Sir Humphrey dismounts with great ceremony — which is to say his horse steps sideways at the crucial moment and the result is less a graceful vault than a controlled collapse into standing. He straightens his armour. He approaches the goat. The goat watches with the calm authority of something that has already made all necessary judgements. At a respectful distance — the sort one maintains before royalty, a judge, or something one is not entirely certain about — Sir Humphrey sweeps into a deep and sincere bow. "Your Honour," he announces, because he has committed to this and is not a man who un-commits. "I formally acknowledge the authority of the hat." The goat chews. Thoughtfully. From behind a tent comes frantic rustling. Reginald the herald emerges, parchment escaping from his satchel in several directions at once, expression suggesting this was not how he had planned to spend the evening. "I'll need to record this," he says, in the tone of a man composing his resignation letter in his head. "Record it," says Humphrey. He does not turn. He is maintaining eye contact with the goat. He feels this is important. The goat takes one deliberate step forward. The hat shifts, but does not fall.