Cumberland, the helmet on his head (that
the Blight might know who he was, no
doubt), and both hands clasping the
broken handle of his spear, which rested
across the pommel of his saddle. Impulsively
the Blight waved her hand to him
and I could not help waving my hat; but
he sat like a statue and, like a statue, sat
on, simply looking after us as we were
hurried along, until horse, broken shaft,
and shoulders sank out of sight. And thus
passed the Knight of the Cumberland with
the last gleam that struck his helmet,
spear-like, from the slanting sun.


THE END