Gorlois, hot as a furnace, scrambled to his feet, and dragged his horse up by the bridle. Half off the saddle, with empty stirrups dangling, he went at a canter for the yawn of the wood. His slashed arm burnt as though it had been touched with a branding-iron; blood dripped down upon his horse’s white shoulder. He was soon steady in the saddle and galloping full pelt after Igraine, the ground slipping under his horse’s hoofs like water, the long grass flying like spray.
Igraine’s horse lost ground up the slope; he had less heart than Gorlois’s beast, and was weaker in the haunches. By the time they reached the trees, Igraine had twenty yards to her credit and no more. She saw her chance gone, and heard Gorlois close in her wake, caught sideways a glimpse of plunging hoofs and angry harness. Drawing aside suddenly with all her strength, she let Gorlois sweep up on her flank and pass her by some yards. Before he could turn, she rode into him as fast as she could gather; her sword clattered on his helmet,—sparks flew.
Gorlois wrenched round and put his shield above his head.
“By God,—hold off,—would you have me fight a woman?”
A swinging cut rattled on his shoulder-plate for answer.
Gorlois rapped out an oath and drew his sword.
“Hold off!”
His roar seemed to shake the trees. To Igraine it was the mere meaningless threatening of a sea. She struck home again and again while Gorlois foined with her; more than once she reached his flesh.
Gorlois’s grim patience gave way at last; a clean cut drew spurting blood from his shoulder.