Britomart’s cheeks were hot and pink, and her hair, that was so long that it reached her feet, had burst from its band and framed her fair face like a golden frame.
The sword slipped from Artegall’s fingers to the ground. He knelt at Britomart’s feet and begged her to forgive him for having treated her so roughly.
But Britomart was still angry with him for that last fierce stroke of his.
‘Rise!’ she said, ‘or I shall kill you!’ and she held her sword over his head.
But Artegall would not rise, but only prayed her the more earnestly to forgive him.
Then the old nurse drew near and begged Britomart to have a truce.
‘Rest yourself for a little,’ she said, ‘and let the Savage Knight rest too.’
Britomart agreed, and the knight raised the front of his helmet that he might breathe more freely.
When Britomart saw his face, so handsome and so brave, she knew at once that the Savage Knight that she had tried to kill was Artegall, the knight of the Mirror.
Her arm dropped, and her sword fell from her hand.