r he was both generous and tender-hearted. But if
she carries off the head, then will pity be defeated and put to
death; whereas, if she does not carry off the head, generosity will
be discomfited. Thus, pity and generosity hold him so confined and so
distressed that he is tormented and spurred on by each of them in turn.
The damsel asks him to give her the head, and on the other hand the
knight makes his request, appealing to his pity and kindness. And,
since he has implored him, shall he not receive mercy? Yes, for it never
happened that, when he had put down an enemy and compelled him to sue
for mercy, he would refuse such an one his mercy or longer bear him any
grudge. Since this is his custom, he will not refuse his mercy to him
who now begs and sues for it. And shall she have the head she covets?
Yes, if it be possible. "Knight," he says, "it is necessary for thee to
fight me again, and if thou dost care to defend thy head again, I will
show thee such mercy as to allow thee to resume the helmet; and I will
give thee time to arm thy body and thy head as well as possible. But, if
I conquer thee again, know that thou shalt surely die." And he replies:
"I desire nothing better than that, and ask for no further favour."
"And I will give thee this advantage," he adds: "I will fight thee as
I stand, without changing my present position." Then the other knight
makes ready, and they begin the fight again eagerly. But this time the
knight triumphed more quickly than he had done at first. And the damsel
at once cries out: "Do not spare him, knight, for anything he may say to
thee. Surely he would not have spared thee, had he once defeated thee.
If thou heedest what he says, be sure that he will again beguile thee.
Fair knight, cut off the head of the most faithless man in the empire
and kingdom, and give it to me! Thou shouldst present it to me, in view
of the guerdon I intend for thee. For another day may well come when, if
he can, he will beguile thee again with his words." He, thinking his end
is near, cries aloud to him for mercy; but his cry is of no avail, nor
anything that he can say. The other drags him by the helmet, tearing all
the fastening, and he strikes from his head the ventail and the gleaming
coif. Then he cries out more loudly still: "Mercy, for God's sake!
Mercy, sir!" But the other answers: "So help me, I shall never again
show thee pity, after having once let thee off." "Ah," he says, "thou
wouldst do wron