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.