Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,
Over and over, blade on baleful blade;
Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,
Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,
The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.
Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon
His falchion for a space. But Accolon,
As yet,—through virtue of that magic sheath,—
Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death
Now than when first the fight to death begun,