Humphrey wheels his horse around and trots back to where Reginald stands, still holding the half-unrolled scroll as though hoping someone will take it away from him. "Reginald," says Humphrey, with the tone of a man making an entirely reasonable request, "I shall need you to provide me with an opponent." Reginald looks at him. He looks at the field. He looks back at him. "An opponent," Reginald repeats. "A proper one. This is a tournament." "The only living beings present are you, your horse, me, and a goat in a hat." "Then improvise. You have a satchel." Reginald opens the satchel with the expression of a man descending stairs he didn't choose to climb. A wax seal escapes. Three scrolls follow. A small wheel of cheese appears briefly and is suppressed. He produces, eventually, a tournament standard on a stick, slightly crumpled. From the edge of the field, Goodwife Thripp, who has remained because she came to see something and intends to see something, lets out a short sound that may or may not be a laugh, and keeps knitting. The Goat tilts its hat and watches.