He walked on, swinging the lantern. The iron ring creaked, and the lantern cast crazy slashes all over the road. By now Prospero was thoroughly spooked. He kept looking from side to side. How many miles was it? It seemed like twenty tonight. What was that? A white thing under a scabby maple tree. A road marker? Not here. Somebody’s wash? Not this far from town. A horseman.
Out into the middle of the dark road he cantered, covered from head to foot with armor that shone gray like the moon. The same featureless coal scuttle helmet, with a black slit for eyes. The same blank shield. The horseman charged, his lance leveled. This time there were no bushes to hide in; there was no mirror handy with spells. In the few seconds he had, Prospero thought, “This is my death,” and shook himself – somehow – out of his fear-frozen trance. He only had the lantern for a weapon, so he wound up like a Sunday softball pitcher. Three times he whirled the creaking lantern over his head. Three times it made a yellow oval orbit in the pitch-black air. When the knight was almost on top of him he let the lantern go, and when it went out, he did too.