o one, and not long afterward he
saw the pale pile of Carbonek looming above the trees to his left, and
encephalo-guided Easy Money into the lane that led to the entrance.
There was no moat, but the portcullis was an imposing one. Flanking it
on either side was a huge stone lion, and framing it were flaming
torches in regularly-spaced niches. Warders in hauberk and helmet
looked down from the lofty wall, their halberds gleaming in the
dancing torchlight. Mallory swallowed: the moment of truth had
arrived.

He halted Easy Money and canted his white shield so that the red
cross in its center would be visible from above. Then he marshalled
his smattering of Old English. "I hight Sir Galahad of the Table
Round," he called out in as bold a voice as he could muster. "I would
rest my eyes upon the Sangraal."

* * * * *

Instantly, confusion reigned upon the wall as the warders vied with
one another for the privilege of operating the cumbersome windlass
that raised and lowered the portcullis, and presently, to the
accompaniment of a chorus of creaks and groans and scrapings, the
ponderous iron grating began to rise. Mallory forced himself to wait
until it had risen to a height befitting a knight of Sir Galahad's
caliber, then he rode through the gateway and into the courtyard,
congratulating himself on the effectiveness of his impersonation.

"Ye will come unto the chamber of the Sangraal sixty paces down the
corridor to thy left eftsoon ye enter the chief fortress, sir knight,"
one of the warders called down. "An ye had arrived a little while
afore, ye had encountered Sir Launcelot du Lake, the which did come
unto the fortress and enter in, wherefrom he came out anon and
departed."

Mallory would have wiped his forehead if his forehead had been
accessible and if his hands had not been encased in metal gloves.
Fooling the warders was one thing, but passing himself off as Sir
Galahad to the man who was Sir Galahad's father would have been quite
another. He had learned from the pages of his near-namesake's "Arthur"
that Sir Launcelot had visited Carbonek before Sir Galahad had, but
the pages had not revealed whether the time-lapse had involved
minutes, hours, or years, and for that matter, Mallory wasn't
altogether certain whether the second visit they described had been
the real Sir Galahad's, which meant failure, or a romanticized version
of his own, which meant success. His near-namesake w