Then, as the bell of the convent in the town boomed forth the hour of noon, Sir Gawaine heaved up his sword for a final blow; but his sword descended just as the last stroke of twelve had died away, and Sir Lancelot marvelled to feel that what should have been so grievous a blow that, belike, he could not have stood before it, fell upon his shield with no more than the strength of the blow given by an ordinary man. When Sir Lancelot felt the might of Sir Gawaine so suddenly give way, he drew himself up to his full height and said: 'Sir Gawaine, I know not by what evil power ye have fought, but now I feel that ye have done. Now, my lord, Sir Gawaine, I must do my part, for none may know the great and grievous strokes I have endured this day with great pain.' With that Sir Lancelot redoubled his blows, and the sword of Sir Gawaine gave before the might of Sir Lancelot, and his shield was rent. Then Sir Lancelot gave so great a buffet on the helm of the other that Sir Gawaine staggered, and with yet another blow Sir Lancelot hurled him headlong to the ground. Men held their breath, for now, after so fierce and stubborn a struggle, they felt sure that Sir Lancelot, hot and enraged against his enemy, would rip off the other's helm and strike his head off instantly. But, instead, Sir Lancelot stood for a moment looking at his prostrate enemy. Then men gasped to see him thrust his sword into its scabbard with a clang, turn on his heel and begin to walk away. They saw the prone knight raise his head and look as if in surprise at the retreating figure of Sir Lancelot. 'Why dost thou depart?' cried Sir Gawaine, rage in his mocking voice. 'Turn again, false knight, and slay me! If ye leave me thus, thou shalt gain nothing from it, for when I am whole I will slay thee when I may.' Men marvelled to hear a fallen foe use such shameful and hateful words, but they marvelled much more when Sir Lancelot, turning, cried: 'I shall endure you, sir, if God give me grace; but wit you well. Sir Gawaine, I will never smite you to death.' Many that before had hated Sir Lancelot were moved by these noble words, and by the sight of his mercy; and they deemed that there was hardly another man in all Christendom that would have shown such nobility, save Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval, and they were dead. So Sir Lancelot went into the city, and Sir Gawaine was borne into King Arthur's tent and his wounds were cleaned and salved. Thus he lay for three weeks, hard of mood and bitter in his hatred, and longing eagerly to get well, so he might try again to slay Sir Lancelot. Meanwhile he prayed the king to attack Sir Lancelot's walls, to try to draw him forth, or to take the city by treachery. But the king would do naught. He was sick for sorrow because of the war that was between him and Sir Lancelot, and by reason of the wounds of his nephew Sir Gawaine.