Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon His falchion for a space. But Accolon, As yet,--through virtue of that magic sheath,-- Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death Now than when first the fight to death begun, Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun, His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood, Made weary, ceased and for a moment stood Leaning upon his sword. Then, "Dost thou tire?" Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire, "Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!" And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant, That beat a flying fire from the steel. Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel, Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate, Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hate Gnarled all his strength into one blow of might, And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight, And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,-- And,--as the lightning flames upon an oak,-- Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore; Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore, With hollow clamor, from his head and ears, The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce: Then, in an instant, as if made of glass, That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray, It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay. Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew This sword was not Excalibur: too true And perfect tempered, runed and mystical, That weapon of old wars! and then withal, Looking upon his foe, who still with stress Fought on, untiring, and with no distress Of wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!" Then as the sunlight struck along that blade, He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand, The true Excalibur, that high in hand Now rose avenging. For Sir Accolon In madness urged th' unequal battle on His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around, Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground, Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bits Of shivered steel and gold made sombre fits Of flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and cowering Beneath his shield's defense, the dauntless King Crawled still defiant. And, devising still How to secure his sword and by what skill, Him thus it fortuned when most desperate: In that close chase they came where, shattered late, Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance, Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advance He wielded with effect. Against the fist Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist, That heaved Excalibur for one last blow; Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized, Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;