some more silence.

The king had recourse to the direct appeal. “Sir Gawain, this Court would be greatly indebted to you if—”

Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament.

“Sir Pelleas.”

The king’s voice was growing flat with consternation. The situation was unprecedented.

Sir Pelleas said he had an ingrowing toe-nail.

The king’s eye rolled in anguish around the table. Suddenly it stopped. It brightened. His look of dismay changed to one of relief.

A knight had risen to his feet. It was Agravaine.

“Ah!” said the king, drawing a deep breath.

Sir Agravaine gulped. He was feeling more nervous than he had ever felt in his life. Never before had he risen to volunteer his services in a matter of this kind, and his state of mind was that of a small boy about to recite his first piece of poetry.

It was not only the consciousness that every eye, except one of Sir Balin’s which had been closed in the tournament that afternoon, was upon him. What made him feel like a mild gentleman in a post- office who has asked the lady assistant if she will have time to attend to him soon and has caught her eye, was the fact that he thought he had observed the damsel Yvonne frown as he rose. He groaned in spirit. This damsel, he felt, wanted the proper goods or none at all. She might not be able to get Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad; but she was not going to be satisfied with a half-portion.

The fact was that Sir Agravaine had fallen in love at first sight. The moment he had caught a glimpse of the damsel Yvonne, he loved her devotedly. To others she seemed plain and unattractive. To him she was a Queen of Beauty. He was amazed at the inexplicable attitude of the knights around him. He had expected them to rise in a body to clamour for the chance of assisting this radiant vision. He could hardly believe, even now, that he was positively the only starter.

“This is Sir Agravaine the Dolorous,” said the king to the damsel. “Will you take him as your champion?”

Agravaine held his breath. But all was well. The damsel bowed.