Sir Humphrey lowers his visor with a clank of finality. Nobody has volunteered as second. Nobody has agreed to count the passes. These are, he decides, heralds' problems. He levels his lance and charges. The forty-three spectators collectively inhale. The goat watches him come. The goat does not move — until the very last moment, when it takes one deliberate step to the left. Sir Humphrey thunders past. His lance catches nothing. His horse completes the length of the field with the stoic professionalism of an animal accustomed to this. Humphrey turns. The goat has turned also. With the calm of an official who has reached a conclusion it found satisfactory from the start, it tips the judge's hat fractionally further. Reginald writes something down. Nobody asks what. "Well," says Goodwife Thripp, adding a stitch. "That's that, then." The forty-three spectators look at one another. Several nod, slowly.