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Still, Aril could see much in the man that boasted of the
old grandeur of his order. He was dressed in his full plate
armor, a great sword hanging at his side, his visorless
helmet and shield resting nearby on a flat rock. And though
he was kneeling, he did seem to be quite tall - that is, long
of limb. But what impressed Aril Witherwind the most was
his truly copious moustache, a long white one that drooped
with a poignant flourish so that its tips nearly brushed the
ground as he knelt there.
A lot of pride must go into that moustache, mused Aril
as he waited patiently for the knight to finish whatever he
was doing.
Now, all that time, the itinerant folklorist thought he
was unobserved, so he was startled when the knight, not so
much as lifting his head or moving a muscle, spoke up in a
deep, though tired, voice:
"What do you want?"
"Oh! Pardon me," said Aril Witherwind, stepping
ahead, bent forward as if he were bowing, though, in fact,
he was merely carrying his heavy tome. "I didn't mean to
interrupt anything. Only, if you are done, I would like to
speak with you."
"I am in meditation."
"So you are. But perhaps you could return to it in a
moment," suggested Aril
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