'The gods will have it so!' sneered Mordred. Already the earth trembled and shook with the beat of ten thousand feet of the armies rushing together. A knight of Mordred's, drawing his sword, thrust it into the breast of one of Arthur's chieftains, with the cry: 'This for thy land, Sir Digon, that marches with mine!' Instantly others fell to fighting hand-to-hand, striking on targe and helm; but Sir Owen, Sir Kay and Sir Bedevere surrounded the king, and all hurried back to the army approaching them. So likewise did Sir Mordred. Then came the crash of battle, as line on line, with flashing swords held high, the ranks of war closed. Blades rose again, stained red, fierce strangled cries came from men in the death-grips, helms were cracked, shields riven, dirks sank home, and men who once had drunk and jested with laughing looks over the same mead-board, now met fierce eye to eye, and never parted until one or both fell in the swaths of the death-harvest. All day the stubborn battle raged, and ever the king sought out the rebel Mordred, but never reached him. Many valiant deeds he did, wielding his sword Excalibur; and by his side were Owen and Kay, Lucan and Bedevere. So spent were they at the last that hardly could they lift their swords, and so sick of the slaying were they that gladly would they have ceased. But ever some vicious band of Mordred's knights would come upon them, and then they quitted them like men, and ceased not till their enemies had fled or were slain. Suddenly the king came to himself, and, standing still, looked upon the field. In the morning it had been but a bare hillside of hungry, stunted grass, through which the stones showed grey and sallow, like ancient bones. Now, in the low light of the sinking orb, it was red--red, with the pallid faces of the dead stained a lighter red in the rays of the sun. Here and there bands still fought together, cries of fury rose, and the groans of the dying mingled with them. 'Alas!' cried the king, and looked behind him, 'where are all my noble knights?' There were but two with him now, Lucan and his brother Bedevere. 'Where is Owen, and Kay?' he asked. 'Alas, lord,' said Bedevere, 'Sir Owen got his death-wound by the thorn where we fought those five knights but now, and Sir Kay suddenly fell as he walked. And when I knelt to speak to him, I found him dead.' 'Alas,' said the king, 'that ever I should see this doleful day, for now is my end come. But would to Heaven that I wist where is that traitor Mordred, that hath caused all this sorrow and ruin.' Then, as he spoke, he looked towards the east, and saw where, by a tall standing-stone, a man leaned as if spent with a wound. And he was aware that this was Mordred. 'Now give me my spear,' said the king to Sir Lucan, 'for yonder is the traitor, and he shall not escape me.' 'Lord,' said Sir Lucan in a weak voice, 'let him bide, for he hath none with him, while we three are still alive.'