forest resoundeth of the clashing of their swords. Right tough was the
battle and right horrible, for good knights were both twain. But the
blood that ran down from their wounds at last slackened their sinews,
albeit the passing great wrath that the one had against the other, and
the passing great heat of their will, had so enchafed them they scarce
remembered the wounds that they had, and still dealt each other great
buffets without sparing.

III.

King Hermit cometh from labouring in the forest and findeth not his
nephew in the hermitage, whereof is he right sorrowful, and he mounteth
on a white mule that he had therewithin. She was starred in the midst
of her forehead with a red cross. Josephus the good clerk witnesseth
us that this same mule had belonged to Joseph of Abarimacie at the time
he was Pilate's soldier, and that he bequeathed her to King Pelles.
King Hermit departeth from the hermitage and prayeth God grant him to
find his nephew. He goeth through the forest and rideth until he
draweth nigh the launde where the two knights were. He heareth the
strokes of the swords, and cometh towards them full speed and setteth
him between the twain to forbid them.

"Ha, sir," saith he to the Knight of the White Shield, "Right great ill
do you to combat against this knight that hath lain sick this long time
in this forest, and fight sorely have you wounded him."

"Sir," saith the-knight, "As much hath he done by me, and never would I
have run upon him now had he not challenged me, and he is not minded to
tell me who he is nor whence ariseth his hatred of me."

"Fair Sir," saith the Hermit, "And you, who are you?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "I will tell you. I am the son of King Ban of
Benoic."

"Ha, fair nephew," saith King Hermit to Perceval, "See here your
cousin, for King Ban of Benoic was your father's cousin-german. Make
him right great cheer!"

He maketh them take off their helmets and lower their ventails, and
then kiss one another, afterward he leadeth them to his hermitage.
They alight together. He calleth his own squire that waited upon him,
and made them be disarmed right tenderly. There was a damsel within
that was cousin-german to King Pelles and had tended Perceval within in
his sickness. She washeth their wounds right sweetly and cleanseth
them of the blood. And they see that Lancelot is sorer wounded than
Perceval.

"Damsel," saith the Hermit, "How seemeth you?"

"Sir," saith she,