Martin did not ride badly.

He rolled about a bit, it is true; but this was due, not so much to anything he had taken at breakfast, as to his usual habit of swaggering; indeed, for the matter of that, he sat as firmly in his saddle as if he had grown to it.
On both sides of him trotted a couple of burghers with drawn swords, who had to look well after themselves all the time, for Martin's horse, whenever he perceived any other horse half a head in front of him, would bite at it till it screamed again.
After him, in a long row, came the competing youths.

In every face was to be seen a confident gleam of hope that he, perhaps, would be the winner.
The rear was brought up by a crush of carriages and carts, raising clouds of dust in their efforts to overtake the horses in front, adorned with green branches and crammed with merry holiday-folks with bright, streaming neckerchiefs.
At that moment the report of a mortar announces that the prime patron of the festivities, the rich nabob, Master Jock, has departed from his castle.

The crowd takes up its position in the cemetery and the gardens adjoining.

The wary horsemen stand out in the open; some of them make their horses prance and curvet to show their mettle, and lay bets with one another.