Mordred's voice is already raised again, familiar and yet somehow foreign -- he's never railed at Galahad like this, half screaming, with a kind of triumphant rage, and cursing fluently -- but the substance of his tirade, if there is one, is lost in the general noise.
He's pinned between the broken railing and the grubby wall of a corner building, trying to shout down a man half again his size; two more are hovering, trying to break in at intervals, whether to expostulate or to fan the flames is unclear.
"Is that all you have, is that the best you have for me, you shit-swilling great--"
"--your fuckin' problem, man--"
"Shut up!"
"--you coward, you only had one in you? What the Christly good are you?" He reels off from the wall, flings himself at them, and is sent sprawling again.