Mounted on strong destriers the bold vassals followed after Hiresgas,
wheeling to right or left, as he led, till they pierced to the
gonfalon, showing the arms of the king. Hiresgas spied his foe. He
turned his horse, and pushing through the press, drew near, and smote
Bocus full on the helm. The baron was a mighty man; the stroke
was fierce, and his blade was keen and strong. He struck well and
craftily. The blow sheared through helmet and coif. It divided the
head to the shoulders, so that the soul of King Bocus sped away to the
Adversary. Hiresgas stretched out his arm, seizing the body ere it
might fall to the ground. He set his enemy before him on his horse,
and held him fast, the limbs hanging on either side. Then he made his
way from the stour, the dead man uttering neither lamentation nor cry.
The knight was grim, and his war-horse mighty. His kinsfolk gathered
behind him, that the Medians should do him no mischief. By the aid of
his fellows he won out of the battle, and carried his burthen to the
very place where his uncle lay. There, joint by joint, he hacked
King Bocus asunder. When his task was ended, Sir Hiresgas called his
comrades about him. "Come," said he, "come, true men's sons, to the
slaying of these Romans.
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