Oh, Constance! How your cheeks burn with shame when you come to yourself. This is undignified! You have made a [i]scene![/i] You take a seat, accepting a glass gratefully and sitting among the Duchess's advisors. You move your legs nervously, tempted to pull them close to yourself, silently willing everyone to turn their eyes away from you and back to the list.

Ah, the joust! Which has stopped being a joust; your champion has dismounted! You watch her with mingled shame and curiosity; shame that you still do not remember her name, but curiosity at seeing the way she handles that mock-ax. How will she handle it? Will she move with the irresistible strength of a mountain or the subtle grace of a river? Your heart is a faint and feeble thing in your chest, but still you watch.