"God prosper you, master," said the steward."Frenchman or no, you are such a man as I love.Beware of Aelward and his downward stroke, for he has the strength of ten."At noon by the Danes' barrow Jehan met a young tow-headed giant, who spoke with the back of his throat and made surly-response to the other's greeting.It was a blue winter's day, with rime still white on the grass, and the forest was very still.The Saxon had the shorter sword and a round buckler; Jehan fought only with his blade.
At the first bout they strove with steel, and were ill-matched at that, for the heavy strength of the fenman was futile against the lithe speed of the hunter.Jehan ringed him in circles of light, and the famous downward stroke was expended on vacant air.He played with him till he breathed heavily like a cow, and then by a sleight of hand sent his sword spinning among the oak mast.The young giant stood sulkily before him, unarmed, deeply shamed, waiting on his death, but with no fear in his eyes.
Jehan tossed his own blade to the ground, and stripped off his hauberk."We have fought with weapons," he said, "now we will fight in the ancient way."There followed a very different contest.Aelward lost his shamefastness and his slow blood fired as flesh met flesh and sinew strained against sinew.
His great arms crushed the Frenchman till the ribs cracked, but always the other slipped through and evaded the fatal hug.And as the struggle continued Aelward's heart warmed to his enemy.When their swords crossed he had hated him like death; now he seemed to be striving with a kinsman.
Suddenly, when victory looked very near, he found the earth moving from beneath him, and a mountain descended on his skull.When he blinked himself into consciousness again, Jehan was laving his head from a pool in an oak-root.