"And what is thy condition?" inquired Sir Lancelot.

"There liveth but one, either in Christendom or Heathenesse, unto whom I
may not grant this parley; for him have I sworn to kill," said Sir
Tarquin.

"'Tis well," replied the other; "but what name or cognisance hath he?"

"His name is Lancelot of the Lake!"

"Behold him!" was the reply; Sir Lancelot at the same time brandishing
his weapon with a shout of defiance.

When Sir Tarquin heard this he gnashed his teeth for very rage.

"Now one of us must die," said he. "Thou slewest my brother Sir Carados
at Shrewsbury, and I have sworn to avenge his defeat. Thou diest. Not
all the gods of thy fathers shall deliver thee."

So to it they went with more heat and fury than ever; and a marvel was
it to behold, for each blow did seem as it would have cleft the other in
twain, so deadly was the strife and hatred between them.

Sir Lancelot pressed hard upon his foe, though himself grievously
wounded, and in all likelihood would have won the fight, but, as
ill-luck would have it, when dealing a blow mighty enough to fell the
stoutest oak in Christendom, he missed his aim, and with that stumbled
to the ground. Then did Sir Tarquin shout for joy, and would have made
an end of him, but that Sir Lancelot, as he lay, aimed a deadly thrust
below his enemy's shield where he was left unguarded, and quickly turned