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Six thousand gallant men of the bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts of a battle-trumpet Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles and Ventadours pressed hard behind the silver lilies. Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might be the fresher for the shock.
I also told her that I was a student in my second semester and that it was my ambition to be a poet. "Isn't that sweet?" she exclaimed. "I suppose you write poetry already?" I certainly did. I even had a play in hand which treated of the fate of the troubadour Bernard de Ventadours in rhymeless, irregular verse. "Is there a part for me in it?" she asked. "No," I answered, "but it doesn't matter.
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