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The combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face, with couched lance and closed visor, the human form so completely enclosed, that they looked more like statues of molten-iron, than beings of flesh and blood.
‘False Norman churl!’ said Gwenwyn, swinging around his head a mace of prodigious weight, and already clottered with blood, ‘thy iron headpiece shall ill protect thy lying tongue, with which I will this day feed the ravens’.
When the field became thin by the numbers vanquished, the Templar and the Disinherited Knight at length encountered hand to hand, with all the fury that mortal animosity, joined to rivalry of honour, could inspire.