text_original: The hermit looked at him as he rode up, leaning piteously on his saddle bow, and he thought that he should know him, but could not tell who he was for the paleness of his face, till he saw by a wound on his cheek that it was Sir Lancelot.
text_transcription: THE HERMIT LOOKED AT HIM AS HE RODE UP LEANING PITEOUSLY ON HIS SADDLE BOW AND HE THOUGHT THAT HE SHOULD KNOW HIM BUT COULD NOT TELL WHO HE WAS FOR THE PALENESS OF HIS FACE TILL HE SAW BY A WOUND ON HIS CHEEK THAT IT WAS SIR LAUNCELOT
phonemes: ðə hˈɜːmɪt lˈʊkt æt hˌɪm æz hiː ɹˈoʊd ˈʌp, lˈiːnɪŋ pˈɪɾiəsli ˌɔn hɪz sˈædəl bˈoʊ, ænd hiː θˈɔːt ðæt hiː ʃˌʊd nˈoʊ hˌɪm, bˌʌt kʊd nˌɑːt tˈɛl hˌuː hiː wʌz fɚðə pˈeɪlnəs ʌv hɪz fˈeɪs, tˈɪl hiː sˈɔː baɪ ɐ wˈuːnd ˌɔn hɪz tʃˈiːk ðˌɐɾɪt wʌz sˌɜː lˈænsɪlˌɑːt.