Isidore and I were practicing, an activity that has become a welcome routine, when we heard the sounds. We could see nothing, but the sounds were loud enough to carry through the streets. Shouts. The roar of a crowd. Gunshots. We pause in our training and we listen. It doesn't seem to be coming this way, but....

But.

I have a duty. And I think that Isidore does as well.

By mutual agreement, we drop our practice swords and run. My armor is kept in a storehouse near the stables, and I am practiced in putting it on quickly and cleanly. I am still buckling my breastplate on as I jog into the stables. Hirondelle is waiting; she smells my anxiety the moment I come in, and she stands rock-still as I buckle her own armor in place. I have kept it polished and ready. A knight always does.

I wish that I had my sword, my sword or my gun. But for this, for a crowd of squabbling townsfolk, perhaps they won't be necessary. There are blunted, wooden weapons for practice left laying about; I snatch up a club and a blunted wooden lance. They'll look intimidating, if nothing else.

Hirondelle arches her neck and prances as I mount up. She is eager. And when we trot out into the yard, I see Isidore waiting at the gate, mounted and armored.

In some ways, I'm eager too.