He shook himself and looked around. He was not alone. Only a few feet away stood Merlin, still wearing his blue robe and his conical hat. He nodded when he saw that Wilbur was awake. "How do you feel?" the old man asked. "Fine, thank you," Wilbur answered without thinking. It was when he looked down at his body that he sucked in his breath. Not only was he no longer in that musty room, but he no longer wore his own clothes! His body was encased in a gown of brown monk's cloth! "Your clothes would have been out of place here," Merlin told him, guessing what Wilbur thought. "But--where am I?" "Near Camelot," Merlin said. "Better get up now. We haven't much time." Wilbur got to his feet slowly, his eyes darting about. If he saw a chance he would make a run for it. But Merlin's hand was like a claw on the sleeve of Wilbur's robe. "You try to run and I'll put a curse on you that will fix you permanently," the old man whispered hoarsely. Wilbur followed him like a lamb to the slaughter. They took a path that led out of the glade and to a road only a few yards away. Ten yards or so down the road they came on the crowd whose voices Wilbur had heard. His hair stood on end. They were before the doors of an ancient church. And in the cleared space before those doors milled a strange throng. Men on foot wore robes of the plain monk's cloth and carried wooden staves. Towering above them were mounted men, men dressed in hauberks and doublets of chain mail. All of them had their eyes fixed on something in the center of the crowd. Then someone caught sight of Merlin and his name was whispered. As by magic the people parted to let him and Wilbur through. For the first time Wilbur saw what they had been staring at. It was a rough block of stone, and buried to the hilt in the stone was a sword! "Merlin," a voice said, a voice that was heavy and assured. Wilbur looked up and shrank away from the armored giant on horseback who towered over him and the old man. The giant raised the visor of his helmet and Wilbur beheld a face that was as cruel as a hawk's. Dark eyes gleamed from beneath black and bristling brows. "What mummery is this?" the dark man asked. "No mummery, but the good bishop's prayer answered," Merlin said calmly. "Is not the stone inscribed, Sir Kay?" "Inscribed," Sir Kay echoed. "And its message is that he who withdraws the sword shall be king of England." His scowl made Wilbur's knees weaken, but Merlin remained unaffected. In fact the old man seemed quite cheerful. "Excalibur it is called," Merlin said. "He who wrenches it free shall rule." "Hear me," Sir Kay grated. "If this be one of your tricks, know this: none but a son of Uther Pendragon will reign." For a moment Wilbur forgot the two. He had caught sight of the inscription of the stone and was reading it. Apparently it was meant to be a poem but it did not rhyme. On the spot Wilbur produced what he thought was a better one. He tried it out, not realizing he spoke aloud.