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 moment still,
and then turning his horse, rode back to where I stood looking after
him.

"I am ashamed," he said, "to appear a knight, and in such a guise; but
it behoves me to tell you to take warning from me, lest the same evil,
in his kind, overtake the singer that has befallen the knight. Hast thou
ever read the story of Sir Percival and the"--(here he shuddered, that
his armour rang)--"Maiden of the Alder-tree?"