The stranger tried, according to the chronicler, who probably had it from
one of the three by-standers, a blow which has cost many a brave man his
life. He struck right down on Hereward's head. Hereward raised his shield,
warding the stroke, and threw in that _coup de jarret_, which there
is no guarding, after the downright blow has been given. The stranger
dropped upon his wounded knee.
"Yield," cried Hereward in his turn.
"That is not my fashion." And the stranger fought on, upon his stumps,
like Witherington in Chevy Chase.
Hereward, mad with the sight of blood, struck at him four or five times.
The stranger's shield was so quick that he could not hit him, even on his
knee. He held his hand, and drew back, looking at his new rival.
"What the murrain are we two fighting about?" said he at last.
"I know not; neither care," said the other, with a grim chuckle. "But if
any man will fight me, him I fight, ever since I had beard to my chin."
"Thou art the best man that ever I faced."
"That is like enough."
"What wilt thou take, if I give thee thy life?"
"My way on which I was going. For I turn back for no man alive on land."
"Then thou hast not had enough of me?"
"Not by another hour."
"Thou must be born of fiend, and not of man."
"Very like.
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