On reaching the two jurors--and he was not long about that--he reined up, and, whipping off his cap, briefly expressed the wish to compete for the Whitsun Kingship.
"Don't ask me who or what I am.

If I am beaten I shall simply go on my way, but if I win I shall remain here," was all that the jurors could get in answer to their questions.

Nobody knew the youth.

He was a handsome, ruddy young fellow of about six and twenty, with a little spiral moustache twisted upwards in _betyar_ fashion, flowing curly locks gathered up into a top-knot, black flashing eyes, and a bold expressive mouth, slight of build, but muscular and supple.

His dress was rustic, but simple almost to affectation; you would not have found a seal on his white bulging shirt, search as you might, and he wore his cap, with a tuft of meadow-sweet in it, as gallantly as any cavalier.
Wherever he might have got the steed on which he sat, it was a splendid animal--a restive Transylvanian full-blood, with tail and mane long and strong reaching to the ground; not for an instant could it remain quiet, but danced and pranced continually.
They made him draw lots, and then placed him in a line with the rest.
At last the signal-guns were fired.