This was thrilling, indeed--but there was more; the strange knight's body was cased in a flexible suit of glistening mail, his spear point, when he raised it on high, shone like silver, and he came on like a radiant star--on the Hon. Sam's charger, white-bridled, with long mane and tail and black from tip of nose to tip of that tail as midnight. The Hon. Sam was certainly doing it well. At a slow walk the stranger drew alongside of Marston and turned his spear point downward. “Gawd!” said an old darky. “Ku-klux done come again.” And, indeed, it looked like a Ku-klux mask, white, dropping below the chin, and with eye-holes through which gleamed two bright fires. The eyes of Buck and Mollie were turned from Marston at last, and open-mouthed they stared. “Hit's the same hoss--hit's Dave!” said Buck aloud. “Well, my Lord!” said Mollie simply. The Hon. Sam rose again. “And who is Sir Tardy Knight that hither comes with masked face?” he asked courteously. He got no answer. “What's your name, son?” The white mask puffed at the wearer's lips. “The Knight of the Cumberland,” was the low, muffled reply. “Make him take that thing off!” shouted some one. “What's he got it on fer?” shouted another. “I don't know, friend,” said the Hon. Sam; “but it is not my business nor prithee thine; since by the laws of the tournament a knight may ride masked for a specified time or until a particular purpose is achieved, that purpose being, I wot, victory for himself and for me a handful of byzants from thee.” “Now, go ahead, Budd,” called the Mayor again. “Are you going crazy?” The Hon. Sam stretched out his arms once to loosen them for gesture, thrust his chest out, and uplifted his chin: “Fair ladies, nobles of the realm, and good knights,” he said sonorously, and he raised one hand to his mouth and behind it spoke aside to me: “How's my voice--how's my voice?” “Great!” His question was genuine, for the mask of humor had dropped and the man was transformed. I knew his inner seriousness, his oratorical command of good English, and I knew the habit, not uncommon among stump-speakers in the South, of falling, through humor, carelessness, or for the effect of flattering comradeship, into all the lingual sins of rural speech; but I was hardly prepared for the soaring flight the Hon. Sam took now. He started with one finger pointed heavenward: “The knights are dust And their good swords are rast; Their souls are with the saints, we trust.”