"
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
his joy into tribulation; for Sir Tarquin, though not mortally wounded,
drew back and cried out lustily for pain, the which Sir Lancelot
hearing, he leapt again to his feet, still eager and impatient for the
strife.
The contest was again doubtful, neither of them showing any disposition
to yield, or in any wise to abate the rigour of the conflict. Night,
too, was coming on apace, and seemed like enough to pitch her tent over
them, ere the issue was decided.
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