Then the knight laughed loudly, and would have hacked off the head of his fallen foe, had not the king, who was now dismounted, stepped from the shelter of the trees, and stood above the prostrate squire.
“A COUNTRY MAID OF LONGDENDALE.”
“Thou cruel traitor,” cried the king. “That foul stroke shall cost thee thy life. Never have I seen a blow more foul.”
On seeing this new foe, Sir Terrible—who did not recognise the king—again couched his lance, and, without waiting to give his opponent chance to mount, and meet him in fair combat, charged down upon the king.
But Arthur stood calm and firm, and drawing Excalibur from its sheath, he stepped aside as the horseman charged, and smote with all his might. The blow cut clean through the lance close to the haft, and falling on the steed, brought it to the ground. Instantly the knight sprang up in terror.
“Now I know thee,” he cried. “Thou art Arthur Pendragon. No sword save the brand Excalibur could have struck so great a blow as that.”
“Thou speakest truly,” answered the king. “I am indeed Pendragon.”
Then the coward knight turned to fly, for well he knew that none might stand before Excalibur and live.
But the king stepped forward. He raised the great sword aloft. The blade flashed in the sunlight. It cut clean through the iron helm, and the head of Sir Terrible rolled on the sward.