For some minutes nothing, whether event or vision, took place. Then he lifted up his eyes and saw approaching him a white horse on which rode a lady. She was dressed in shining garments, as if made of gold. Evidently she was a princess. Yet she came not very near.
"Does anyone among you know who this lady is?" asked Powell of his chieftains.
"Not one of us," was the answer.
Thereupon Powell ordered his vassals to ride forward. They were to greet her courteously, and inquire who she was.
But now the predicted wonder took place. She moved away from them, yet at a quiet pace that suited her. Though the knights spurred their horses, and rode fast and furiously, they could not come any nearer to her.
They galloped back, and reported their failure to reach the lady.
Then Powell picked out others and sent them riding after the lady, but each time, one and all returned, chagrined with failure. A woman had beaten them.
So the day closed with silence in the castle hall. There was no merry making or story telling that night.
The next day, Powell sat again on the mound and once more the golden lady came near.
This time, Powell himself left his seat on the mound, leaped on his fleetest horse, and pursued the maiden, robed in gold, on the white horse.