Ogier growled like a trapped bear. He whipped his sword out, put forward his shield.
“On with you, traitor!” he roared. “Join your sister under the sods.”
“Ha, say you so?” said Tristan, closing in.
There was a brief blundering tussle on horseback under the trees. Ogier’s stallion seemed overweighted by his bulk, and was slow to answer the bridle as a waterlogged ship the helm. Tristan caught Ogier on the flank, so that the giant could not use his shield. Their swords flashed, yelped, twisted in the air. A down cut hewed the dexter cantel from Ogier’s shield. The giant’s face, with a gashed cheek, glared at Tristan from under his upreared arm. So close were they that blood spattered Tristan’s face, as Ogier blew the red stream from his mouth and beard.
Tristan broke away, wheeled, and came again with a cry of “Rosamunde!” He lashed home, split Ogier’s collar bone even through the rings of his hauberk. The giant yelped like a gored hound, dropped his shield, parried a second cut, smote Tristan’s horse above the ears. Tossing and rearing under the trees, the brute was unmanageable for the moment, and Tristan slipped from the saddle, sprang back against a tree as Ogier charged at him. The sword point whistled a hand’s breadth from his face. Before Ogier could wheel, Tristan was on him like a leopard. The giant, gripped by the girdle, toppled back and came down with a crash, his sword flashing from his hand in the fall.
The pair were at grips upon the grass, where Tristan, quick as a cat, came up on Ogier and straddled his chest. The giant heaved at him, gripped him by the knees. For one moment Tristan fell aside, but he was up and above again, with one hand on the other’s throat. Ogier, straining, panting with his burden of flesh, went down again under Tristan’s weight. He fought with his feet, rolled to and fro like a rudderless ship. Tristan, shortening his sword, ran the point into Ogier’s throat. The giant’s hands clutched and gripped the blade. There was a spasmodic heave of the great body, a tense quivering of the limbs, as the sword ran through, smote a cubit or more into the grass beneath.
Tristan, breathing hard, with his mouth wide open, rose up slowly from the giant’s body. Ogier had his death stroke; the red stream told as much as he twitched awhile and then lay still. Tristan, wiping the sweat from his forehead, plucked his sword out by the hilt. Columbe of Purple Isle was avenged of one foe.
CHAPTER XX
The first thing Tristan did after he had wiped his sword on a grass tussock and set it in his sheath was to look to the wound Ogier had dealt his horse. The animal was standing under a tree, tossing its head, rubbing its muzzle against the trunk. Tristan had great tenderness for any dumb thing in pain; moreover, he and the horse had come south from Tor’s Tower together; they were good comrades in the way of adventure. Tristan’s voice, familiar and trusted, calmed the beast, so that he suffered Tristan to gauge the wound. There had been no great evil in the blow, for Ogier’s sword, turned by the bone, had left a slight gash and nothing more. Tristan comforted the beast, fondling the muzzle, stroking the sleek neck. He knotted the bridle over a bough, caught Ogier’s white stallion, and tethered him also.
Next he took dead Ogier by the heels, dragged him out of the pool of sunlight where he lay into the shade of the solemn trees. For Ogier he felt no pang of pity; the man was a mere mountain of flesh, fit food for worms and ravens. Nevertheless, he covered the face with the broken shield, unbuckled Ogier’s girdle, and picked up his sword. So much done, he went down to the river, and washed the blood from his hands and face.