His lance was hard in his hand, and he was drunk with excitement and anticipation. The shaft was rigid, and seemed to throb with the coming task. He was ready to begin.

He pushed forward, feeling the warm flesh and flexing muscle beneath him. Furiously he rode, faster and faster, until finally, with a guttural yell and a final hard thrust, the climax was upon him, and he knew the warm glow of conquest.

His opponent lay on the ground, his armor bent and his shield shattered. “Sir Brenor!â€? said Sir Percival, “Good show! How about a cup of mead and a joint of mutton to celebrate?â€? “Surely one cannot deny such a fine offer?â€? said Sir Brenor, and off they went to procure some refreshment and tavern wenches.

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