Then the knight struck Perceval on the helm with his sword of  tempered steel; he’d have wounded him most terribly had the blade not shattered on  the silver rim and flown to the ground. The knight was horrified. He stepped up to Perceval and humbly begged for mercy, saying:

‘I yield to you, good sir. I admit defeat. It’s pointless fighting on, when you’ve a sword and I have none.’

Then Perceval cast his sword aside and said: ‘There! My sword’s gone! Let’s fight on with our fists as best we can!’

‘I can’t see there’s any sense in giving up your sword! But you’re a worthy and courteous knight indeed. And let me tell you, I don’t fear you in the least!’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Perceval.

That was all they said; they attacked each other with their bare hands, tearing the laces of their helms and knocking them from their heads and beating each other in the face and teeth until they were covered in blood. They pounded and grappled and
wrestled on till they both were short of breath. But the one who could endure more pain than any man in Christendom could see and feel that his foe was losing strength; he didn’t want to pause and give him time to recover breath, no, he kept piling on the pressure till he begged for mercy in God’s name, to do him no more harm and to spare his life, for he was helpless with exhaustion, and since he’d defeated him in combat it wouldn’t enhance his honour to kill him needlessly – indeed it would be a great wrong.

The Second Continuation of Perceval