The nominal prize for the victor was a jewelled sword, but the prize on which their hearts were set was a gem transcendant—the all-surpassing Margaret!
And now the heralds sounded the charge, and the combatants met in mid career. The lance of Hector was shivered upon the breast of Montgomery; but Sir William’s struck full upon the visor of Hector, which made him bend his plume backwards. In the second course, Hector struck the coronal of Sir William’s helmet a skilful stroke. Margaret fainted, and the ladies about her were busy in applying restoratives; but none attempted to remove her, being too much interested in the event of the joust. Montgomery cast a look of fire up to the spot, and then re-closed his visor for the third course. His opponent was resolved to make it a decisive one. Striking their spurs into their chargers’ sides, like arrows shot from opposing bows, they flew along. Then was a clash, a glittering flash! and the prize was won—for Hector of March Lyn Mawr lay, stunned and motionless, upon the ground, borne from his saddle by the lance of the victorious Sir William of Montgomery!
Margaret, being restored to her senses, wept tears of joy, and spoke most sweet words, when her lover riding beneath the platform, demanded from her hand the honourable prize.
But a wonder now appeared, which turned all eyes to the spot where Hector lay o’erthrown; for a milk-white palfrey, of the most exquisite form, had galloped into the lists, and drawn him from beneath his charger, which had fallen with him in the violent concussion. His helmet being loosed, he soon partially recovered, and seeing the beautiful animal frisking and curvetting, as though overjoyed at his escape, he led it by the mane to his rival, saying,
“William of Montgomery, I give to thee this palfrey. Present it to thy bride, to whom I now resign all claim, and only request that she will, for my sake, let my favourite bear her to the church, where your union is to be celebrated.”
It was a lovely thing to look upon, and the maiden promised to use no other on that happy day.
The church of Llanberis was, at this time, about a mile from the castle of Dolbadarn, and the road, upon the bridal morning, resembled a mosaic pavement, when viewed from the mountain, it was so thickly studded with the fantastic dresses of the company, spectators, and gay flags and streamers waving in the air. The minstrels struck up their boldest notes of war, or delighted the ears and hearts of the female holiday makers with the soft songs of love. All was mirth, feasting, and jollity, while the air rung with the combined names of Margaret of Dolbadarn and William of Montgomery.