ace.

Once more he breathed a short prayer, "Holy Mary, guard me!"

Then again, for the third time, the Marshal raised his baton, and the
horn sounded, and for the third time Myles drove his spurs into his
horse's flanks. Again he saw the iron figure of his opponent rushing
nearer, nearer, nearer. He centred, with a straining intensity, every
faculty of soul, mind, and body upon one point--the cross of the
occularium, the mark he was to strike. He braced himself for the
tremendous shock which he knew must meet him, and then in a flash
dropped lance point straight and true. The next instant there was a
deafening stunning crash--a crash like the stroke of a thunder-bolt.
There was a dazzling blaze of blinding light, and a myriad sparks danced
and flickered and sparkled before his eyes. He felt his horse stagger
under him with the recoil, and hardly knowing what he did, he drove
his spurs deep into its sides with a shout. At the same moment there
resounded in his ears a crashing rattle and clatter, he knew not of
what, and then, as his horse recovered and sprang forward, and as the
stunning bewilderment passed, he found that his helmet had been
struck off. He heard a great shout arise from all, and thought, with a
sickening, bitter disappointment, that it was because he had lost. At
the farther end of the course he turned his horse, and then his heart
gave a leap and a bound as though it would burst, the blood leaped to
his cheeks tingling, and his bosom thrilled with an almost agonizing
pang of triumph, of wonder, of amazement.

There, in a tangle of his horse's harness and of embroidered trappings,
the Sieur de la Montaigne lay stretched upon the ground, with his saddle
near by, and his riderless horse was trotting aimlessly about at the
farther end of the lists.

Myles saw the two squires of the fallen knight run across to where their
master lay, he saw the ladies waving their kerchiefs and veils, and the
castle people swinging their hats and shouting in an ecstasy of delight.
Then he rode slowly back to where the squires were now aiding the fallen
knight to arise. The senior squire drew his dagger, cut the leather
points, and drew off the helm, disclosing the knight's face--a face
white as death, and convulsed with rage, mortification, and bitter
humiliation.

"I was not rightly unhorsed!" he cried, hoarsely and with livid lips,
to the Marshal and his attendants, who had ridden up. "I unhelmed him
fairly enough,