Humphrey wheels his horse toward the elderly woman, who does not look up. She has begun a second hat. "Good woman," he announces, with the confidence of someone who has never been told he was wrong and believed it, "what deeds of renown yet await a champion of my calibre?" The woman examines her needles. "Tournament's done. Sir Reginald took the Grand Pennant. Gerald the Moderate came second. Young Thomasina — she's twelve — won the archery." A pause. "She's gone home for supper." Humphrey absorbs this. "And the… other events?" The woman sets down her knitting with judicial gravity and looks up for the first time. Her eyes carry the quality of someone who has lived through several wars, a plague, and many disappointing tournaments. "Well," she says. "There is still the matter of the Goat." She gestures, without ceremony, at a goat standing alone in the centre of the tournament field. It is wearing the judge's hat.