That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass
Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,
It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.
Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew
This sword was not Excalibur: too true
And perfect tempered, runed and mystical,
That weapon of old wars! and then withal,
Looking upon his foe, who still with stress
Fought on, untiring, and with no distress
Of wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!"