Yet he had no helm nor hauberk either,
no armor over his arms, no aventail,
no shaft nor shield to shove and smite with;
but in his one hand he held a holly branch,
whose green is greatest when the groves are bare,
and an axe in the other, huge and savage,
a beastly battleaxe for a poet to put into words.
The large head was the length of an ellyard,
the great spike cast in gold and green steel,
the blade burnished bright with a broad edge
as well shaped for shearing as sharp razors,
the steel of a strong staff in the stern knight’s grip,
with iron wound over it to the end of the haft,
and all engraved in green with graceful handiwork;
a lace was looped about it, locked at the head
and wrapping repeatedly round the handle,
with topnotch tassles attached in spades
on buttons of bright green embroidered richly.
This hero enters the hall and pushes through,
driving to the high dais, no doubt of peril,
greeting no guests, but glancing over them.
“Where,” he queried, the first word that he pitched,
“is the king that governs this crew? I would gladly
see that soul myself, and reason
            it out.”
            He cast his eye on the knights,
            and swaggered up and down;
            he halted to decide
            which man was most renowned.