“Thou canst not fulfil that pledge,” said the earl, “for the man is already dead.”
“Still will I abide by what I have said.”
Then he offered her a goblet of wine, and bade her drink, and then she would change her mind.
“Evil betide me,” she replied, “if I drink aught till he drink also.”
Then the earl grew angry. “Truly,” said he, “it is of no more avail for me to be gentle with thee than ungentle;” and, un-knightly, he struck her with his hand on the face. And Enid raised an exceedingly loud and bitter cry;—not so much, indeed, because of the pain of the blow, as because it reminded her more strongly of the calamity that had befallen her, since she felt that if Geraint had been alive no man dared have smitten her. But all at once, at the sound of her cry, Geraint rose up from the couch. His sword was still in his hand as it had been when he swooned, and with it he rushed to the earl, and gave him so stern a blow that it clove him in twain till the sword was stayed by the table.
Then, at the sight of that terrible stroke, all who were there fled away with loud outcries. Geraint was sore grieved when he looked upon Enid, for her face was pale, and she wept bitterly.
“Lady,” said he, “knowest thou where our horses are?”
“I know where thy horse is, my lord,” she answered, “but I know not where the other may be.” She showed him where his horse was, and he mounted, and took up Enid and placed her before him, and so they rode forth. Presently something was heard like the sound of a host approaching, and Geraint put Enid on the other side of a hedge by the wayside, and made him ready. Immediately a knight rode forward and couched his lance. Then Enid could not restrain herself, but sprang to her feet, and cried. “O knight! whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying one that is already well-nigh dead?”
“O Heaven!” cried he, “is it Geraint?”
“Yes, in truth,” she answered; “and who art thou?”