“And yf hit be so ye can dyscryve what ye beare, ye ar worthy to beare armys.”

“As for that,” seyde Sir Trystram, “I woll answere you. As for this shylde, hit was yevyn me, not desyred, of Quene Morgan le Fay; and as for me, I can nat dyscryve this armys, for hit is no poynte of my charge, and yet I truste to God to beare hem with worship.”

“Truly,” seyde Kynge Arthure, “ye ought nat to beare none armys but yf ye wyste what ye bare. But I pray you telle me youre name.”

“To what entente?” seyde Sir Trystram.

“For I wolde wete,” seyde Kynge Arthure.

“Sir, ye shall nat wete for me at this tyme.”

“Than shall ye and I do batayle togydir.”

“Why,” seyde Sir Trystram, “woll ye do batayle with me but yf I telle you my name? For sothe, that lytyll nedyth you. And ye were a man of worshyp ye wolde nat have ado with me, for ye have sene me this day have had grete travayle. And therefore ye ar no valyaunte knyght to aske batayle of me, consyderynge my grete travayle. Howbehit, I woll nat fayle you, and have ye no doute that I feare nat you. Though ye thynke ye have me at a grete avauntage, yet shall I ryght well endure you.”

And therewithall Kynge Arthure dressid his shylde and his speare, and Sir Trystram ayenst hym, and they come egirly togydirs. And there Kynge Arthure brake his speare all to pecis on Sir Trystrams shylde. But Sir Trystram smote Kynge Arthur agayne so sore that horse and man felle to the erthe, and there was Kynge Arthure woundid on the lyfte syde a grete wounde and a perelous.

Whan Sir Uwayne saw his lorde Kynge Arthur ly on the erthe sore wounded, he was passynge hevy. And than he dressid his shylde and his speare, and cryed alowde unto Sir Trystram and seyde, “Knyght, defende the!”