60
SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
Until the questing rose again.
For there, on that ensanguine plain
Standeth a-laughing at the dunce
The single Beast they had not slain.
There, with his friends and followers dead,
His brother smitten through the head,
Himself sore wounded in the thigh,
Weepeth upon the deed of dread,
Alone among his murdered men,
The champion fool, as fools were then,
Utterly broken, like to die,
Sir Palamede the Saracen.