Three days after, in the tilt-yard of Gloucester Castle, the
wager of battle was fought. It was no gay tournament show with
streaming banners, gorgeous lists, gayly dressed ladies,
flower-bedecked balconies, and all the splendid display of a
tourney of the knights, of which you read in the stories of
romance and chivalry. It was a solemn and sombre gathering in
which all the arrangements suggested only death and gloom, while
the accused waited in suspense, knowing that halter and fagot
were prepared for them should their champion fall. In quaint and
crabbed Latin the old chronicler, John of Fordun, tells the story
of the fight, for which there is neither need nor space here. The
glove of each contestant was flung into the lists by the judge,
and the dispute committed for settlement to the power of God and
their own good swords. It is a stirring picture of those days of
daring and of might, when force took the place of justice, and
the deadliest blows were the only convincing arguments. But,
though supported by the favor of the king and the display of
splendid armor, Ordgar's treachery had its just reward. Virtue
triumphed, and vice was punished.
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