opening to the westward flowed, like a stream, the rays of the
setting sun, and overflowed with a ruddy splendour the open space
where I was. And riding as it were down this stream towards me,
came a horseman in what appeared red armour. From frontlet to
tail, the horse likewise shone red in the sunset. I felt as if I
must have seen the knight before; but as he drew near, I could
recall no feature of his countenance. Ere he came up to me,
however, I remembered the legend of Sir Percival in the rusty
armour, which I had left unfinished in the old book in the
cottage: it was of Sir Percival that he reminded me. And no
wonder; for when he came close up to me, I saw that, from crest
to heel, the whole surface of his armour was covered with a light
rust. The golden spurs shone, but the iron greaves glowed in the
sunlight. The MORNING STAR, which hung from his wrist, glittered
and glowed with its silver and bronze. His whole appearance was
terrible; but his face did not answer to this appearance. It was
sad, even to gloominess; and something of shame seemed to cover
it. Yet it was noble and high, though thus beclouded; and the
form looked lofty, although the head drooped, and the whole frame
was bowed as with an inward grief. The horse seemed to share in
his master's dejection, and walked spiritless and slow. I
noticed, too, that the white plume on his helmet was discoloured
and drooping. "He has fallen in a joust with spears," I said to
myself; "yet it becomes not a noble knight to be conquered in
spirit because his body hath fallen." He appeared not to observe
me, for he was riding past without looking up, and started into a
warlike attitude the moment the first sound of my voice reached
him. Then a flush, as of shame, covered all of his face that the
lifted beaver disclosed. He returned my greeting with distant
courtesy, and passed on. But suddenly, he reined up, sat a