The knight looked at Morholt’s wound and found that it had been made with a spear. You may be sure that he had
lost so much blood that he was feeble and pale and seriously weakened, and he was still bleeding so hard that you could have followed him by the trail of blood that flowed from him. And do not ask if he rode with great pain and difficulty.

When they had gone as much as half a league like this, the knight asked Morholt, “My lord, what’s your name?”

“My lord,” he said, “I am called Morholt of Ireland.”

When the knight heard the name “Morholt,” he drew back, astonished. “What, Morholt, is it you? By my faith, I’ve
been seeking you for a long time and couldn’t find you.  With your own hands you killed my father the Duke ofLaval. You must die at my hand, for otherwise I couldn’t show that I’m loyal, if I didn’t avenge my father’s death the best l could.”

Then he faced Morholt, his lance lowered, and struck him so hard that he drove the point of his lance through Morholt’s left shoulder, so that the point appeared through his back. He struck him well and bore him from his horse to the ground; in the fall the lance broke, so that Morholt was left skewered and in such agony that he lost consciousness. The other, who hated Morholt mortally, rode his horse back and forth over his body many times and battered him thoroughly. Morholt lost consciousness again from the great agony he felt and rolled face down. Then the knight thought he was surely dead. He and the dwarf rode away, throwing down the squire beside the maiden on top of Morholt. The knight rode away, glad and joyful because he thought he had truly avenged his father’s death.

Post-Vulgate Merlin