We put up at the inn in a village just at nightfall, and when I rose next morning and looked abroad, I was ware where a knight came riding in the golden glory of the new day, and recognized him for knight of mine — Sir Ozana le Cure Hardy. He was in the gentlemen’s furnishing line, and his missionarying specialty was plug hats. He was clothed all in steel, in the beautifulest armor of the time — up to where his helmet ought to have been; but he hadn’t any helmet, he wore a shiny stove-pipe hat, and was ridiculous a spectacle as one might want to see. It was another of my surreptitious schemes for extinguishing knighthood by making it grotesque and absurd. Sir Ozana’s saddle was hung about with leather hat boxes, and every time he overcame a wandering knight he swore him into my service and fitted him with a plug and made him wear it.