But he was stout-hearted, and with sword drawn he struck mighty blows at Lancelot wherever he could hit him; but that was not often, for many times Lancelot caused him to miss. So the combat continued so strenuous and long that no one who saw it could fail to consider them worthy opponents and marvel at how long they withstood, for each of them had easily ten wounds in his body, from the least of which any other man would have died. But because they were stout of heart and bore a mortal hatred one for the other, they felt nothing; one knight struck the other as if he were iron; their hauberks had been so shredded over their thighs and arms and sides that they were worthless, for they were in pieces, and had they been able to strike as hard as before they would have killed each other many times over, since they were unprotected. But they were so weary and exhausted that their swords slipped in their hands when they went to strike. And the huge knight was so worn from weariness, from the blood he had lost, and from the wounds inflicted by Lancelot, that he could barely stay on his feet, for Lancelot's sword was a very fine one. But Lancelot was not yet so tired that he was not still more agile and quick than any other man who had ever fought as long as he; he pursued the knight with his knee sword and struck repeatedly until his adversary no longer had the strength to withstand and staggered under the weight of the many blows given and received, which would have killed any other long since.

Meanwhile, Lancelot, who had amazingly recovered his strength, pursued him all the while and struck heavy blows with his sword, driving him now this way, now that.

The Vulgate Cycle