So you see there was simply nothing to be done now,
but play their right bower--bring out the superbest of the superb,
the mightiest of the mighty, the great Sir Launcelot himself!
A proud moment for me? I should think so. Yonder was Arthur,
King of Britain; yonder was Guenever; yes, and whole tribes of
little provincial kings and kinglets; and in the tented camp yonder,
renowned knights from many lands; and likewise the selectest body
known to chivalry, the Knights of the Table Round, the most
illustrious in Christendom; and biggest fact of all, the very sun
of their shining system was yonder couching his lance, the focal
point of forty thousand adoring eyes; and all by myself, here was
I laying for him. Across my mind flitted the dear image of a
certain hello-girl of West Hartford, and I wished she could see
me now. In that moment, down came the Invincible, with the rush
of a whirlwind--the courtly world rose to its feet and bent forward
--the fateful coils went circling through the air, and before you
could wink I was towing Sir Launcelot across the field on his
back, and kissing my hand to the storm of waving kerchiefs and
the thunder-crash of applause that greeted me!
Said I to myself, as I coiled my lariat and hung it on my saddle-horn,
and sat there drunk with glory, "The victory is perfect--no other
will venture against me--knight-errantry is dead.
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