ady. She had seen to that. And turning to leave
her, he found Lance almost at his elbow.

"Come along, Roy," he said, an imperative note in his voice; and if
_his_ glance included the rosebud, it gave no sign.

As they neared the gathering group of combatants, he turned with one of
his quick looks.

"You're in luck, old man. Every inducement to come out top!" he
remarked, only half in joke. "I've none, except my own credit. But
you'll have a tough job if you knock up against _me_."

"Right you are," Roy answered, jarred by the look and tone more than the
words. "If you're so dead keen, I'll take you on."

After that, Roy hoped exceedingly that luck might cast them in the same
team.

But it fell out otherwise.

Lance drew red; Roy, blue. Lance and Major Devines, of the Monmouths,
were chosen as leaders. They were the only two on the ground who wore no
favours: and they fronted each other with smiles of approval, their
respective teams--ten a side--drawn up in two long lines; heads caged in
wire-masks, tufted, with curly feathers, red and blue; ponies champing
and pawing the air. Not precisely a picturesque array; but if the plumes
and trappings of chivalry were lacking, the spirit of it still nickered
within; and will continue to flicker, just so long as modern woman will
permit.

At the crack of a pistol they were off, full tilt; but there was no
shock of lance on shield, no crash and clang of armour that 'could be
heard at a mile's distance,' as in the days of Ivanhoe. There was only
the sharp rattle of fencing-sticks against each other and the masks, the
clatter of eighty-eight hooves on hard ground; a lively confusion of
horses and men, advancing, backing, 'turning on a sixpence' to meet a
sudden attack; voices, Indian and English, shouting or cheering; and
the intermittent call of the umpire declaring a player knocked out as
his feather fluttered into the dust. Clouds of dust enveloped them in a
shifting haze. They breathed dust. It gritted between their teeth. What
matter? They were having at each other in furious yet friendly combat;
and, being Englishmen, they were perfectly happy; keen to win, ready to
lose with a good grace and cheer the better man.

In none of them, perhaps, did the desire to win burn quite so fiercely
as in Lance and Roy. But more than ever, now, Roy shrank from a final
tussle between them. Surely there was one man of them all good enough to
put Lance out of court.

For a time Ma