He ween’d to have outwitted the hounds by his wiles,
But was went, ere he wist, to óne of the stations
Where three men athwart him threaten’d him at once,
the gray!148
Again he swervèd forth,
And started quick astray,
And with all the woe on earth
To the wood he went away.
LXIX
Then was it very heaven to hearken the hounds,
When the mute all met him, mingled together:
Such a sorrow at sight of him they set on his head
As if clustering cliffs had clatter’d on heaps;
Here he was hollo’ed when hunters him met,
Or grimly was greeted with growling speech:
There he was threaten’d and “thief” call’d often,
And ay the teasers at his tail, that tarry he might not;
Oft he was harried when he hied for the open,
Oft he reel’d in again, Reynard so wily;
And hunters ay sped them, splash’d and bespatter’d,
In this manner by the mounts, till midmorn was past,
While the athel at home lay wholesomely sleeping
Within comely curtains, on that cóld mòrning.
But the lady for Love let him not sleep,
Never ’paired149 the purpose or pine in her heart,
But in haste she was up and hied to his chamber,
In a merry mantle, meet150 to the ground,
That was furr’d full fine with fells well-trimm’d,
And no hues on her head but the athel stones
Twined on her tressure151 by twenties in clusters;
Her thriv’n face so fair and her throat were unveil’d,
Her breast and her back the bodice show’d bare.
She comes within door, and closes it after,
Waives up a window, and on the wíght càlls,
And pleasantly rallies him with a ready word
and cheer:
“Ah! Sir, how mayst thou sleep
On such a morning clear?”
He was in dreamland deep
But then he did her hear.
LXX
In a dree gloom of dream that dear man was mumbling,
For a haunting thought weigh’d heavy on his heart,
How destiny that day should deal him his weird152
When at the green chapel he must greet his man
And his buffet abide, nor debate any more;
But when that comely came, he recover’d his wits,
Dropt out of dreamland, and dress’d him to speak.
The lady so lovesome came laughing full sweet,
Fell o’er his fair face and featly him kiss’d,
And he welcom’d her worthily, with winsome cheer.
He saw her so glorious and gaily attired,
So faultless of feature, so fine of her hue,
That a wellspring of joy warmèd his heart.
Then with smiles and with mirth, they mooted of play,
And their gossip together was gladness and bliss,
full kind.
They spoke no words but good,
Much joy there did they find;
Great peril between them stood,
But Mary her knight did mind.
LXXI
For that princess of price so hotly him press’d
To the limit of love, that at last him behoved
Or consent to her suit or sullen refuse.
He cared for his courtesy, lest caitiff he prove,
And for his dámnation more, to be doomèd in sin,
And be traitor untrue to the lord that him trusted.
“God shield,” quoth the wight, “that sháll not befall.”
With a lover’s laugh he put lightly aside
All the speeches so fond that fell from her lips.
Then sadly she said, “Ye are surely to blame,
If ye love not her life that ye lie here beside,
Woman in the world most wounded in heart,
Unless ye have a leman that ye love very dear,
And have plighted your troth with a pledge so true
That ye list never loose it; I believe it as now,
And I pray, on your troth, that truly ye tell me—
By all saints that there are conceal not the sooth,
for guile.”
The knight said “By Saint John,”
And gently did he smile,
“In faith I have right none,
And none will have this while.”
LXXII
“ ’Tis a word,” said that wight, “that worst is of all,
But soothly I’m answer’d, and sorely it wounds.
Kiss me now comely, to care ere I go,
I may but mourn among men, as maid that much loves.”
She stoop’d with a sigh and seemlily kiss’d him,
Then sever’d from his side, and said as she stood
“Now, dear, at departing, do me this solace,
Somewhat give me as a gift, thy glove it may be,
That I máy thee remember, my mourning to lessen.”
“Now, I wis,” said the wight, “I would I had here
The liefest thing for thy love that in land I possess;
Ye have deservèd in sooth, and seemlily oft,
More reward by right than e’er I may reach;
But to give you for love—it little avail’d,
It becomes not your worth to win at this time
A glove for a guerdon, at Gawain’s hand:
I am here on an errand in an únknown land,
And carry no coffers, with presents of cost;
It mislikes me, lady, I love you too dear;
We must do as chance deals, so deem not amiss
nor pine.”
“Nay, Knight of high honoùrs,”
Then said that lady fine,
“Though I have nought of yours,
Yet shall ye have of mine.”
LXXIII
She raught153 him a ring of rich red gold,
With a blazing stone that stóod high in bezel,
And blink’d as bright as the beams of the sun;
Weet ye well, it was worth wealth unmeasured.
But the knight refused it and said to that fair:
“I wish no gifts for good, my gay, at this time,
I have none to offer, and nought will I take.”
Then pray’d she the prince and press’d him again,
But he swore by his sooth, and still her denied,
And she was sorry he forsook and said at the last:
“If the ring ye refuse, for its semblance too rich,
And ye would not so highly be holden to me,
I shall give you my girdle; your gain is the less.”
She took lightly a lace that loop’d round her body,
Knit on her kirtle, under mantle so clear,
A green silk girdle with pendants of gold,
Fair gauds and golden gear’d at the edges.
Then gaily again the girdle she offer’d,
A trifle unworthy, woúld he but take it.
But he would not (quoth he) anywise in the world
Either gold or gersom, ere God him vouchsafe
The chance to achieve that he had thére chòsen.
“And therefore, I
