er. Weary
and faint from his fatigues, instead of meeting with the reception he
had a right to expect, he and his Squire found themselves surrounded by
the whole populace of the city, set on by the King and his ministers.
The gates were shut. Brickbats and tiles came showering down on their
heads. In vain they charged right and left.

Aided by a thousand warriors, clad in chain armour, the infuriated
populace, threatening vengeance on the despisers of their religion,
hemmed them in. De Fistycuff was torn from his horse. Saint George,
after performing feats of unheard-of valour, was ignominiously dragged
from his, and borne, faint and bleeding, into the presence of the King.

"Is this the way you treat strangers?" exclaimed he, indignantly. "I
came to your country as an ambassador. Here are my credentials;" and,
drawing the letter from the lining of his helmet, he presented it in due
form.

"Ah! ah! what you are your deeds and this letter show," cried King
Ptolemy, stamping with rage. "You despise our ancient religion, and
would make converts of our people. Bear him and his attendant off to
prison."

The King pondered all night how he should destroy the strangers, and he
resolved to make them join in combat with a hundred of the fiercest
lions ever collected, to make sport for his subjects. The day arrived
when the dreadful combat was to take place, and thousands of people
assembled in the vast amphitheatre built for the purpose, to which even
the huge pyramids seemed as pismires' nests.

Saint George claimed the right of having his sword and steed; and the
King, little dreaming of the courage and sagacity of Bayard, and the
virtues which existed in Ascalon, and believing that, although a few
lions might be killed thereby, greater sport would be afforded to his
people, as he had no doubt the rest would easily tear him from his
horse, and crush him in his armour, granted his request.

With a flourish of trumpets the Knight and his Squire entered the arena.
De Fistycuff kept carefully behind his master. With terrific roars the
hundred lions rushed in at once, amidst the loud plaudits of the
spectators. On they bounded towards the Knight. Ascalon was in his
hand. One after the other their heads fell, severed from their tawny
bodies by the trusty steel. The Squire's chief labour was to keep them
off Bayard's tail, lest, when he flung his heels out behind, the
Champion's aim might be less certain. The p