And the grim man in green was gear’d as before,
Both his leer169 and his legs, his locks and his beard,
Save that firmly on foot he fared on the ground,
With the stale to the stone, as ye stalk with a crutch.
When he won to the water, he waded it not,
But hopp’d o’er on his axe with an agile stride,
A burly man on bent, and on that broad carpet
of snow.
Gawain the Knight did greet,
Yet louted nothing low;
The other said, “Now, Sir sweet,
Man true to tryst I know.”
XC
“Gawain,” said the green one, “may God thee guard!
Thou art welcome, I wis, good wight, to my place,
And hast timed thy travel as true man should.
Thou knowest the covenants we accorded together;
At this time twelvemonth thou tookest thy dues,
And now at this New-Year thou needs must requite.
Today in this dale we shall deal by ourselves,
Here is none to say nay, knock as we like.
Unhasp now thy helmet, and have here thy pay,
And resist me no more than thyself I resisted
When thou severedst my head at a single stroke.”
“Nay,” quoth Gawain, “by God, that gave to me life,
I shall grudge thee not a grain any grame170 that befalls;
But mind thee! one stroke! and quite still shall I stand,
Nor resist any wise, work how thou wilt,
unfair.
He bent his neck and bow’d,
And show’d the nape ail bare;
He look’d like man uncow’d,
For death he had no care.
XCI
Then the man in the green graith’d him anon,
And gather’d his grim tool, Gawain to smite;
With all the bir171 of his body he bore it aloft,
And feinted as fierce as though he would fell him.
Had he driv’n it adown as dree as he ettled,172
There had been dead of that dint the doughty Gawain!
But he glent on the gisarm with a sideling glance
As down it came gliding, on ground to destroy him,
And shránk a líttle his shóulders at the sharp iron.
The other swerv’d in his swing and the swift blade withheld,
And with proud words many that prince he reproved:
“Thou art not Gawain,” quoth he, “that so good is holden,
That ne’er host overawed by hill or by valley.
Thou that flinchest for fear ere thou feel any hurt!
Of that knight such cowardice cóuld I ne’er hear!
Neither flinch’d I nor fled, when the fell tool thou swungest,
Nor argument held, in the house of King Arthur;
My head flew to my foot, yet flee did I never,
And thou quailest at heart, ere any harm happen!
The better man on bent behoves me be call’d
therefore.”
Quoth Gawain, “I flinchèd once,
But so will I no more;
Yet if my head hit the stones
I can it not restore.
XCII
“But busk thee. Sir Bold, and bring me to the point,
Deal me my destiny and do it out of hand,
For I shall stand thee a stroke, nor start any more
Till thine axe have me hit: my honour I pledge thee.”
“Have at thee!” said the other, and heaving his tool,
Look’d as wild and as wroth as if wood173 he had been;
Fierce aim did he ettle, but or ever he touch’d,
His hand he withheld that no hurt might befall.
Gawain boldly him bides, nor budges a whit,
But stands still as a stone, or a stock either
That is grappled in rock with roots a hundred.
Then merrily spoke he, the man in the green:
“Now thou art heart-whole, to hit thee behoves;
Hold back the hood that from Arthur thou hadst,
And look to thy neck at the knock that is coming.”
Then rudely Sir Gawain, raging with wrath:
“Why! thrash on, thou thro174 man, thou threat’nest too long;
I hope that thy heart at thine ówn self may quail.”
“I’ faith,” said the fell man, “so fiercely thou speakest,
I’ll no longer delay, nor let thee thine errand,
e’en now!”
Then takes he stance to strike,
And puckers lip and brow;
No wonder if him mislike
That hopes for no rescue.
XCIII
He lifts his axe lightly and lets it adown
With the bit of the blade on the báre nàpe;
It hurt him no more, though he hammer’d full hard,
Than to nick him a cut on the neck, at the side.
But the sharp blade shore through the skin to the flesh,
And the sheen blood shot o’er his shoulder to ground.
And the blood when he saw so bright on the snow,
He sprang forth like mad, a spear-length and more,
And angerly his helm on his head did he cast,
Shot round his shield the shoulder beneath,
And his bright sword drew: then broke he forth boldly
(Not since he was man born of a mother
Had he e’er in this world been a wight so blithe):
“Stop, Sirrah, thy strokes! I stand thee no more!
For a stroke in this stead without strife have I ta’en,
And more if thou deal I shall dearly requite,
And treat thee as traitor (trust ye my word)
and foe.
But one stroke to me falls—
The compact said right so
Shapen in Arthur’s halls—
To a second, I say No.”
XCIV
That other stood off, on his axe he rested,
With shaft to the ground on the sharp head he lean’d;
He look’d at the leal man that strode on the laund,
Saw that doughty on bent so boldly abide him
Armed, and unawed: in his heart he liked it.
Then, in merrier mood, he mended his note,
And a gallant word to Sir Gawain he spoke:
“Sir Bold, on this bent bé not so wrathful,
No man unmannerly here has misused thee,
Or the covenant broke at the King’s court shapen.
A cut did I promise, so count thee well paid,
And I deem thee full-quit of all debt that is due.
Had I dealt more nimbly, a deadlier dint
Had I serv’d thee perchance and mischiev’d thee for ever.
But the first of those strokes was a friendly feint,
Nor meant I to mar thee; so much was thy right,
By the covenant accorded that night at our court,
When troth thou didst keep and wert true to thy trust,
And gav’st me thy gains, as
