“Then this, Sir Salvage Knight,” (quoth he) “areede:
Or doe you here within this forrest wonne,
That seemeth well to answere to your weede,
Or have ye it for some occasion donne?
That rather seemes, sith knowen armes ye shonne.”
“This other day” (sayd he) “a stranger knight
Shame and dishonour hath unto me donne,
On whom I waite to wreake that foule despight,
When ever he this way shall passe by day or night.”
“Shame be his meede,” (quoth he) “that meaneth shame!
But what is he by whom ye shamed were?”
“A stranger knight,” sayd he, “unknowne by name,
But knowne by fame, and by an Hebene speare,
With which he all that met him downe did beare.
He, in an open Turney lately held,
Fro me the honour of that game did reare;
And having me, all wearie earst, downe feld,
The fayrest Ladie reft, and ever since withheld.”
When Scudamour heard mention of that speare,
He wist right well that it was Britomart,
The which from him his fairest love did beare.
Tho gan he swell in every inner part
For fell despight, and gnaw his gealous hart,
That thus he sharply sayd: “Now, by my head,
Yet is not this the first unknightly part,
Which that same knight, whom by his launce I read,
Hath doen to noble knights, that many makes him dread:
“For lately he my love hath fro me reft,
And eke defiled with foule villanie
The sacred pledge which in his faith was left,
In shame of knighthood and fidelitie;
The which ere long full deare he shall abie:
And if to that avenge by you decreed
This hand may helpe, or succour ought supplie,
It shall not fayle when so ye shall it need.”
So both to wreake their wrathes on Britomart agreed.
Whiles thus they communed, lo! farre away
A Knight soft ryding towards them they spyde,
Attyr’d in forraine armes and straunge aray:
Whom, when they nigh approcht, they plaine descryde
To be the same for whom they did abyde.
Sayd then Sir Scudamour: “Sir Salvage knight,
Let me this crave, sith first I was defyde,
That first I may that wrong to him requite;
And, if I hap to fayle, you shall recure my right.”
Which being yeelded, he his threatfull speare
Gan fewter, and against her fiercely ran.
Who soone as she him saw approching neare
With so fell rage, her selfe she lightly gan
To dight, to welcome him well as she can;
But entertaind him in so rude a wise,
That to the ground she smote both horse and man;
Whence neither greatly hasted to arise,
But on their common harmes together did devise.
But Artegall, beholding his mischaunce,
New matter added to his former fire;
And, eft aventring his steeleheaded launce,
Against her rode, full of despiteous ire,
That nought but spoyle and vengeance did require:
But to himselfe his felonous intent
Returning disappointed his desire,
Whiles unawares his saddle he forwent,
And found himselfe on ground in great amazement.
Lightly he started up out of that stound,
And snatching forth his direfull deadly blade
Did leape to her, as doth an eger hound
Thrust to an Hynd within some covert glade,
Whom without perill he cannot invade.
With such fell greedines he her assayled,
That though she mounted were, yet he her made
To give him ground, (so much his force prevayled)
And shun his mightie strokes, gainst which no armes avayled.
So, as they coursed here and there, it chaunst
That, in her wheeling round, behind her crest
So sorely he her strooke, that thence it glaunst
Adowne her backe, the which it fairely blest
From foule mischance; ne did it ever rest,
Till on her horses hinder parts it fell;
Where byting deepe so deadly it imprest,
That quite it chynd his backe behind the sell,
And to alight on foote her algates did compell:
Like as the lightning brond from riven skie,
Throwne out by angry Jove in his vengeance,
With dreadfull force falles on some steeple hie;
Which battring downe, it on the church doth glance,
And teares it all with terrible mischance.
Yet she no whit dismayd her steed forsooke,
And, casting from her that enchaunted launce,
Unto her sword and shield her soone betooke;
And therewithall at him right furiously she strooke.
So furiously she strooke in her first heat,
Whiles with long fight on foot he breathlesse was,
That she him forced backward to retreat,
And yeeld unto her weapon way to pas:
Whose raging rigour neither steele nor bras
Could stay, but to the tender flesh it went,
And pour’d the purple bloud forth on the gras;
That all his mayle yriv’d, and plates yrent,
Shew’d all his bodie bare unto the cruell dent.
At length, when as he saw her hastie heat
Abate, and panting breath begin to fayle,
He, through long sufferance growing now more great,
Rose in his strength, and gan her fresh assayle,
Heaping huge strokes as thicke as showre of hayle,
And lashing dreadfully at every part,
As if he thought her soule to disentrayle.
Ah, cruell hand! and thrise more cruell hart,
That workst such wrecke on her to whom thou dearest art!
What yron courage ever could endure
To worke such outrage on so faire a creature;
And in his madnesse thinke with hands impure
To spoyle so goodly workmanship of nature,
The maker selfe resembling in her feature!
Certes some hellish furie or some feend
This mischiefe framd for their first loves defeature,
To bath their hands in bloud of dearest freend,
Thereby to make their loves beginning their lives end.
Thus long they trac’d and traverst to and fro,
Sometimes pursewing, and sometimes pursewed,
Still as advantage they espyde thereto:
But toward th’end Sir Arthegall renewed
His strength still more, but she still more decrewed.
At last his lucklesse hand he heav’d on hie,
Having his forces all in one accrewed,
And therewith stroke at her so hideouslie,
That seemed nought but death mote be her destinie.
The wicked stroke upon her helmet chaunst,
And with the force, whiche in it
