“Yield?” shouted Hereward, rushing upon him, as a mastiff might on a lion, and striking at his helm, though shorter than him by a head and shoulders, such swift and terrible blows with the broken hilt, as staggered the tall stranger.
“What are you at, forgetting what you have at your side?” roared Geri.
Hereward sprang back. He had, as was his custom, a second sword on his right thigh.
“I forget everything now,” said he to himself angrily.
And that was too true. But he drew the second sword, and sprang at his man once more.
The stranger tried, according to the chronicler, who probably had it from one of the three by-standers, a blow which has cost many a brave man his life. He struck right down on Hereward’s head. Hereward raised his shield, warding the stroke, and threw in that coup de jarret, which there is no guarding, after the downright blow has been given. The stranger dropped upon his wounded knee.
“Yield,” cried Hereward in his turn.
“That is not my fashion.” And the stranger fought on, upon his stumps, like Witherington in Chevy Chase.
Hereward, mad with the sight of blood, struck at him four or five times. The stranger’s shield was so quick that he could not hit him, even on his knee. He held his hand, and drew back, looking at his new rival.
“What the murrain are we two fighting about?” said he at last.