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answer, Taran swung quickly into the saddle. Melynlas whinnied, pawed the ground, then
     stood calmly. Lord Goryon choked with amazement, and the Master of Horse stared in
     disbelief. A surprised murmur rose from Goryon's henchmen, but Taran heard a rough laugh
     as one of them called, “So ho, Goryon! A lout rides a steed a lord has not mastered, and
     takes your horse and honor both!”
    Taran thought he had seen a faint flicker of relief in Goryon's bruised face, as though he
     were not altogether displeased to avoid riding Melynlas, but at the henchman's words the
     cantrev lord's features began to darken furiously.
    “Not so!” Taran hastily cried out to the circle of men. “Would you have your liege lord
     ride a pig-keeper's nag? Is that fitting to his honor?” He turned now to Goryon, for a
     bold thought had come to him. “And yet, my lord, were you to take him as a gift from me...”
    “What?” shouted Goryon at the top of his voice, his face turning livid. “Insults!
     Impertinence! Insolence! How dare you! I take no gifts from pig-keepers! Nor will I lower
     myself to mount the beast again.” He flung up an arm. “Begone! Out of my sight--- your
     nag, your monster, and his pony along with you!”
    Goryon snapped his jaws shut and said no more. Gurgi's pony was led from the stable, and
     under the eyes of the cantrev lord and his henchmen the two companions passed unhindered
     through the gate.
    Taran rode slowly, head high, with all the assurance he could muster. But once out of
     sight of the stronghold, the companions clapped heels into their horses' flanks and
     galloped for dear life.
    “O
    
    
     H, WISDOM THAT WINS
    
    
     horses from prideful lord!” Gurgi cried, when they had ridden far enough to be safe from
     any change of heart on the part of Goryon. “Even Gurgi could not have been so clever. Oh,
     he wishes to be wise as kindly master, but his poor tender head has no skill in such
     thinkings!”
    “My wisdom?” Taran laughed. “Barely enough to make up for losing Melynlas in the first
     place.” He scanned the valley anxiously. Night was falling and he had hoped by this time
     to have come upon a farmhold where they might shelter, for the encounter with Goryon's
     border-band had given him no wish to learn what others might be roving the hills. But he
     saw neither cottage nor hut, and so pressed on through the purpling dusk.
    Lights flared in a clearing ahead, and Taran reined Melynlas to a halt near a stronghold
     much like Lord Goryon's. But here torches blazed at every corner of the palisade, from
     sockets set high on either side of the gate, even at the rooftree of the Great Hall, as if
     in token of feasting and revelry within.
    “Dare we stop here?” Taran said. “If this cantrev lord shows us Goryon's courtesy, we'd
     sleep sounder in a gwythaint's nest.” Nevertheless, the hope of a comfortable bed and the
     torches' inviting glow made his weariness weigh all the heavier. He hesitated a moment,
     then urged Melynlas closer to the gate.
    To the men in the watchtower Taran called out that here were wayfarers journeying to Caer
     Cadarn and known to King Smoit. He was relieved when the portal creaked open and the
     guards beckoned the pair to enter. The Chief Steward was summoned, and he led Taran and
     Gurgi to the Great Hall.
    “Beg hospitality of my Lord Gast,” the Steward told them, “and he will grant what he deems
     fitting.”
    As he followed the Steward, Taran's spirits rose at the thought of a warm meal and a
     comfortable couch. Loud voices, laughter, and the merry notes of a harp came from the
     Hall. Stepping through the doorway Taran saw crowded tables on either side of a
     low-ceilinged room. At the far end, flanked by his henchmen and their ladies, sat a richly
     garbed war lord, a drinking horn in one fist and most of a joint of meat in the other.
    Taran and Gurgi bowed deeply. Before they could draw closer, the