The stranger was at the banner before him, and so vigorously tore it out of the hand of Mr.
Varju, that that gentleman fell prone from his horse.
Martin, beside himself with rage, lashed at the ravished flag with his whip, and made a great rent in its red centre.

Useless fury! The umpires hastened up, and, removing the floral crown from the head of the Whitsun King, who was quivering with passion, placed it on the head of the victor.
"I don't want that!" cried the vanquished horseman, huskily, when they offered him a cap.

"I mean to win back my wreath." "You had better let it rest where it is," came a voice from the carriages.
"No need of that," replied Martin, defiantly.

"Neither I nor my horse is tired.

We will run, if we die for it.