our save so young a knight? But he threw
down his gage to the Morholt, and the Morholt took up the gage.

On the appointed day he had himself clad for a great feat of arms in a
hauberk and in a steel helm, and he entered a boat and drew to the
islet of St. Samson's, where the knights were to fight each to each
alone. Now the Morholt had hoisted to his mast a sail of rich purple,
and coming fast to land, he moored his boat on the shore. But Tristan
pushed off his own boat adrift with his feet, and said:

"One of us only will go hence alive. One boat will serve."

And each rousing the other to the fray they passed into the isle.

No man saw the sharp combat; but thrice the salt sea-breeze had wafted
or seemed to waft a cry of fury to the land, when at last towards the
hour of noon the purple sail showed far off; the Irish boat appeared
from the island shore, and there rose a clamour of "the Morholt!" When
suddenly, as the boat grew larger on the sight and topped a wave, they
saw that Tristan stood on the prow holding a sword in his hand. He
leapt ashore, and as the mothers kissed the steel upon his feet he
cried to the Morholt's men:

"My lords of Ireland, the Morholt fought well. See here, my sword is
broken and a splinter of it stands fast in his head. Take you that
steel, my lords; it is the tribute of Cornwall."

Then he went up to Tintagel and as he went the people he had freed
waved green boughs, and rich cloths were hung at the windows. But when
Tristan reached the castle with joy, songs and joy-bells sounding
about him, he drooped in the arms of King Mark, for the blood ran from
his wounds.

The Morholt's men, they landed in Ireland quite cast down. For when
ever he came back into Whitehaven the Morholt had been wont to take
joy in the sight of his clan upon the shore, of the Queen his sister,
and of his niece Iseult the Fair. Tenderly had they cherished him of
old, and had he taken some wound, they healed him, for they were
skilled in balms and potions. But now their magic was vain, for he lay
dead and the splinter of the foreign brand yet stood in his skull till
Iseult plucked it out and shut it in a chest.

From that day Iseult the Fair knew and hated the name of Tristan of
Lyonesse.

But over in Tintagel Tristan languished, for there trickled a
poisonous blood from his wound. The doctors found that the Morholt had
thrust into him a poisoned barb, and as their potions and their
theriac could never he