“Give your names,” said the parched voice of the second sentinel.

The tall man stepped a pace forward. “I am Schmendrick the Magician,” he said. “This is Molly Grue, my helper‌—‌and this is the Lady Amalthea.” He stumbled over the name of the white girl, as though he had never before spoken it. “We seek audience with King Haggard,” he continued. “We have come a long way to see him.”

The second sentinel waited for the first to speak, but the younger man was looking only at the Lady Amalthea. Impatiently he said, “State your business with King Haggard.”

“I will,” the magician replied, “to Haggard himself. What kind of royal matter could it be that I might confide to doormen and porters? Take us to the king.”

“What kind of royal matter could a wandering wizard with a foolish tongue have to discuss with King Haggard?” the second sentinel asked somberly. But he turned and strode through the castle gate, and the king’s visitors straggled after him. Last wandered the younger sentinel, his step grown as tender as that of the Lady Amalthea, whose every movement he imitated unaware. She stayed a moment before the gate, looking out to sea, and the sentinel did the same.

His former comrade called angrily to him, but the young sentry was on a different duty, answerable to a new captain for his derelictions. He entered at the gate only after the Lady Amalthea had chosen to go in. Then he followed, singing to himself in a dreamy drone.

What is it that is happening to me?
What is it that is happening to me?
I cannot tell whether to be glad or be afraid.
What is it that is happening to me?

They crossed a cobbled courtyard where cold laundry groped their faces, and passed through a smaller door into a hall so vast that they could not see the walls or the ceiling in the darkness. Great stone pillars rushed up to them as they trudged across the hall, and then leaned away without ever really letting themselves be seen. Breath echoed in that huge place, and the footsteps of other, smaller creatures sounded just as clearly as their own. Molly Grue stayed quite close to Schmendrick.

After the great hall, there came another door and then a thin stair. There were few windows, and no lights. The stair coiled tighter and tighter as it ascended, until it seemed that every step turned round on itself, and that the tower was closing on them all like a sweaty fist. The darkness looked at them and touched them. It had a rainy, doggy smell.

Something rumbled somewhere deep and near. The tower trembled like a ship run aground, and answered with a low, stone wail. The three travelers cried out, scrambling to keep their feet on the shuddering stairs, but their guide pressed on without faltering or speaking. The younger man whispered earnestly to the Lady Amalthea, “It’s all right, don’t be afraid. It’s just the Bull.” The sound was not repeated.