And then, suddenly, a knight was before him, on a great bay horse caparisoned with green picked out with black, the knight himself in a green surcoat. The helmet masked the face, all save the eyes. Each combatant shook a spear and drove against the other, but a wave of battle surging by made the course not true. The green knight’s spear struck the edge of Garin’s shield. But the latter’s lance, encountering the other’s casque, burst the fastening, unhelmed him. Red-gold hair showed, hawk nose, scar across the cheek. “Ha!” cried Garin. “I know you! Do you, perchance, know me?” But the battle drove them apart. Here in the press was no longer a knight in green. Garin, looking around, saw only dim struggling forms, knights and footmen. Aimar had been with him, but the waves had borne Aimar, too, to a distance. He lost Rainier also, and his men. Here was the grey, resounding plain beneath the livid sky, and the battle, that, as a whole, went against Roche-de-Frêne. His horse sank under him, cut down by Cap-du-Loup’s men. Garin drew his sword, fought afoot. He saw a tossed banner, heard a long trumpet-call, hewed his way where the press was thickest. A riderless horse coming by him, trampling the dead and the hurt that lay thickly, he caught it by the bridle and brought it in time to Stephen the Marshal full in the midst of that seething war. “Gramercy!” cried Stephen, and swung himself into saddle. Roche-de-Frêne rallied, swept toward Montmaure’s coloured tents. Overhead the thunder was rolling. Garin, his back to a heap of stones, fought as he had fought in the land over the sea. A bay horse came his way again. Jaufre de Montmaure, unhelmed, towered above him, sword in hand. Garin’s casque was without visor; his features showed, and in the pallid light his blue surcoat with the bird upon the breast. “Will you leave your horse?” quoth Garin. “It were better chivalry so.” “I meet you the second time to-day. Moreover we encountered a fortnight ago, in the fight by the river. Beside that,” said Jaufre, “there is something that comes back to me—but I cannot seize it! Before I slay you, tell me your name.” “Garin of the Golden Island.” Jaufre made a pause. “You are the troubadour?” “Just.” “So that Richard knows not that I cut you down!” said Jaufre, and struck with his sword. But not for nothing had Garin trained in the East. The blade that should have bitten deep met an upward glancing blade. The stroke was turned aside. Jaufre made a second and fiercer essay—the sword left his hand, came leaping and clattering upon the heap of stones. “Eye of God!” swore Jaufre and hurled himself from his war horse. “Take your sword!” said Garin. “And yet once, where I was concerned, you lied, making oath that I struck you from behind and unawares—” “Who are you with your paynim play? Who are you that I seem to know?” “I was not knight, but squire—when I tied your hands with your horse’s reins!”