Humphrey dismounts with the gravity of a man who believes this moment will be remembered. He adjusts his lance, squares his pauldrons, and walks toward the goat with the measured tread of a knight approaching either destiny or a moderately large opponent — which is to say, very slowly and with considerable clanking. The goat watches him come. It does not seem impressed. It does not seem anything, particularly, except perhaps mildly curious about whether he has brought anything edible. At a distance of three feet, Humphrey stops. He draws himself to his full height. He clears his throat. "I," he begins, "am Sir Humphrey Bumfrey, Knight of the Realm, Defender of the Somewhat Defensible, sworn vassal of the Crown, holder of the Modest Commendation of Bravery (third class), and twice-consecutive winner of the Most Punctual Award at the Barleyhurst Horse Fair — though that second one was contested." A pause for effect. "I have come," he concludes, "to address the matter of the hat." The goat chews something. It is not clear what. It is possible there is nothing there. The judge's hat tilts, very slightly, to the left. From behind him, the knitting needles click.