Duc Orilus de Lalander fought in his trained way. I believe no man ever fought as much. He possessed skill and strength. Consequently he was often victorious in many a place, irrespective of what happened here. Confidently, he grasped towards him the young, strong Parzival, who then immediately seized him, in return, and wrested him out of his saddle. As if he were a sheaf of oats, he grabbed him firmly between his arms, leaping with him down from his charger, and thrusting him over a fallen tree-trunk. There one unfamiliar with such calamity was obliged to familiarize himself with defeat.

‘You harvest the suffering this lady has endured by your anger. Now you are lost, unless you let her have your favour.’

‘It will not be done in such a hurry!’ said Duke Orilus––‘I have not yet been forced to that!’

Parzival the noble warrior pressed him to himself, so that blood’s rain spurted through his visor. Then the prince was soon compelled to do whatever was sought of him. He acted as one unwilling to die, saying at once to Parzival: ‘Alas, bold, strong man, how did I ever deserve this duress, to lie dead before you?’

Parzival