And arrows swift and many from the well-bent bow he shot.
Alas! he did not hit him; what hope of his ill-luck turning?
Then he of the sword bethought him; he heard the maids bewailing him and mourning.
[93]
Tho’ his years were not yet many, he still was brave enough;
A wing from the angry griffin he struck at the shoulder off,
And in the leg he smote him a heavier blow and stronger;
So that his wounded body the bird away from the spot could drag no longer.
[94]
The boy was now the winner; one of his foes lay dead;