“And what is thy condition?” inquired Sir Lancelot.

“There liveth but one, either in Christendom or Heathenesse, unto whom I may not grant this parley; for him have I sworn to kill,” said Sir Tarquin.

“’Tis well,” replied the other; “but what name or cognisance hath he?”

“His name is Lancelot of the Lake!”

“Behold him!” was the reply; Sir Lancelot at the same time brandishing his weapon with a shout of defiance.

When Sir Tarquin heard this he gnashed his teeth for very rage.

“Now one of us must die,” said he.  “Thou slewest my brother Sir Carados at Shrewsbury, and I have sworn to avenge his defeat.  Thou diest.  Not all the gods of thy fathers shall deliver thee.”

So to it they went with more heat and fury than ever; and a marvel was it to behold, for each blow did seem as it would have cleft the other in twain, so deadly was the strife and hatred between them.

Sir Lancelot pressed hard upon his foe, though himself grievously wounded, and in all likelihood would have won the fight, but, as ill-luck would have it, when dealing a blow mighty enough to fell the stoutest oak in Christendom, he missed his aim, and with that stumbled to the ground.  Then did Sir Tarquin shout for joy, and would have made an end of him, but that Sir Lancelot, as he lay, aimed a deadly thrust below his enemy’s shield where he was left unguarded, and quickly turned his joy into tribulation; for Sir Tarquin, though not mortally wounded, drew back and cried out lustily for pain, the which Sir Lancelot hearing, he leapt again to his feet, still eager and impatient for the strife.

The contest was again doubtful, neither of them showing any disposition to yield, or in any wise to abate the rigour of the conflict.  Night, too, was coming on apace, and seemed like enough to pitch her tent over them, ere the issue was decided.  But an event now fell out which, unexpectedly enough, terminated this adventure.  From some cause arising out of the haste and rapidity of the strokes, one of these so chanced, that both their swords were suddenly driven from out of their right hands; stooping together, by some subtlety or mistake, they exchanged weapons.  Then did Sir Lancelot soon find his strength to increase, whilst his adversary’s vigour began to abate; and in the end Sir Lancelot slew him, and with his own sword cut off his head.  He then perceived that the giant’s great strength was by virtue of his sword; and that it was through his wicked enchantments therewith he had been able to overcome, and had wrought such disgrace on the Knights of the Round Table.  Sir Lancelot forthwith took the keys from the giant’s girdle, and proceeded to the release of the captive knights, first unbinding the prisoner, who yet lay in a piteous swoon hard by.  But there was a great outcry and lamentation when that he saw his own brother Sir Erclos in this doleful case; for it was he whom the cruel Tarquin was leading captive when he met the just reward of his misdeeds.