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Red plumage. Red crest. The crowd roars its approval. He doffs his helm, red-feathered, and makes a sweeping bow. Ladies faint. Their handkerchiefs flutter to the ground. Oh, Desdemona! He bows again and is gone. ---------

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-- The red knight returns. He addresses the spear-point to my heart. The pain rises to my shoulder. "I come not to send peace, but a sword." ---------------------------

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-- "The gallery is filling. The challenge is out. Who will answer? The red knight or the black knight? How will the old buzzard fare this time? It's more than chess. He flails. He struggles. His eyes are wide. His breath is coming fast. He grins. He strikes. He shakes his fist. He frowns. He weeps. He frowns. He falls. He kneels. He grovels on the floor. He clutches his chest. His heart. He reaches for his handkerchief. It flutters from his hand. He rolls from side to side. Clutching. He gasps for breath. He is pale. His color is going. Quite histrionic, the old buzzard. Good show old chap. Your battle with the knight--was he the red or the black?