伊万：狮骑士

中文导读

《伊万，或狮子骑士》被普遍认为是克雷蒂安·德·特鲁瓦最完美的作品。伊万在冒险中杀死了一位守护魔法泉水的骑士，娶了其遗孀劳迪娜——但随后为追求更多冒险而离开她，错过了归期。劳迪娜派侍女当众收回了他的爱情信物，宣布他不再受她的恩宠。此后的叙事是伊万从疯狂到重建自我的过程：他在森林中赤身裸体如野兽，被一位贵妇用魔法药膏治愈，随后救了一只被蛇攻击的狮子——狮子从此成为他的终身伙伴。

与《朗斯洛》不同，《伊万》的核心不是爱情对荣誉的压倒，而是荣誉与责任之间的平衡。伊万必须在赢得新冒险和忠于对劳迪娜的承诺之间找到出路。狮子意象赋予了作品一种寓言深度：骑士与野兽的结盟暗示了文明与自然力量的和解。

公版英译全文（W. W. Comfort 1914）

YVAIN

or, The Knight with the Lion

(Vv. 1-174.) Arthur, the good King of Britain, whose prowess teaches us
that we, too, should be brave and courteous, held a rich and royal
court upon that precious feast-day which is always known by the name
of Pentecost. [31] The court was at Carduel in Wales. When the meal was
finished, the knights betook themselves whither they were summoned by
the ladies, damsels, and maidens. Some told stories; others spoke of
love, of the trials and sorrows, as well as of the great blessings,
which often fall to the members of its order, which was rich and
flourishing in those days of old. But now its followers are few, having
deserted it almost to a man, so that love is much abased. For lovers
used to deserve to be considered courteous, brave, generous, and
honourable. But now love is a laughing-stock, for those who have no
intelligence of it assert that they love, and in that they lie. Thus
they utter a mockery and lie by boasting where they have no right. [32]
But let us leave those who are still alive, to speak of those of former
time. For, I take it, a courteous man, though dead, is worth more than
a living knave. So it is my pleasure to relate a matter quite worthy of
heed concerning the King whose fame was such that men still speak of him
far and near; and I agree with the opinion of the Bretons that his name
will live on for evermore. And in connection with him we call to mind
those goodly chosen knights who spent themselves for honour's sake. But
upon this day of which I speak, great was their astonishment at seeing
the King quit their presence; and there were some who felt chagrined,
and who did not mince their words, never before having seen the King, on
the occasion of such a feast, enter his own chamber either to sleep or
to seek repose. But this day it came about that the Queen detained him,
and he remained so long at her side that he forgot himself and fell
asleep. Outside the chamber door were Dodinel, Sagremor, and Kay, my
lord Gawain, my lord Yvain, and with them Calogrenant, a very comely
knight, who had begun to tell them a tale, though it was not to his
credit, but rather to his shame. The Queen could hear him as he told his
tale, and rising from beside the King, she came upon them so stealthily
that before any caught sight of her, she had fallen, as it were, right
in their midst. Calogrenant alone jumped up quickly when he saw her
come. Then Kay, who was very quarrelsome, mean, sarcastic, and abusive,
said to him: "By the Lord, Calogrenant, I see you are very bold and
forward now, and certainly it pleases me to see you the most courteous
of us all. And I know that you are quite persuaded of your own
excellence, for that is in keeping with your little sense. And of course
it is natural that my lady should suppose that you surpass us all in
courtesy and bravery. We failed to rise through sloth, forsooth, or
because we did not care! Upon my word, it is not so, my lord; but we
did not see my lady until you had risen first." "Really, Kay," the Queen
then says, "I think you would burst if you could not pour out the poison
of which you are so full. You are troublesome and mean thus to annoy
your companions." "Lady," says Kay, "if we are not better for your
company, at least let us not lose by it. I am not aware that I said
anything for which I ought to be accused, and so I pray you say no more.
It is impolite and foolish to keep up a vain dispute. This argument
should go no further, nor should any one try to make more of it. But
since there must be no more high words, command him to continue the tale
he had begun." Thereupon Calogrenant prepares to reply in this fashion:
"My lord, little do I care about the quarrel, which matters little and
affects me not. If you have vented your scorn on me, I shall never be
harmed by it. You have often spoken insultingly, my lord Kay, to braver
and better men than I, for you are given to this kind of thing. The
manure-pile will always stink, [33] and gadflies sting, and bees will
hum, and so a bore will torment and make a nuisance of himself. However,
with my lady's leave, I'll not continue my tale to-day, and I beg her
to say no more about it, and kindly not give me any unwelcome command."
"Lady," says Kay, "all those who are here will be in your debt, for they
are desirous to hear it out. Don't do it as a favour to me! But by the
faith you owe the King, your lord and mine, command him to continue, and
you will do well." "Calogrenant," the Queen then says, "do not mind the
attack of my lord Kay the seneschal. He is so accustomed to evil speech
that one cannot punish him for it. I command and request you not to
be angered because of him, nor should you fail on his account to say
something which it will please us all to hear; if you wish to preserve
my good-will, pray begin the tale anew." "Surely, lady, it is a very
unwelcome command you lay upon me. Rather than tell any more of my
tale to-day, I would have one eye plucked out, if I did not fear your
displeasure. Yet will I perform your behest, however distasteful it may
be. Then since you will have it so, give heed. Let your heart and ears
be mine. For words, though heard, are lost unless understood within the
heart. Some men there are who give consent to what they hear but do not
understand: these men have the hearing alone. For the moment the heart
fails to understand, the word falls upon the ears simply as the wind
that blows, without stopping to tarry there; rather it quickly passes on
if the heart is not so awake as to be ready to receive it. For the heart
alone can receive it when it comes along, and shut it up within. The
ears are the path and channel by which the voice can reach the heart,
while the heart receives within the bosom the voice which enters through
the ear. Now, whoever will heed my words, must surrender to me his heart
and ears, for I am not going to speak of a dream, an idle tale, or lie,
with which many another has regaled you, but rather shall I speak of
what I saw."

(Vv. 175-268.) "It happened seven years ago that, lonely as a
countryman, I was making my way in search of adventures, fully armed
as a knight should be, when I came upon a road leading off to the right
into a thick forest. The road there was very bad, full of briars and
thorns. In spite of the trouble and inconvenience, I followed the road
and path. Almost the entire day I went thus riding until I emerged from
the forest of Broceliande. [34] Out from the forest I passed into the
open country where I saw a wooden tower at the distance of half a Welsh
league: it may have been so far, but it was not anymore. Proceeding
faster than a walk, I drew near and saw the palisade and moat all round
it, deep and wide, and standing upon the bridge, with a moulted falcon
upon his wrist, I saw the master of the castle. I had no sooner saluted
him than he came forward to hold my stirrup and invited me to
dismount. I did so, for it was useless to deny that I was in need of a
lodging-place. Then he told me more than a hundred times at once that
blessed was the road by which I had come thither. Meanwhile, we crossed
the bridge, and passing through the gate, found ourselves in the
courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard of this vavasor, to whom may
God repay such joy and honour as he bestowed upon me that night, there
hung a gong not of iron or wood, I trow, but all of copper. Upon this
gong the vavasor struck three times with a hammer which hung on a post
close by. Those who were upstairs in the house, upon hearing his voice
and the sound, came out into the yard below. Some took my horse which
the good vavasor was holding; and I saw coming toward me a very fair and
gentle maid. On looking at her narrowly I saw she was tall and slim and
straight. Skilful she was in disarming me, which she did gently and with
address; then, when she had robed me in a short mantle of scarlet stuff
spotted with a peacock's plumes, all the others left us there, so that
she and I remained alone. This pleased me well, for I needed naught
else to look upon. Then she took me to sit down in the prettiest little
field, shut in by a wall all round about. There I found her so elegant,
so fair of speech and so well informed, of such pleasing manners and
character, that it was a delight to be there, and I could have wished
never to be compelled to move. But as ill luck would have it, when night
came on, and the time for supper had arrived. The vavasor came to look
for me. No more delay was possible, so I complied with his request. Of
the supper I will only say that it was all after my heart, seeing that
the damsel took her seat at the table just in front of me. After the
supper the vavasor admitted to me that, though he had lodged many an
errant knight, he knew not how long it had been since he had welcomed
one in search of adventure. Then, as a favour, he begged of me to return
by way of his residence, if I could make it possible. So I said to him:
'Right gladly, sire!' for a refusal would have been impolite, and that
was the least I could do for such a host."

(Vv. 269-580.) "That night, indeed, I was well lodged, and as soon as
the morning light appeared, I found my steed ready saddled, as I had
requested the night before; thus my request was carried out. My kind
host and his dear daughter I commended to the Holy Spirit, and, after
taking leave of all, I got away as soon as possible. I had not proceeded
far from my stopping-place when I came to a clearing, where there were
some wild bulls at large; they were fighting among themselves and making
such a dreadful and horrible noise that if the truth be known, I drew
back in fear, for there is no beast so fierce and dangerous as a bull. I
saw sitting upon a stump, with a great club in his hand, a rustic
lout, as black as a mulberry, indescribably big and hideous; indeed,
so passing ugly was the creature that no word of mouth could do him
justice. On drawing near to this fellow, I saw that his head was bigger
than that of a horse or of any other beast; that his hair was in tufts,
leaving his forehead bare for a width of more than two spans; that his
ears were big and mossy, just like those of an elephant; his eyebrows
were heavy and his face was flat; his eyes were those of an owl, and his
nose was like a cat's; his jowls were split like a wolf, and his teeth
were sharp and yellow like a wild boar's; his beard was black and his
whiskers twisted; his chin merged into his chest and his backbone was
long, but twisted and hunched. [35] There he stood, leaning upon his
club and accoutred in a strange garb, consisting not of cotton or wool,
but rather of the hides recently flayed from two bulls or two beeves:
these he wore hanging from his neck. The fellow leaped up straightway
when he saw me drawing near. I do not know whether he was going to
strike me or what he intended to do, but I was prepared to stand him
off, until I saw him stop and stand stock-still upon a tree trunk, where
he stood full seventeen feet in height. Then he gazed at me but spoke
not a word, any more than a beast would have done. And I supposed that
he had not his senses or was drunk. However, I made bold to say to him:
'Come, let me know whether thou art a creature of good or not.' And
he replied: 'I am a man.' 'What kind of a man art thou?' 'Such as thou
seest me to be: I am by no means otherwise.' 'What dost thou here?' 'I
was here, tending these cattle in this wood.' 'Wert thou really tending
them? By Saint Peter of Rome! They know not the command of any man.
I guess one cannot possibly guard wild beasts in a plain or wood or
anywhere else unless they are tied or confined inside.' 'Well, I tend
and have control of these beasts so that they will never leave this
neighbourhood.' 'How dost thou do that? Come, tell me now!' 'There is
not one of them that dares to move when they see me coming. For when
I can get hold of one I give its two horns such a wrench with my hard,
strong hands that the others tremble with fear, and gather at once round
about me as if to ask for mercy. No one could venture here but me, for
if he should go among them he would be straightway done to death. In
this way I am master of my beasts. And now thou must tell me in turn
what kind of a man thou art, and what thou seekest here.' 'I am, as
thou seest, a knight seeking for what I cannot find; long have I sought
without success.' 'And what is this thou fain wouldst find?' 'Some
adventure whereby to test my prowess and my bravery. Now I beg and
urgently request thee to give me some counsel, if possible, concerning
some adventure or marvellous thing.' Says he: 'Thou wilt have to do
without, for I know nothing of adventure, nor did I ever hear tell
of such. But if thou wouldst go to a certain spring here hard by and
shouldst comply with the practice there, thou wouldst not easily come
back again. Close by here thou canst easily find a path which will
lead thee thither. If thou wouldst go aright, follow the straight path,
otherwise thou mayst easily go astray among the many other paths.
Thou shalt see the spring which boils, though the water is colder than
marble. It is shadowed by the fairest tree that ever Nature formed, for
its foliage is evergreen, regardless of the winter's cold, and an iron
basin is hanging there by a chain long enough to reach the spring. And
beside the spring thou shalt find a massive stone, as thou shalt see,
but whose nature I cannot explain, never having seen its like. On the
other side a chapel stands, small, but very beautiful. If thou wilt take
of the water in the basin and spill it upon the stone, thou shalt see
such a storm come up that not a beast will remain within this wood;
every doe, star, deer, boar, and bird will issue forth. For thou shalt
see such lightning-bolts descend, such blowing of gales and crashing
of trees, such torrents fail, such thunder and lightning, that, if thou
canst escape from them without trouble and mischance, thou wilt be more
fortunate than ever any knight was yet.' I left the fellow then, after
he had pointed our the way. It must have been after nine o'clock and
might have been drawing on toward noon, when I espied the tree and the
chapel. I can truly say that this tree was the finest pine that ever
grew on earth. I do not believe that it ever rained so hard that a
drop of water could penetrate it, but would rather drip from the outer
branches. From the tree I saw the basin hanging, [36] of the finest gold
that was ever for sale in any fair. As for the spring, you may take my
word that it was boiling like hot water. The stone was of emerald, with
holes in it like a cask, and there were four rubies underneath, more
radiant and red than is the morning sun when it rises in the east.
Now not one word will I say which is not true. I wished to see the
marvellous appearing of the tempest and the storm; but therein I was not
wise, for I would gladly have repented, if I could, when I had sprinkled
the perforated stone with the water from the basin. But I fear I poured
too much, for straightway I saw the heavens so break loose that from
more than fourteen directions the lightning blinded my eyes, and all at
once the clouds let fall snow and rain and hail. The storm was so fierce
and terrible that a hundred times I thought I should be killed by the
bolts which fell about me and by the trees which were rent apart. Know
that I was in great distress until the uproar was appeased. But God gave
me such comfort that the storm did not continue long, and all the winds
died down again. The winds dared not blow against God's will. And when
I saw the air clear and serene I was filled with joy again. For I have
observed that joy quickly causes trouble to be forgot. As soon as the
storm was completely past, I saw so many birds gathered in the pine tree
(if any one will believe my words) that not a branch or twig was to be
seen which was not entirely covered with birds. [37] The tree was all
the more lovely then, for all the birds sang in harmony, yet the note of
each was different, so that I never heard one singing another's note. I,
too, rejoiced in their joyousness, and listened to them until they had
sung their service through, for I have never heard such happy song, nor
do I think any one else will hear it, unless he goes to listen to what
filled me with such joy and bliss that I was lost in rapture. I stayed
there until I heard some knights coming, as I thought it seemed that
there must be ten of them. But all the noise and commotion was made
by the approach of a single knight. When I saw him coming on alone
I quickly caught my steed and made no delay in mounting him. And the
knight, as if with evil intent, came on swifter than an eagle, looking
as fierce as a lion. From as far as his voice could reach he began to
challenge me, and said: 'Vassal, without provocation you have caused
me shame and harm. If there was any quarrel between us you should first
have challenged me, or at least sought justice before attacking me. But,
sir vassal, if it be within my power, upon you shall fall the punishment
for the damage which is evident. About me here lies the evidence of my
woods destroyed. He who has suffered has the right to complain. And I
have good reason to complain that you have driven me from my house with
lightning-bolt and rain. You have made trouble for me, and cursed be he
who thinks it fair. For within my own woods and town you have made such
an attack upon me that resources of men of arms and of fortifications
would have been of no avail to me; no man could have been secure, even
if he had been in a fortress of solid stone and wood. But be assured
that from this moment there shall be neither truce nor peace between
us.' At these words we rushed together, each one holding his shield well
gripped and covering himself with it. The knight had a good horse and a
stout lance, and was doubtless a whole head taller than I. Thus, I was
altogether at a disadvantage, being shorter than he, while his horse was
stronger than mine. You may be sure that I will tell the facts, in order
to cover up my shame. With intent to do my best, I dealt him as hard a
blow as I could give, striking the top of his shield, and I put all my
strength into it with such effect that my lance flew all to splinters.
His lance remained entire, being very heavy and bigger than any knight's
lance I ever saw. And the knight struck me with it so heavily that he
knocked me over my horse's crupper and laid me flat upon the ground,
where he left me ashamed and exhausted, without bestowing another glance
upon me. He took my horse, but me he left, and started back by the way
he came. And I, who knew not what to do, remained there in pain and
with troubled thoughts. Seating myself beside the spring I rested there
awhile, not daring to follow after the knight for fear of committing
some rash act of madness. And, indeed, had I had the courage, I knew not
what had become of him. Finally, it occurred to me that I would keep my
promise to my host and would return by way of his dwelling. This idea
pleased me, and so I did. I laid off all my arms in order to proceed
more easily, and thus with shame I retraced my steps. When I reached
his home that night, I found my host to be the same good-natured and
courteous man as I had before discovered him to be. I could not observe
that either his daughter or he himself welcomed me any less gladly,
or did me any less honour than they had done the night before. I am
indebted to them for the great honour they all did me in that house; and
they even said that, so far as they knew or had heard tell, no one had
ever escaped, without being killed or kept a prisoner, from the place
whence I returned. Thus I went and thus I returned, feeling, as I did
so, deeply ashamed. So I have foolishly told you the story which I never
wished to tell again."

(Vv. 581-648.) "By my head," cries my lord Yvain, "you are my own
cousin-german, and we ought to love each other well. But I must consider
you as mad to have concealed this from me so long. If I call you mad, I
beg you not to be incensed. For if I can, and if I obtain the leave, I
shall go to avenge your shame." "It is evident that we have dined," says
Kay, with his ever-ready speech; "there are more words in a pot full of
wine than in a whole barrel of beer. [38] They say that a cat is merry
when full. After dinner no one stirs, but each one is ready to
slay Noradin, [39] and you will take vengeance on Forre! Are your
saddle-cloths ready stuffed, and your iron greaves polished, and your
banners unfurled? Come now, in God's name, my lord Yvain, is it to-night
or to-morrow that you start? Tell us, fair sire, when you will start for
this rude test, for we would fain convoy you thither. There will be no
provost or constable who will not gladly escort you. And however it may
be, I beg that you will not go without taking leave of us; and if you
have a bad dream to-night, by all means stay at home!" "The devil,
Sir Kay," the Queen replies, "are you beside yourself that your tongue
always runs on so? Cursed be your tongue which is so full of bitterness!
Surely your tongue must hate you, for it says the worst it knows to
every man. Damned be any tongue that never ceases to speak ill! As for
your tongue, it babbles so that it makes you hated everywhere. It cannot
do you greater treachery. See here: if it were mine, I would accuse it
of treason. Any man that cannot be cured by punishment ought to be tied
like a madman in front of the chancel in the church." "Really, madame,"
says my lord Yvain, "his impudence matters not to me. In every court my
lord Kay has so much ability, knowledge, and worth that he will never be
deaf or dumb. He has the wit to reply wisely and courteously to all that
is mean, and this he has always done. You well know if I lie in saying
so. But I have no desire to dispute or to begin our foolishness again.
For he who deals the first blow does not always win the fight, but
rather he who gains revenge. He who fights with his companion had better
fight against some stranger. I do not wish to be like the hound that
stiffens up and growls when another dog yaps at him."

(Vv. 649-722.) While they were talking thus, the King came out of his
room where he had been all this time asleep. And when the knights saw
him they all sprang to their feet before him, but he made them at once
sit down again. He took his place beside the Queen, who repeated to him
word for word, with her customary skill, the story of Calogrenant. The
King listened eagerly to it, and then he swore three mighty oaths by the
soul of his father Utherpendragon, and by the soul of his son, and of
his mother too, that he would go to see that spring before a fortnight
should have passed; and he would see the storm and the marvels there by
reaching it on the eve of my lord Saint John the Baptist's feast; there
he would spend the night, and all who wished might accompany him. All
the court thought well of this, for the knights and the young bachelors
were very eager to make the expedition. But despite the general joy and
satisfaction my lord Yvain was much chagrined, for he intended to go
there all alone; so he was grieved and much put out because of the King
who planned to go. The chief cause of his displeasure was that he knew
that my lord Kay, to whom the favour would not be refused if he should
solicit it, would secure the battle rather than he himself, or else
perchance my lord Gawain would first ask for it. If either one of these
two should make request, the favour would never be refused him. But,
having no desire for their company, he resolves not to wait for them,
but to go off alone, if possible, whether it be to his gain or hurt. And
whoever may stay behind, he intends to be on the third day in the forest
of Broceliande, and there to seek if possibly he may find the narrow
wooded path for which he yearns eagerly, and the plain with the strong
castle, and the pleasure and delight of the courteous damsel, who is
so charming and fair, and with the damsel her worthy sire, who is so
honourable and nobly born that he strives to dispense honour. Then he
will see the bulls in the clearing, with the giant boor who watches
them. Great is his desire to see this fellow, who is so stout and big
and ugly and deformed, and as black as a smith. Then, too, he will see,
if possible, the stone and the spring itself, and the basin and the
birds in the pine-tree, and he will make it rain and blow. But of all
this he will not boast, nor, if he can help it, shall any one know
of his purpose until he shall have received from it either great
humiliation or great renown: then let the facts be known.

(Vv. 723-746.) My lord Yvain gets away from the court without any one
meeting him, and proceeds alone to his lodging place. There he found all
his household, and gave orders to have his horse saddled; then, calling
one of his squires who was privy to his every thought, he says: "Come
now, follow me outside yonder, and bring me my arms. I shall go out at
once through yonder gate upon my palfrey. For thy part, do not delay,
for I have a long road to travel. Have my steed well shod, and bring him
quickly where I am; then shalt thou lead back my palfrey. But take good
care, I adjure thee, if any one questions thee about me, to give him no
satisfaction. Otherwise, whatever thy confidence in me, thou need never
again count on my goodwill." "Sire," he says, "all will be well, for no
one shall learn anything from me. Proceed, and I shall follow you."

(Vv. 747-906.) My lord Yvain mounts at once, intending to avenge, if
possible, his cousin's disgrace before he returns. The squire ran for
the arms and steed; he mounted at once without delay, since he was
already equipped with shoes and nails. Then he followed his master's
track until he saw him standing mounted, waiting to one side of the road
in a place apart. He brought him his harness and equipment, and then
accoutred him. My lord Yvain made no delay after putting on his arms,
but hastily made his way each day over the mountains and through the
valleys, through the forests long and wide, through strange and wild
country, passing through many gruesome spots, many a danger and many a
strait, until he came directly to the path, which was full of brambles
and dark enough; then he felt he was safe at last, and could not now
lose his way. Whoever may have to pay the cost, he will not stop until
he sees the pine which shades the spring and stone, and the tempest of
hail and rain and thunder and wind. That night, you may be sure, he had
such lodging as he desired, for he found the vavasor to be even more
polite and courteous than he had been told, and in the damsel he
perceived a hundred times more sense and beauty than Calogrenant had
spoken of, for one cannot rehearse the sum of a lady's or a good man's
qualities. The moment such a man devotes himself to virtue, his story
cannot be summed up or told, for no tongue could estimate the honourable
deeds of such a gentleman. My lord Yvain was well content with the
excellent lodging he had that night, and when he entered the clearing
the next day, he met the bulls and the rustic boor who showed him the
way to take. But more than a hundred times he crossed himself at sight
of the monster before him--how Nature had ever been able to form such
a hideous, ugly creature. Then to the spring he made his way, and found
there all that he wished to see. Without hesitation and without sitting
down he poured the basin full of water upon the stone, when straightway
it began to blow and rain, and such a storm was caused as had been
foretold. And when God had appeased the storm, the birds came to perch
upon the pine, and sang their joyous songs up above the perilous spring.
But before their jubilee had ceased there came the knight, more blazing
with wrath than a burning log, and making as much noise as if he were
chasing a lusty stag. As soon as they espied each other they rushed
together and displayed the mortal hate they bore. Each one carried a
stiff, stout lance, with which they dealt such mighty blows that they
pierced the shields about their necks, and cut the meshes of their
hauberks; their lances are splintered and sprung, while the fragments
are cast high in air. Then each attacks the other with his sword, and in
the strife they cut the straps of the shields away, and cut the shields
all to bits from end to end, so that the shreds hang down, no longer
serving as covering or defence; for they have so split them up that they
bring down the gleaming blades upon their sides, their arms, and hips.
Fierce, indeed, is their assault; yet they do not budge from their
standing-place any more than would two blocks of stone. Never were there
two knights so intent upon each other's death. They are careful not to
waste their blows, but lay them on as best they may; they strike and
bend their helmets, and they send the meshes of their hauberks flying
so, that they draw not a little blood, for the hauberks are so hot with
their body's heat that they hardly serve as more protection than a coat.
As they drive the sword-point at the face, it is marvellous that so
fierce and bitter a strife should last so long. But both are possessed
of such courage that one would not for aught retreat a foot before his
adversary until he had wounded him to death. Yet, in this respect they
were very honourable in not trying or deigning to strike or harm their
steeds in any way; but they sat astride their steeds without putting
foot to earth, which made the fight more elegant. At last my lord Yvain
crushed the helmet of the knight, whom the blow stunned and made so
faint that he swooned away, never having received such a cruel blow
before. Beneath his kerchief his head was split to the very brains, so
that the meshes of his bright hauberk were stained with the brains and
blood, all of which caused him such intense pain that his heart almost
ceased to beat. He had good reason then to flee, for he felt that he had
a mortal wound, and that further resistance would not avail. With this
thought in mind he quickly made his escape toward his town, where the
bridge was lowered and the gate quickly opened for him; meanwhile my
lord Yvain at once spurs after him at topmost speed. As a gerfalcon
swoops upon a crane when he sees him rising from afar, and then draws so
near to him that he is about to seize him, yet misses him, so flees the
knight, with Yvain pressing him so close that he can almost throw his
arm about him, and yet cannot quite come up with him, though he is so
close that he can hear him groan for the pain he feels. While the one
exerts himself in flight the other strives in pursuit of him, fearing to
have wasted his effort unless he takes him alive or dead; for he still
recalls the mocking words which my lord Kay had addressed to him. He
had not yet carried out the pledge which he had given to his cousin;
nor will they believe his word unless he returns with the evidence. The
knight led him a rapid chase to the gate of his town, where they entered
in; but finding no man or woman in the streets through which they
passed, they both rode swiftly on till they came to the palace-gate.

(Vv. 907-1054.) The gate was very high and wide, yet it had such a
narrow entrance-way that two men or two horses could scarcely enter
abreast or pass without interference or great difficulty; for it was
constructed just like a trap which is set for the rat on mischief bent,
and which has a blade above ready to fall and strike and catch, and
which is suddenly released whenever anything, however gently, comes in
contact with the spring. In like fashion, beneath the gate there were
two springs connected with a portcullis up above, edged with iron and
very sharp. If anything stepped upon this contrivance the gate descended
from above, and whoever below was struck by the gate was caught and
mangled. Precisely in the middle the passage lay as narrow as if it were
a beaten track. Straight through it exactly the knight rushed on, with
my lord Yvain madly following him apace, and so close to him that he
held him by the saddle-bow behind. It was well for him that he was
stretched forward, for had it not been for this piece of luck he would
have been cut quite through; for his horse stepped upon the wooden
spring which kept the portcullis in place. Like a hellish devil the gate
dropped down, catching the saddle and the horse's haunches, which it cut
off clean. But, thank God, my lord Yvain was only slightly touched when
it grazed his back so closely that it cut both his spurs off even with
his heels. And while he thus fell in dismay, the other with his mortal
wound escaped him, as you now shall see. Farther on there was another
gate just like the one they had just passed; through this the knight
made his escape, and the gate descended behind him. Thus my lord Yvain
was caught, very much concerned and discomfited as he finds himself
shut in this hallway, which was all studded with gilded nails, and whose
walls were cunningly decorated with precious paints. [310] But about
nothing was he so worried as not to know what had become of the knight.
While he was in this narrow place, he heard open the door of a little
adjoining room, and there came forth alone a fair and charming maiden
who closed the door again after her. When she found my lord Yvain, at
first she was sore dismayed. [311] "Surely, sir knight," she says, "I
fear you have come in an evil hour. If you are seen here, you will be
all cut to pieces. For my lord is mortally wounded, and I know it is you
who have been the death of him. My lady is in such a state of grief, and
her people about her are crying so that they are ready to die with rage;
and, moreover, they know you to be inside. But as yet their grief is
such that they are unable to attend to you. The moment they come
to attack you, they cannot fail to kill or capture you, as they may
choose." And my lord Yvain replies to her: "If God will they shall never
kill me, nor shall I fall into their hands." "No," she says, "for I
shall do my utmost to assist you. It is not manly to cherish fear. So
I hold you to be a man of courage, when you are not dismayed. And rest
assured that if I could I would help you and treat you honourably, as
you in turn would do for me. Once my lady sent me on an errand to the
King's court, and I suppose I was not so experienced or courteous or
so well behaved as a maiden ought to be; at any rate, there was not a
knight there who deigned to say a word to me except you alone who stand
here now; but you, in your kindness, honoured and aided me. For the
honour you did me then I shall now reward you. I know full well what
your name is, and I recognised you at once: your name is my lord Yvain.
You may be sure and certain that if you take my advice you will never be
caught or treated ill. Please take this little ring of mine, which you
will return when I shall have delivered you." [312] Then she handed him
the little ring and told him that its effect was like that of the bark
which covers the wood so that it cannot be seen; but it must be worn so
that the stone is within the palm; then he who wears the ring upon his
finger need have no concern for anything; for no one, however sharp his
eyes may be, will be able to see him any more than the wood which is
covered by the outside bark. All this is pleasing to my lord Yvain. And
when she had told him this, she led him to a seat upon a couch covered
with a quilt so rich that the Duke of Austria had none such, and she
told him that if he cared for something to eat she would fetch it for
him; and he replied that he would gladly do so. Running quickly into the
chamber, she presently returned, bringing a roasted fowl and a cake, a
cloth, a full pot of good grape-wine covered with a white drinking-cup;
all this she offered to him to eat. And he, who stood in need of food,
very gladly ate and drank.

(Vv. 1055-1172.) By the time he had finished his meal the knights were
astir inside looking for him and eager to avenge their lord, who was
already stretched upon his bier. Then the damsel said to Yvain: "Friend,
do you hear them all seeking you? There is a great noise and uproar
brewing. But whoever may come or go, do not stir for any noise of
theirs, for they can never discover you if you do not move from this
couch. Presently you will see this room all full of ill-disposed and
hostile people, who will think to find you here; and I make no doubt
that they will bring the body here before interment, and they will begin
to search for you under the seats and the beds. It will be amusing for a
man who is not afraid when he sees people searching so fruitlessly, for
they will all be so blind, so undone, and so misguided that they will be
beside themselves with rage. I cannot tell you more just now, for I dare
no longer tarry here. But I may thank God for giving me the chance and
the opportunity to do some service to please you, as I yearned to do."
Then she turned away, and when she was gone all the crowd with one
accord had come from both sides to the gates, armed with clubs and
swords. There was a mighty crowd and press of hostile people surging
about, when they espied in front of the gate the half of the horse which
had been cut down. Then they felt very sure that when the gates were
opened they would find inside him whose life they wished to take. Then
they caused to be drawn up those gates which had been the death of many
men. But since no spring or trap was laid for their passage they all
came through abreast. Then they found at the threshold the other half of
the horse that had been killed; but none of them had sharp enough eyes
to see my lord Yvain, whom they would gladly have killed; and he saw
them beside themselves with rage and fury, as they said: "How can this
be? For there is no door or window here through which anything could
escape, unless it be a bird, a squirrel, or marmot, or some other even
smaller animal; for the windows are barred, and the gates were closed
as soon as my lord passed through. The body is in here, dead or alive,
since there is no sign of it outside there; we can see more than half
of the saddle in here, but of him we see nothing, except the spurs which
fell down severed from his feet. Now let us cease this idle talk, and
search in all these comers, for he is surely in here still, or else we
are all enchanted, or the evil spirits have filched him away from us."
Thus they all, aflame with rage, sought him about the room, beating
upon the walls, and beds, and seats. But the couch upon which he lay was
spared and missed the blows, so that he was not struck or touched. But
all about they thrashed enough, and raised an uproar in the room with
their clubs, like a blind man who pounds as he goes about his search.
While they were poking about under the beds and the stools, there
entered one of the most beautiful ladies that any earthly creature ever
saw. Word or mention was never made of such a fair Christian dame, and
yet she was so crazed with grief that she was on the point of taking her
life. All at once she cried out at the top of her voice, and then fell
prostrate in a swoon. And when she had been picked up she began to claw
herself and tear her hair, like a woman who had lost her mind. She tears
her hair and rips her dress, and faints at every step she takes; nor can
anything comfort her when she sees her husband borne along lifeless
in the bier; for her happiness is at an end, and so she made her loud
lament. The holy water and the cross and the tapers were borne in
advance by the nuns from a convent; then came missals and censers
and the priests, who pronounce the final absolution required for the
wretched soul.

(Vv. 1173-1242.) My lord Yvain heard the cries and the grief that can
never be described, for no one could describe it, nor was such ever set
down in a book. The procession passed, but in the middle of the room a
great crowd gathered about the bier, for the fresh warm blood trickled
out again from the dead man's wound, and this betokened certainly that
the man was still surely present who had fought the battle and had
killed and defeated him. Then they sought and searched everywhere, and
turned and stirred up everything, until they were all in a sweat with
the trouble and the press which had been caused by the sight of the
trickling crimson blood. Then my lord Yvain was well struck and beaten
where he lay, but not for that did he stir at all. And the people became
more and more distraught because of the wounds which burst open, and
they marvelled why they bled, without knowing whose fault it was. [313]
And each one to his neighbour said: "The murderer is among us here, and
yet we do not see him, which is passing strange and mysterious." At this
the lady showed such grief that she made an attempt upon her life, and
cried as if beside herself: "All God, then will the murderer not be
found, the traitor who took my good lord's life? Good? Aye, the best of
the good, indeed! True God, Thine will be the fault if Thou dost let him
thus escape. No other man than Thou should I blame for it who dost hide
him from my sight. Such a wonder was never seen, nor such injustice, as
Thou dost to me in not allowing me even to see the man who must be so
close to me. When I cannot see him, I may well say that some demon or
spirit has interposed himself between us, so that I am under a spell. Or
else he is a coward and is afraid of me: he must be a craven to stand in
awe of me, and it is an act of cowardice not to show himself before
me. Ah, thou spirit, craven thing! Why art thou so in fear of me, when
before my lord thou weft so brave? O empty and elusive thing, why cannot
I have thee in my power? Why cannot I lay hands upon thee now? But how
could it ever come about that thou didst kill my lord, unless it was
done by treachery? Surely my lord would never have met defeat at thy
hands had he seen thee face to face. For neither God nor man ever knew
of his like, nor is there any like him now. Surely, hadst thou been a
mortal man, thou wouldst never have dared to withstand my lord, for no
one could compare with him." Thus the lady struggles with herself, and
thus she contends and exhausts herself. And her people with her, for
their part, show the greatest possible grief as they carry off the
body to burial. After their long efforts and search they are completely
exhausted by the quest, and give it up from weariness, inasmuch as they
can find no one who is in any way guilty. The nuns and priests, having
already finished the service, had returned from the church and were gone
to the burial. But to all this the damsel in her chamber paid no heed.
Her thoughts are with my lord Yvain, and, coming quickly, she said to
him: "Fair sir, these people have been seeking you in force. They have
raised a great tumult here, and have poked about in all the corners more
diligently than a hunting-dog goes ferreting a partridge or a quail.
Doubtless you have been afraid." "Upon my word, you are right," says he:
"I never thought to be so afraid. And yet, if it were possible I should
gladly look out through some window or aperture at the procession
and the corpse." Yet he had no interest in either the corpse or the
procession, for he would gladly have seen them all burned, even had it
cost him a thousand marks. A thousand marks? Three thousand, verily,
upon my word. But he said it because of the lady of the town, of whom he
wished to catch a glimpse. So the damsel placed him at a little window,
and repaid him as well as she could for the honour which he had done
her. From this window my lord Yvain espies the fair lady, as she says:
"Sire, may God have mercy upon your soul! For never, I verily believe,
did any knight ever sit in saddle who was your equal in any respect.
No other knight, my fair sweet lord, ever possessed your honour or
courtesy. Generosity was your friend and boldness your companion. May
your soul rest among the saints, my fair dear lord." Then she strikes
and tears whatever she can lay her hands upon. Whatever the outcome
may be, it is hard for my lord Yvain to restrain himself from running
forward to seize her hands. But the damsel begs and advises him, and
even urgently commands him, though with courtesy and graciousness, not
to commit any rash deed, saying: "You are well off here. Do not stir
for any cause until this grief shall be assuaged; let these people all
depart, as they will do presently. If you act as I advise, in accordance
with my views, great advantage may come to you. It will be best for you
to remain seated here, and watch the people inside and out as they
pass along the way without their seeing you. But take care not to speak
violently, for I hold that man to be rather imprudent than brave who
goes too far and loses his self-restraint and commits some deed of
violence the moment he has the time and chance. So if you cherish some
rash thought be careful not to utter it. The wise man conceals his
imprudent thought and works out righteousness if he can. So wisely take
good care not to risk your head, for which they would accept no ransom.
Be considerate of yourself and remember my advice. Rest assured until
I return, for I dare not stay longer now. I might stay so long, I fear,
that they would suspect me when they did not see me in the crowd, and
then I should suffer for it."

(Vv. 1339-1506.) Then she goes off, and he remains, not knowing how to
comport himself. He is loath to see them bury the corpse without his
securing anything to take back as evidence that he has defeated and
killed him. If he has no proof or evidence he will be held in contempt,
for Kay is so mean and obstinate, so given to mockery, and so annoying,
that he could never succeed in convincing him. He would go about for
ever insulting him, flinging his mockery and taunts as he did the other
day. These taunts are still fresh and rankling in his heart. But with
her sugar and honey a new Love now softened him; he had been to hunt
upon his lands and had gathered in his prey. His enemy carries off
his heart, and he loves the creature who hates him most. The lady, all
unaware, has well avenged her lord's death. She has secured greater
revenge than she could ever have done unless she had been aided by Love,
who attacks him so gently that he wounds his heart through his eyes.
And this wound is more enduring than any inflicted by lance or sword.
A sword-blow is cured and healed at once as soon as a doctor attends to
it, but the wound of love is worst when it is nearest to its physician.
This is the wound of my lord Yvain, from which he will never more
recover, for Love has installed himself with him. He deserts and goes
away from the places he was wont to frequent. He cares for no lodging
or landlord save this one, and he is very wise in leaving a poor
lodging-place in order to betake himself to him. In order to devote
himself completely to him, he will have no other lodging-place, though
often he is wont to seek out lowly hostelries. It is a shame that
Love should ever so basely conduct himself as to select the meanest
lodging-place quite as readily as the best. But now he has come where he
is welcome, and where he will be treated honourably, and where he will
do well to stay. This is the way Love ought to act, being such a noble
creature that it is marvellous how he dares shamefully to descend to
such low estate. He is like him who spreads his balm upon the ashes and
dust, who mingles sugar with gall, and suet with honey. However, he did
not act so this time, but rather lodged in a noble place, for which no
one can reproach him. When the dead man had been buried, all the people
dispersed, leaving no clerks or knights or ladies, excepting only
her who makes no secret of her grief. She alone remains behind, often
clutching at her throat, wringing her hands, and beating her palms, as
she reads her psalms in her gilt lettered psalter. All this while my
lord Yvain is at the window gazing at her, and the more he looks at her
the more he loves her and is enthralled by her. He would have wished
that she should cease her weeping and reading, and that she should
feel inclined to converse with him. Love, who caught him at the window,
filled him with this desire. But he despairs of realising his wish, for
he cannot imagine or believe that his desire can be gratified. So he
says: "I may consider myself a fool to wish for what I cannot have.
Her lord it was whom I wounded mortally, and yet do I think I can be
reconciled with her? Upon my word, such thoughts are folly, for at
present she has good reason to hate me more bitterly than anything. I am
right in saying 'at present', for a woman has more than one mind. That
mind in which she is just now I trust she will soon change; indeed, she
will change it certainly, and I am mad thus to despair. God grant that
she change it soon! For I am doomed to be her slave, since such is the
will of Love. Whoever does not welcome Love gladly, when he comes to
him, commits treason and a felony. I admit (and let whosoever will,
heed what I say) that such an one deserves no happiness or joy. But if I
lose, it will not be for such a reason; rather will I love my enemy.
For I ought not to feel any hate for her unless I wish to betray Love.
I must love in accordance with Love's desire. And ought she to regard me
as a friend? Yes, surely, since it is she whom I love. And I call her
my enemy, for she hates me, though with good reason, for I killed the
object of her love. So, then, am I her enemy? Surely no, but her true
friend, for I never so loved any one before. I grieve for her fair
tresses, surpassing gold in their radiance; I feel the pangs of anguish
and torment when I see her tear and cut them, nor can her tears e'er
be dried which I see falling from her eyes; by all these things I am
distressed. Although they are full of ceaseless, ever-flowing tears, yet
never were there such lovely eves. The sight of her weeping causes me
agony, but nothing pains me so much as the sight of her face, which she
lacerates without its having merited such treatment. I never saw such a
face so perfectly formed, nor so fresh and delicately coloured. And then
it has pierced my heart to see her clutch her throat. Surely, it is all
too true that she is doing the worst she can. And yet no crystal nor any
mirror is so bright and smooth. God! why is she thus possessed, and why
does she not spare herself? Why does she wring her lovely hands and beat
and tear her breast? Would she not be marvellously fair to look upon
when in happy mood, seeing that she is so fair in her displeasure?
Surely yes, I can take my oath on that. Never before in a work of beauty
was Nature thus able to outdo herself, for I am sure she has gone beyond
the limits of any previous attempt. How could it ever have happened
then? Whence came beauty so marvellous? God must have made her with His
naked hand that Nature might rest from further toil. If she should try
to make a replica, she might spend her time in vain without succeeding
in her task. Even God Himself, were He to try, could not succeed, I
guess, in ever making such another, whatever effort He might put forth."

(Vv. 1507-1588.) Thus my lord Yvain considers her who is broken with her
grief, and I suppose it would never happen again that any man in prison,
like my lord Yvain in fear for his life, would ever be so madly in love
as to make no request on his own behalf, when perhaps no one else will
speak for him. He stayed at the window until he saw the lady go away,
and both the portcullises were lowered again. Another might have grieved
at this, who would prefer a free escape to tarrying longer where he was.
But to him it is quite indifferent whether they be shut or opened. If
they were open he surely would not go away, no, even were the lady to
give him leave and pardon him freely for the death of her lord. For he
is detained by Love and Shame which rise up before him on either hand:
he is ashamed to go away, for no one would believe in the success of his
exploit; on the other hand, he has such a strong desire to see the lady
at least, if he cannot obtain any other favour, that he feels little
concern about his imprisonment. He would rather die than go away. And
now the damsel returns, wishing to bear him company with her solace
and gaiety, and to go and fetch for him whatever he may desire. But she
found him pensive and quite worn out with the love which had laid hold
of him; whereupon she addressed him thus: "My lord Yvain, what sort of
a time have you had to-day?" "I have been pleasantly occupied," was his
reply. "Pleasantly? In God's name, is that the truth? What? How can one
enjoy himself seeing that he is hunted to death, unless he courts and
wishes it?" "Of a truth," he says, "my gentle friend, I should by no
means wish to die; and yet, as God beholds me, I was pleased, am pleased
now, and always shall be pleased by what I saw." "Well, let us say no
more of that," she makes reply, "for I can understand well enough what
is the meaning of such words. I am not so foolish or inexperienced that
I cannot understand such words as those; but come now after me, for I
shall find some speedy means to release you from your confinement. I
shall surely set you free to-night or to-morrow, if you please. Come
now, I will lead you away." And he thus makes reply: "You may be sure
that I will never escape secretly and like a thief. When the people are
all gathered out there in the streets, I can go forth more honourably
than if I did so surreptitiously." Then he followed her into the little
room. The damsel, who was kind, secured and bestowed upon him all that
he desired. And when the opportunity arose, she remembered what he
had said to her how he had been pleased by what he saw when they were
seeking him in the room with intent to kill him.

(Vv. 1589-1652.) The damsel stood in such favour with her lady that she
had no fear of telling her anything, regardless of the consequences, for
she was her confidante and companion. Then, why should she be backward
in comforting her lady and in giving her advice which should redound to
her honour? The first time she said to her privily: "My lady, I greatly
marvel to see you act so extravagantly. Do you think you can recover
your lord by giving away thus to your grief?" "Nay, rather, if I had my
wish," says she, "I would now be dead of grief." "And why?" "In order to
follow after him." "After him? God forbid, and give you again as good a
lord, as is consistent with His might." "Thou didst never speak such a
lie as that, for He could never give me so good a lord again." "He will
give you a better one, if you will accept him, and I can prove it."
"Begone! Peace! I shall never find such a one." "Indeed you shall, my
lady, if you will consent. Just tell me, if you will, who is going to
defend your land when King Arthur comes next week to the margin of the
spring? You have already been apprised of this by letters sent you by
the Dameisele Sauvage. Alas, what a kind service she did for you! you
ought to be considering how you will defend your spring, and yet you
cease not to weep! If it please you, my dear lady, you ought not to
delay. For surely, all the knights you have are not worth, as you well
know, so much as a single chamber-maid. Neither shield nor lance will
ever be taken in hand by the best of them. You have plenty of craven
servants, but there is not one of them brave enough to dare to mount a
steed. And the King is coming with such a host that his victory will
be inevitable." The lady, upon reflection, knows very well that she is
giving her sincere advice, but she is unreasonable in one respect, as
also are other women who are, almost without exception, guilty of their
own folly, and refuse to accept what they really wish. "Begone," she
says; "leave me alone. If I ever hear thee speak of this again it will
go hard with thee, unless thou flee. Thou weariest me with thy idle
words." "Very well, my lady," she says; "that you are a woman is
evident, for woman will grow irate when she hears any one give her good
advice."

(Vv. 1653-1726.) Then she went away and left her alone. And the lady
reflected that she had been in the wrong. She would have been very glad
to know how the damsel could ever prove that it would be possible to
find a better knight than her lord had ever been. She would be very glad
to hear her speak, but now she has forbidden her. With this desire in
mind, she waited until she returned. But the warning was of no avail,
for she began to say to her at once: "My lady, is it seemly that you
should thus torment yourself with grief? For God's sake now control
yourself, and for shame, at least, cease your lament. It is not fitting
that so great a lady should keep up her grief so long. Remember your
honourable estate and your very gentle birth! Think you that all virtue
ceased with the death of your lord? There are in the world a hundred as
good or better men." "May God confound me, if thou dost not lie! Just
name to me a single one who is reputed to be so excellent as my lord was
all his life." "If I did so you would be angry with me, and would fly
into a passion and you would esteem me less." "No, I will not, I assure
thee." "Then may it all be for your future welfare if you would but
consent, and may God so incline your will! I see no reason for holding
my peace, for no one hears or heeds what we say. Doubtless you will
think I am impudent, but I shall freely speak my mind. When two knights
have met in an affray of arms and when one has beaten the other, which
of the two do you think is the better? For my part I award the prize
to the victor. Now what do you think?" "It seems to me you are laying a
trap for me and intend to catch me in my words." "Upon my faith, you may
rest assured that I am in the right, and I can irrefutably prove to you
that he who defeated your lord is better than he was himself. He beat
him and pursued him valiantly until he imprisoned him in his house."
"Now," she replies, "I hear the greatest nonsense that was ever uttered.
Begone, thou spirit charged with evil! Begone, thou foolish and tiresome
girl! Never again utter such idle words, and never come again into my
presence to speak a word on his behalf!" "Indeed, my lady, I knew full
well that I should receive no thanks from you, and I said so before I
spoke. But you promised me you would not be displeased, and that you
would not be angry with me for it. But you have failed to keep your
promise, and now, as it has turned out, you have discharged your wrath
on me, and I have lost by not holding my peace."

(Vv. 1727-1942.) Thereupon she goes back to the room where my lord Yvain
is waiting, comfortably guarded by her vigilance. But he is ill at ease
when he cannot see the lady, and he pays no attention, and hears no word
of the report which the damsel brings to him. The lady, too, is in great
perplexity all night, being worried about how she should defend the
spring; and she begins to repent of her action to the damsel, whom she
had blamed and insulted and treated with contempt. She feels very sure
and certain that not for any reward or bribe, nor for any affection
which she may bear him, would the maiden ever have mentioned him; and
that she must love her more than him, and that she would never give her
advice which would bring her shame or embarrassment: the maid is too
loyal a friend for that. Thus, lo! the lady is completely changed: she
fears now that she to whom she had spoken harshly will never love her
again devotedly; and him whom she had repulsed, she now loyally and with
good reason pardons, seeing that he had done her no wrong. So she argues
as if he were in her presence there, and thus she begins her argument:
"Come," she says, "canst thou deny that my lord was killed by thee?"
"That," says he, "I cannot deny. Indeed, I fully admit it." "Tell me,
then, the reason of thy deed. Didst thou do it to injure me, prompted by
hatred or by spite?" "May death not spare me now, if I did it to injure
you." "In that case, thou hast done me no wrong, nor art thou guilty
of aught toward him. For he would have killed thee, if he could. So it
seems to me that I have decided well and righteously." Thus, by her own
arguments she succeeds in discovering justice, reason, and common sense,
how that there is no cause for hating him; thus she frames the matter to
conform with her desire, and by her own efforts she kindles her love, as
a bush which only smokes with the flame beneath, until some one blows
it or stirs it up. If the damsel should come in now, she would win the
quarrel for which she had been so reproached, and by which she had
been so hurt. And next morning, in fact, she appeared again, taking
the subject up where she had let it drop. Meanwhile, the lady bowed
her head, knowing she had done wrong in attacking her. But now she is
anxious to make amends, and to inquire concerning the name, character,
and lineage of the knight: so she wisely humbles herself, and says: "I
wish to beg your pardon for the insulting words of pride which in my
rage I spoke to you: I will follow your advice. So tell me now, if
possible, about the knight of whom you have spoken so much to me: what
sort of a man is he, and of what parentage? If he is suited to become
my mate, and provided he be so disposed, I promise you to make him my
husband and lord of my domain. But he will have to act in such a way
that no one can reproach me by saying: 'This is she who took him who
killed her lord.'" "In God's name, lady, so shall it be. You will have
the gentlest, noblest, and fairest lord who ever belonged to Abel's
line." "What is his name?" "My lord Yvain." "Upon my word, if he is King
Urien's son he is of no mean birth, but very noble, as I well know."
"Indeed, my lady, you say the truth." "And when shall we be able to see
him?" "In five days' time." "That would be too long; for I wish he were
already come. Let him come to-night, or to-morrow, at the latest." "My
lady, I think no one could fly so far in one day. But I shall send one
of my squires who can run fast, and who will reach King Arthur's court
at least by to-morrow night, I think; that is the place we must seek for
him." "That is a very long time. The days are long. But tell him that
to-morrow night he must be back here, and that he must make greater
haste than usual. If he will only do his best, he can do two days'
journey in one. Moreover, to-night the moon will shine; so let him turn
night into day. And when he returns I will give him whatever he wishes
me to give." "Leave all care of that to me; for you shall have him in
your hands the day after to-morrow at the very latest. Meanwhile you
shall summon your men and confer with them about the approaching visit
of the King. In order to make the customary defence of your spring it
behoves you to consult with them. None of them will be so hardy as to
dare to boast that he will present himself. In that case you will have
a good excuse for saving that it behoves you to marry again. A certain
knight, highly qualified, seeks your hand; but you do not presume to
accept him without their unanimous consent. And I warrant what the
outcome will be: I know them all to be such cowards that in order to put
on some one else the burden which would be too heavy for them, they
will fall at your feet and speak their gratitude; for thus their
responsibility will be at an end. For, whoever is afraid of his own
shadow willingly avoids, if possible, any meeting with lance or spear;
for such games a coward has no use." "Upon my word," the lady replies,
"so I would have it, and so I consent, having already conceived the plan
which you have expressed; so that is what we shall do. But why do you
tarry here? Go, without delay, and take measures to bring him here,
while I shall summon my liege-men." Thus concluded their conference. And
the damsel pretends to send to search for my lord Yvain in his country;
while every day she has him bathed, and washed, and groomed. And besides
this she prepares for him a robe of red scarlet stuff, brand new and
lined with spotted fur. There is nothing necessary for his equipment
which she does not lend to him: a golden buckle for his neck, ornamented
with precious stones which make people look well, a girdle, and a wallet
made of rich gold brocade. She fitted him out perfectly, then informed
her lady that the messenger had returned, having done his errand
well. "How is that?" she says, "is he here? Then let him come at once,
secretly and privily, while no one is here with me. See to it that no
one else come in, for I should hate to see a fourth person here." At
this the damsel went away, and returned to her guest again. However, her
face did not reveal the joy that was in her heart; indeed, she said
that her lady knew that she had been sheltering him, and was very much
incensed at her. "Further concealment is useless now. The news about
you has been so divulged that my lady knows the whole story and is very
angry with me, heaping me with blame and reproaches. But she has given
me her word that I may take you into her presence without any harm or
danger. I take it that you will have no objection to this, except for
one condition (for I must not disguise the truth, or I should be unjust
to you): she wishes to have you in her control, and she desires such
complete possession of your body that even your heart shall not be at
large." "Certainly," he said, "I readily consent to what will be no
hardship to me. I am willing to be her prisoner." "So shall you be:
I swear it by this right hand laid upon you!. Now come and, upon my
advice, demean yourself so humbly in her presence that your imprisonment
may not be grievous. Otherwise feel no concern. I do not think that your
restraint will be irksome." Then the damsel leads him off, now
alarming, now reassuring him, and speaking to him mysteriously about
the confinement in which he is to find himself; for every lover is a
prisoner. She is right in calling him a prisoner; for surely any one who
loves is no longer free.

(Vv. 1943-2036.) Taking my lord Yvain by the hand, the damsel leads him
where he will be dearly loved; but expecting to be ill received, it
is not strange if he is afraid. They found the lady seated upon a red
cushion. I assure you my lord Yvain was terrified upon entering the
room, where he found the lady who spoke not a word to him. At this he
was still more afraid, being overcome with fear at the thought that he
had been betrayed. He stood there to one side so long that the damsel
at last spoke up and said: "Five hundred curses upon the head of him who
takes into a fair lady's chamber a knight who will not draw near,
and who has neither tongue nor mouth nor sense to introduce himself."
Thereupon, taking him by the arm, she thrust him forward with the words:
"Come, step forward, knight, and have no fear that my lady is going to
snap at you; but seek her good-will and give her yours. I will join you
in your prayer that she pardon you for the death of her lord, Esclados
the Red." Then my lord Yvain clasped his hands, and failing upon his
knees, spoke like a lover with these words: "I will not crave your
pardon, lady, but rather thank you for any treatment you may inflict on
me, knowing that no act of yours could ever be distasteful to me." "Is
that so, sir? And what if I think to kill you now?" "My lady, if it
please you, you will never hear me speak otherwise." "I never heard of
such a thing as this: that you put yourself voluntarily and absolutely
within my power, without the coercion of any one." "My lady, there is
no force so strong, in truth, as that which commands me to conform
absolutely to your desire. I do not fear to carry out any order you
may be pleased to give. And if I could atone for the death, which came
through no fault of mine, I would do so cheerfully." "What?" says she,
"come tell me now and be forgiven, if you did no wrong in killing my
lord?" "Lady," he says, "if I may say it, when your lord attacked me,
why was I wrong to defend myself? When a man in self-defence kills
another who is trying to kill or capture him, tell me if in any way he
is to blame." "No, if one looks at it aright. And I suppose it would
have been no use, if I had had you put to death. But I should be glad
to learn whence you derive the force that bids you to consent
unquestioningly to whatever my will may dictate. I pardon you all your
misdeeds and crimes. But be seated, and tell us now what is the cause of
your docility?" "My lady," he says, "the impelling force comes from
my heart, which is inclined toward you. My heart has fixed me in this
desire." "And what prompted your heart, my fair sweet friend?" "Lady, my
eyes." "And what the eyes?" "The great beauty that I see in you." "And
where is beauty's fault in that?" "Lady, in this: that it makes me
love." "Love? And whom?" "You, my lady dear." "I?" "Yes, truly."
"Really? And how is that?" "To such an extent that my heart will not
stir from you, nor is it elsewhere to be found; to such an extent that I
cannot think of anything else, and I surrender myself altogether to you,
whom I love more than I love myself, and for whom, if you will, I am
equally ready to die or live." "And would you dare to undertake the
defence of my spring for love of me?" "Yes, my lady, against the world."
"Then you may know that our peace is made."

(Vv. 2037-2048.) Thus they are quickly reconciled. And the lady, having
previously consulted her lords, says: "We shall proceed from here to the
hall where my men are assembled, who, in view of the evident need, have
advised and counselled me to take a husband at their request. And I
shall do so, in view of the urgent need: here and now I give myself to
you; for I should not refuse to accept as lord, such a good knight and a
king's son."

(Vv. 2049-2328.) Now the damsel has brought about exactly what she had
desired. And my lord Yvain's mastery is more complete than could be told
or described; for the lady leads him away to the hall, which was full of
her knights and men-at-arms. And my lord Yvain was so handsome that they
all marvelled to look at him, and all, rising to their feet, salute and
bow to my lord Yvain, guessing well as they did so: "This is he whom
my lady will select. Cursed be he who opposes him! For he seems a
wonderfully fine man. Surely, the empress of Rome would be well married
with such a man. Would now that he had given his word to her, and she to
him, with clasped hand, and that the wedding might take place to-day
or tomorrow." Thus they spoke among themselves. At the end of the hall
there was a seat, and there in the sight of all the lady took her place.
And my lord Yvain made as if he intended to seat himself at her feet;
but she raised him up, and ordered the seneschal to speak aloud, so
that his speech might be heard by all. Then the seneschal began, being
neither stubborn nor slow of speech: "My lords," he said, "we are
confronted by war. Every day the King is preparing with all the haste he
can command to come to ravage our lands. Before a fortnight shall have
passed, all will have been laid waste, unless some valiant defender
shall appear. When my lady married first, not quite seven years ago, she
did it on your advice. Now her husband is dead, and she is grieved. Six
feet of earth is all he has, who formerly owned all this land, and who
was indeed its ornament. [314] It is a pity he lived so short a while.
A woman cannot bear a shield, nor does she know how to fight with lance.
It would exalt and dignify her again if she should marry some worthy
lord. Never was there greater need than now; do all of you recommend
that she take a spouse, before the custom shall lapse which has been
observed in this town for more than the past sixty years." At this, all
at once proclaim that it seems to them the right thing to do, and they
all throw themselves at her feet. They strengthen her desire by their
consent; yet she hesitates to assert her wishes until, as if against
her will, she finally speaks to the same intent as she would have done,
indeed, if every one had opposed her wish: "My lords, since it is your
wish, this knight who is seated beside me has wooed me and ardently
sought my hand. He wishes to engage himself in the defence of my rights
and in my service, for which I thank him heartily, as you do also. It is
true I have never known him in person, but I have often heard his name.
Know that he is no less a man than the son of King Urien. Beside his
illustrious lineage, he is so brave, courteous, and wise that no one
has cause to disparage him. You have all already heard, I suppose, of
my lord Yvain, and it is he who seeks my hand. When the marriage is
consummated, I shall have a more noble lord than I deserve." They all
say: "If you are prudent, this very day shall not go by without the
marriage being solemnised. For it is folly to postpone for a single hour
an advantageous act." They beseech her so insistently that she consents
to what she would have done in any case. For Love bids her do that for
which she asks counsel and advice; but there is more honour for him in
being accepted with the approval of her men. To her their prayers are
not unwelcome; rather do they stir and incite her heart to have its way.
The horse, already under speed, goes faster yet when it is spurred. In
the presence of all her lords, the lady gives herself to my lord Yvain.
From the hand of her chaplain he received the lady, Laudine de Landuc,
daughter of Duke Laudunet, of whom they sing a lay. That very day
without delay he married her, and the wedding was celebrated. There
were plenty of mitres and croziers there, for the lady had summoned her
bishops and abbots. Great was the joy and rejoicing, there were many
people, and much wealth was displayed--more than I could tell you of,
were I to devote much thought to it. It is better to keep silent than to
be inadequate. So my lord Yvain is master now, and the dead man is quite
forgot. He who killed him is now married to his wife, and they enjoy the
marriage rights. The people love and esteem their living lord more than
they ever did the dead. They served him well at his marriage-feast,
until the eve before the day when the King came to visit the marvellous
spring and its stone, bringing with him upon this expedition his
companions and all those of his household; not one was left behind. And
my lord Kay remarked: "Ah, what now has become of Yvain, who after his
dinner made the boast that he would avenge his cousin's shame? Evidently
he spoke in his cups. I believe that he has run away. He would not
dare to come back for anything. He was very presumptuous to make such a
boast. He is a bold man who dares to boast of what no one would praise
him for, and who has no proof of his great feats except the words of
some false flatterer. There is a great difference between a coward and a
hero; for the coward seated beside the fire talks loudly about himself,
holding all the rest as fools, and thinking that no one knows his real
character. A hero would be distressed at hearing his prowess related by
some one else. And yet I maintain that the coward is not wrong to praise
and vaunt himself, for he will find no one else to lie for him. If he
does not boast of his deeds, who will? All pass over him in silence,
even the heralds, who proclaim the brave, but discard the cowards." When
my lord Kay had spoken thus, my lord Gawain made this reply: "My lord
Kay, have some mercy now! Since my lord Yvain is not here, you do not
know what business occupies him. Indeed, he never so debased himself as
to speak any ill of you compared with the gracious things he has said."
"Sire," says Kay, "I'll hold my peace. I'll not say another word to-day,
since I see you are offended by my speech." Then the King, in order to
see the rain, poured a whole basin full of water upon the stone beneath
the pine, and at once the rain began to pour. It was not long before my
lord Yvain without delay entered the forest fully armed, tiding faster
than a gallop on a large, sleek steed, strong, intrepid, and fleet of
foot. And it was my lord Kay's desire to request the first encounter.
For, whatever the outcome might be, he always wished to begin the fight
and joust the first, or else he would be much incensed. Before all the
rest, he requested the King to allow him to do battle first. The King
says: "Kay, since it is your wish, and since you are the first to make
the request, the favour ought not to be denied." Kay thanks him first,
then mounts his steed. If now my lord Yvain can inflict a mild disgrace
upon him, he will be very glad to do so; for he recognises him by his
arms. [315] Each grasping his shield by the straps, they rush together.
Spurring their steeds, they lower the lances, which they hold tightly
gripped. Then they thrust them forward a little, so that they grasped
them by the leather-wrapped handles, and so that when they came together
they were able to deal such cruel blows that both lances broke in
splinters clear to the handle of the shaft. My lord Yvain gave him such
a mighty blow that Kay took a summersault from out of his saddle and
struck with his helmet on the ground. My lord Yvain has no desire to
inflict upon him further harm, but simply dismounts and takes his horse.
This pleased them all, and many said: "Ah, ah, see how you prostrate
lie, who but now held others up to scorn! And yet it is only right to
pardon you this time; for it never happened to you before." Thereupon
my lord Yvain approached the King, leading the horse in his hand by the
bridle, and wishing to make it over to him. "Sire," says he, "now take
this steed, for I should do wrong to keep back anything of yours." "And
who are you?" the King replies; "I should never know you, unless I heard
your name, or saw you without your arms." Then my lord told him who
he was, and Kay was overcome with shame, mortified, humbled, and
discomfited, for having said that he had run away. But the others were
greatly pleased, and made much of the honour he had won. Even the King
was greatly gratified, and my lord Gawain a hundred times more than any
one else. For he loved his company more than that of any other knight
he knew. And the King requested him urgently to tell him, if it be his
will, how he had fared; for he was very curious to learn all about his
adventure; so the King begs him to tell the truth. And he soon told him
all about the service and kindness of the damsel, not passing over
a single word, not forgetting to mention anything. And after this he
invited the King and all his knights to come to lodge with him, saying
they would be doing him great honour in accepting his hospitality. And
the King said that for an entire week he would gladly do him the honour
and pleasure, and would bear him company. And when my lord Yvain had
thanked him, they tarry no longer there, but mount and take the most
direct road to the town. My lord Yvain sends in advance of the company
a squire beating a crane-falcon, in order that they might not take the
lady by surprise, and that her people might decorate the streets against
the arrival of the King. When the lady heard the news of the King's
visit she was greatly pleased; nor was there any one who, upon hearing
the news, was not happy and elated. And the lady summons them all and
requests them to go to meet him, to which they make no objection or
remonstrance, all being anxious to do her will.

(Vv. 2329-2414.) [316] Mounted on great Spanish steeds, they all go to
meet the King of Britain, saluting King Arthur first with great courtesy
and then all his company. "Welcome," they say, "to this company, so full
of honourable men! Blessed be he who brings them hither and presents us
with such fair guests!" At the King's arrival the town resounds with
the joyous welcome which they give. Silken stuffs are taken out and hung
aloft as decorations, and they spread tapestries to walk upon and drape
the streets with them, while they wait for the King's approach. And they
make still another preparation, in covering the streets with awnings
against the hot rays of the sun. Bells, horns, and trumpets cause
the town to ring so that God's thunder could not have been heard. The
maidens dance before him, flutes and pipes are played, kettle-drums,
drums, and cymbals are beaten. On their part the nimble youths leap, and
all strive to show their delight. With such evidence of their joy, they
welcome the King fittingly. And the Lady came forth, dressed in imperial
garb a robe of fresh ermine--and upon her head she wore a diadem all
ornamented with rubies. No cloud was there upon her face, but it was
so gay and full of joy that she was more beautiful, I think, than any
goddess. Around her the crowd pressed close, as they cried with one
accord: "Welcome to the King of kings and lord of lords!" The King could
not reply to all before he saw the lady coming toward him to hold his
stirrup. However, he would not wait for this, but hastened to dismount
himself as soon as he caught sight of her. Then she salutes him with
these words: "Welcome a hundred thousand times to the King, my lord, and
blessed be his nephew, my lord Gawain!" The King replies: "I wish
all happiness and good luck to your fair body and your face, lovely
creature!" Then clasping her around the waist, the King embraced her
gaily and heartily as she did him, throwing her arms about him. I will
say no more of how gladly she welcomed them, but no one ever heard of
any people who were so honourably received and served. I might tell you
much of the joy should I not be wasting words, but I wish to make brief
mention of an acquaintance which was made in private between the moon
and the sun. Do you know of whom I mean to speak? He who was lord of the
knights, and who was renowned above them all, ought surely to be called
the sun. I refer, of course, to my lord Gawain, for chivalry is enhanced
by him just as when the morning sun sheds its rays abroad and lights all
places where it shines. And I call her the moon, who cannot be otherwise
because of her sense and courtesy. However, I call her so not only
because of her good repute, but because her name is, in fact, Lunete.

(Vv. 2415-2538.) The damsel's name was Lunete, and she was a charming
brunette, prudent, clever, and polite. As her acquaintance grows with
my lord Gawain, he values her highly and gives her his love as to his
sweetheart, because she had saved from death his companion and friend;
he places himself freely at her service. On her part she describes and
relates to him with what difficulty she persuaded her mistress to take
my lord Yvain as her husband, and how she protected him from the hands
of those who were seeking him; how he was in their midst but they did
not see him. My lord Gawain laughed aloud at this story of hers, and
then he said: "Mademoiselle, when you need me and when you don't, such
as I am, I place myself at your disposal. Never throw me off for some
one else when you think you can improve your lot. I am yours, and do
you be from now on my demoiselle!" "I thank you kindly, sire," she said.
While the acquaintance of these two was ripening thus, the others, too,
were engaged in flirting. For there were perhaps ninety ladies there,
each of whom was fair and charming, noble and polite, virtuous and
prudent, and a lady of exalted birth, so the men could agreeably employ
themselves in caressing and kissing them, and in talking to them and
in gazing at them while they were seated by their side; that much
satisfaction they had at least. My lord Yvain is in high feather because
the King is lodged with him. And the lady bestows such attention upon
them all, as individuals and collectively, that some foolish person
might suppose that the charming attentions which she showed them were
dictated by love. But such persons may properly be rated as fools for
thinking that a lady is in love with them just because she is courteous
and speaks to some unfortunate fellow, and makes him happy and caresses
him. A fool is made happy by fair words, and is very easily taken in.
That entire week they spent in gaiety; forest and stream offered plenty
of sport for any one who desired it. And whoever wished to see the land
which had come into the hands of my lord Yvain with the lady whom he
had married, could go to enjoy himself at one of the castles which stood
within a radius of two, three, or four leagues. When the King had stayed
as long as he chose, he made ready to depart. But during the week they
had all begged urgently, and with all the insistence at their command,
that they might take away my lord Yvain with them. "What? Will you
be one of those." said my lord Gawain to him, "who degenerate after
marriage? [317] Cursed be he by Saint Mary who marries and then
degenerates! Whoever has a fair lady as his mistress or his wife should
be the better for it, and it is not right that her affection should be
bestowed on him after his worth and reputation are gone. Surely you,
too, would have cause to regret her love if you grew soft, for a
woman quickly withdraws her love, and rightly so, and despises him who
degenerates in any way when he has become lord of the realm. Now ought
your fame to be increased! Slip off the bridle and halter and come to
the tournament with me, that no one may say that you are jealous. Now
you must no longer hesitate to frequent the lists, to share in the
onslaught, and to contend with force, whatever effort it may cost!
Inaction produces indifference. But, really, you must come, for I shall
be in your company. Have a care that our comradeship shall not fail
through any fault of yours, fair companion; for my part, you may count
on me. It is strange how a man sets store by the life of ease which
has no end. Pleasures grow sweeter through postponement; and a little
pleasure, when delayed, is much sweeter to the taste than great pleasure
enjoyed at once. The sweets of a love which develops late are like
a fire in a green bush; for the longer one delays in lighting it the
greater will be the heat it yields, and the longer will its force
endure. One may easily fall into habits which it is very difficult
to shake off, for when one desires to do so, he finds he has lost the
power. Don't misunderstand my words, my friend: if I had such a fair
mistress as you have, I call God and His saints to witness, I should
leave her most reluctantly; indeed, I should doubtless be infatuated.
But a man may give another counsel, which he would not take himself,
just as the preachers, who are deceitful rascals, and preach and
proclaim the right but who do not follow it themselves."

(Vv. 2539-2578.) My lord Gawain spoke at such length and so urgently
that he promised him that he would go; but he said that he must consult
his lady and ask for her consent. Whether it be a foolish or a prudent
thing to do, he will not fail to ask her leave to return to Britain.
Then he took counsel with his wife, who had no inkling of the permission
he desired, as he addressed her with these words: "My beloved lady, my
heart and soul, my treasure, joy, and happiness, grant me now a favour
which will redound to your honour and to mine." The lady at once gives
her consent, not knowing what his desire is, and says: "Fair lord, you
may command me your pleasure, whatever it be." Then my lord Yvain
at once asks her for permission to escort the King and to attend at
tournaments, that no one may reproach his indolence. And she replies:
"I grant you leave until a certain date; but be sure that my love will
change to hate if you stay beyond the term that I shall fix. Remember
that I shall keep my word; if you break your word I will keep mine. If
you wish to possess my love, and if you have any regard for me, remember
to come back again at the latest a year from the present date a week
after St. John's day; for to-day is the eighth day since that feast.
You will be checkmated of my love if you are not restored to me on that
day."

(Vv. 2579-2635.) My lord Yvain weeps and sighs so bitterly that he can
hardly find words to say: "My lady, this date is indeed a long way off.
If I could be a dove, whenever the fancy came to me, I should often
rejoin you here. And I pray God that in His pleasure He may not detain
me so long away. But sometimes a man intends speedily to return who
knows not what the future has in store for him. And I know not what will
be my fate--perhaps some urgency of sickness or imprisonment may keep
me back: you are unjust in not making an exception at least of actual
hindrance." "My lord," says she, "I will make that exception. And yet
I dare to promise you that, if God deliver you from death, no hindrance
will stand in your way so long as you remember me. So put on your finger
now this ring of mine, which I lend to you. And I will tell you all
about the stone: no true and loyal lover can be imprisoned or lose any
blood, nor can any harm befall him, provided he carry it and hold it
dear, and keep his sweetheart in mind. You will become as hard as iron,
and it will serve you as shield and hauberk. I have never before been
willing to lend or entrust it to any knight, but to you I give it
because of my affection for you." Now my lord Yvain is free to go, but
he weeps bitterly on taking leave. The King, however, would not tarry
longer for anything that might be said: rather was he anxious to have
the palfreys brought all equipped and bridled. They acceded at once to
his desire, bringing the palfreys forth, so that it remained only to
mount. I do not know whether I ought to tell you how my lord Yvain took
his leave, and of the kisses bestowed on him, mingled with tears and
steeped in sweetness. And what shall I tell you about the King how the
lady escorts him, accompanied by her damsels and seneschal? All this
would require too much time. When he sees the lady's tears, the King
implores her to come no farther, but to return to her abode. He begged
her with such urgency that, heavy at heart, she turned about followed by
her company.

(Vv. 2639-2773.) My lord Yvain is so distressed to leave his lady that
his heart remains behind. The King may take his body off, but he cannot
lead his heart away. She who stays behind clings so tightly to his heart
that the King has not the power to take it away with him. When the body
is left without the heart it cannot possibly live on. For such a marvel
was never seen as the body alive without the heart. Yet this marvel now
came about: for he kept his body without the heart, which was wont to be
enclosed in it, but which would not follow the body now. The heart has
a good abiding-place, while the body, hoping for a safe return to its
heart, in strange fashion takes a new heart of hope, which is so often
deceitful and treacherous. He will never know in advance, I think, the
hour when this hope will play him false, for if he overstays by single
day the term which he has agreed upon, it will be hard for him to gain
again his lady's pardon and goodwill. Yet I think he will overstay
the term, for my lord Gawain will not allow him to part from him, as
together they go to joust wherever tournaments are held. And as the year
passes by my lord Yvain had such success that my lord Gawain strove
to honour him, and caused him to delay so long that all the first year
slipped by, and it came to the middle of August of the ensuing year,
when the King held court at Chester, whither they had returned the day
before from a tournament where my lord Yvain had been and where he had
won the glory and the story tells how the two companions were unwilling
to lodge in the town, but had their tents set up outside the city, and
held court there. For they never went to the royal court, but the King
came rather to join in theirs, for they had the best knights, and the
greatest number, in their company. Now King Arthur was seated in their
midst, when Yvain suddenly had a thought which surprised him more than
any that had occurred to him since he had taken leave of his lady, for
he realised that he had broken his word, and that the limit of his
leave was already exceeded. He could hardly keep back his tears, but he
succeeded in doing so from shame. He was still deep in thought when
he saw a damsel approaching rapidly upon a black palfrey with white
forefeet. As she got down before the tent no one helped her to dismount,
and no one went to take her horse. As soon as she made out the King, she
let her mantle fall, and thus displayed she entered the tent and came
before the King, announcing that her mistress sent greetings to the
King, and to my lord Gawain and all the other knights, except
Yvain, that disloyal traitor, liar, hypocrite, who had deserted her
deceitfully. "She has seen clearly the treachery of him who pretended
he was a faithful lover while he was a false and treacherous thief. This
thief has traduced my lady, who was all unprepared for any evil, and
to whom it never occurred that he would steal her heart away. Those who
love truly do not steal hearts away; there are, however, some men,
by whom these former are called thieves, who themselves go about
deceitfully making love, but in whom there is no real knowledge of the
matter. The lover takes his lady's heart, of course, but he does not run
away with it; rather does he treasure it against those thieves who,
in the guise of honourable men, would steal it from him. But those are
deceitful and treacherous thieves who vie with one another in stealing
hearts for which they care nothing. The true lover, wherever he may go,
holds the heart dear and brings it back again. But Yvain has caused my
lady's death, for she supposed that he would guard her heart for her,
and would bring it back again before the year elapsed. Yvain, thou wast
of short memory when thou couldst not remember to return to thy mistress
within a year. She gave thee thy liberty until St. John's day, and thou
settest so little store by her that never since has a thought of her
crossed thy mind. My lady had marked every day in her chamber, as the
seasons passed: for when one is in love, one is ill at ease and cannot
get any restful sleep, but all night long must needs count and reckon
up the days as they come and go. Dost thou know how lovers spend their
time? They keep count of the time and the season. Her complaint is not
presented prematurely or without cause, and I am not accusing him in any
way, but I simply say that we have been betrayed by him who married
my lady. Yvain, my mistress has no further care for thee, but sends thee
word by me never to come back to her, and no longer to keep her ring.
She bids thee send it back to her by me, whom thou seest present here.
Surrender it now, as thou art bound to do."

(Vv. 2774-3230.) Senseless and deprived of speech, Yvain is unable to
reply. And the damsel steps forth and takes the ring from his finger,
commending to God the King and all the others except him, whom she
leaves in deep distress. And his sorrow grows on him: he feels oppressed
by what he hears, and is tormented by what he sees. He would rather be
banished alone in some wild land, where no one would know where to seek
for him, and where no man or woman would know of his whereabouts any
more than if he were in some deep abyss. He hates nothing so much as he
hates himself, nor does he know to whom to go for comfort in the death
he has brought upon himself. But he would rather go insane than not
take vengeance upon himself, deprived, as he is, of joy through his own
fault. He rises from his place among the knights, fearing he will lose
his mind if he stays longer in their midst. On their part, they pay no
heed to him, but let him take his departure alone. They know well enough
that he cares nothing for their talk or their society. And he goes away
until he is far from the tents and pavilions. Then such a storm broke
loose in his brain that he loses his senses; he tears his flesh and,
stripping off his clothes, he flees across the meadows and fields,
leaving his men quite at a loss, and wondering what has become of him.
[318] They go in search of him through all the country around--in the
lodgings of the knights, by the hedgerows, and in the gardens--but they
seek him where he is not to be found. Still fleeing, he rapidly pursued
his way until he met close by a park a lad who had in his hand a bow and
five barbed arrows, which were very sharp and broad. He had sense enough
to go and take the bow and arrows which he held. However, he had no
recollection of anything that he had done. He lies in wait for the
beasts in the woods, killing them, and then eating the venison raw. Thus
he dwelt in the forest like a madman or a savage, until he came upon a
little, low-lying house belonging to a hermit, who was at work clearing
his ground. When he saw him coming with nothing on, he could easily
perceive that he was not in his right mind; and such was the case, as
the hermit very well knew. So, in fear, he shut himself up in his little
house, and taking some bread and fresh water, he charitably set it
outside the house on a narrow window-ledge. And thither the other comes,
hungry for the bread which he takes and eats. I do not believe that he
ever before had tasted such hard and bitter bread. The measure of barley
kneaded with the straw, of which the bread, sourer than yeast, was made,
had not cost more than five sous; and the bread was musty and as dry
as bark. But hunger torments and whets his appetite, so that the
bread tasted to him like sauce. For hunger is itself a well mixed and
concocted sauce for any food. My lord Yvain soon ate the hermit's bread,
which tasted good to him, and drank the cool water from the jar. When he
had eaten, he betook himself again to the woods in search of stags and
does. And when he sees him going away, the good man beneath his roof
prays God to defend him and guard him lest he ever pass that way again.
But there is no creature, with howsoever little sense, that will not
gladly return to a place where he is kindly treated. So, not a day
passed while he was in this mad fit that he did not bring to his door
some wild game. Such was the life he led; and the good man took it upon
himself to remove the skin and set a good quantity of the venison to
cook; and the bread and the water in the jug was always standing on the
window-ledge for the madman to make a meal. Thus he had something to eat
and drink: venison without salt or pepper, and good cool water from the
spring. And the good man exerted himself to sell the hide and buy bread
made of barley, or oats, or of some other grain; so, after that, Yvain
had a plentiful supply of bread and venison, which sufficed him for
a long time, until one day he was found asleep in the forest by two
damsels and their mistress, in whose service they were. When they saw
the naked man, one of the three ran and dismounted and examined him
closely, before she saw anything about him which would serve to identify
him. If he had only been richly attired, as he had been many a time, and
if she could have seen him then she would have known him quickly enough.
But she was slow to recognise him, and continued to look at him until
at last she noticed a scar which he had on his face, and she recollected
that my lord Yvain's face was scarred in this same way; she was sure of
it, for she had often seen it. Because of the scar she saw that it was
he beyond any doubt; but she marvelled greatly how it came about that
she found him thus poor and stripped. Often she crosses herself in
amazement, but she does not touch him or wake him up; rather does
she mount her horse again, and going back to the others, tells them
tearfully of her adventure. I do not know if I ought to delay to tell
you of the grief she showed; but thus she spoke weeping to her mistress:
"My lady, I have found Yvain, who has proved himself to be the best
knight in the world, and the most virtuous. I cannot imagine what sin
has reduced the gentleman to such a plight. I think he must have had
some misfortune, which causes him thus to demean himself, for one may
lose his wits through grief. And any one can see that he is not in his
right mind, for it would surely never be like him to conduct himself
thus indecently unless he had lost his mind. Would that God had restored
to him the best sense he ever had, and would that he might then consent
to render assistance to your cause! For Count Alier, who is at war with
you, has made upon you a fierce attack. I should see the strife between
you two quickly settled in your favour if God favoured your fortunes
so that he should return to his senses and undertake to aid you in this
stress." To this the lady made reply: "Take care now! For surely, if he
does not escape, with God's help I think we can clear his head of all
the madness and insanity. But we must be on our way at once! For I
recall a certain ointment with which Morgan the Wise presented me,
saying there was no delirium of the head which it would not cure."
Thereupon, they go off at once toward the town, which was hard by, for
it was not any more than half a league of the kind they have in that
country; and, as compared with ours, two of their leagues make one and
four make two. And he remains sleeping all alone, while the lady goes
to fetch the ointment. The lady opens a case of hers, and, taking out a
box, gives it to the damsel, and charges her not to be too prodigal in
its use: she should rub only his temples with it, for there is no use of
applying it elsewhere; she should anoint only his temples with it, and
the remainder she should carefully keep, for there is nothing the matter
with him except in his brain. She sends him also a robe of spotted fur,
a coat, and a mantle of scarlet silk. The damsel takes them, and leads
in her right hand an excellent palfrey. And she added to these, of her
own store, a shirt, some soft hose, and some new drawers of proper cut.
With all these things she quickly set out, and found him still asleep
where she had left him. After putting her horse in an enclosure where
she tied him fast, she came with the clothes and the ointment to the
place where he was asleep. Then she made so bold as to approach the
madman, so that she could touch and handle him: then taking the
ointment she rubbed him with it until none remained in the box, being
so solicitous for his recovery that she proceeded to anoint him all over
with it; and she used it so freely that she heeded not the warning of
her mistress, nor indeed did she remember it. She put more on than was
needed, but in her opinion it was well employed. She rubbed his temples
and forehead, and his whole body down to the ankles. She rubbed his
temples and his whole body so much there in the hot sunshine that the
madness and the depressing gloom passed completely out of his brain. But
she was foolish to anoint his body, for of that there was no need. If
she had had five measures of it she would doubtless have done the same
thing. She carries off the box, and takes hidden refuge by her horse.
But she leaves the robe behind, wishing that, if God calls him back to
life, he may see it all laid out, and may take it and put it on. She
posts herself behind an oak tree until he had slept enough, and was
cured and quite restored, having regained his wits and memory. Then he
sees that he is as naked as ivory, and feels much ashamed; but he would
have been yet more ashamed had he known what had happened. As it is, he
knows nothing but that he is naked. He sees the new robe lying before
him, and marvels greatly how and by what adventure it had come there.
But he is ashamed and concerned, because of his nakedness, and says that
he is dead and utterly undone if any one has come upon him there and
recognised him. Meanwhile, he clothes himself and looks out into the
forest to see if any one was approaching. He tries to stand up and
support himself, but cannot summon the strength to walk away, for his
sickness has so affected him that he can scarcely stand upon his feet.
Thereupon, the damsel resolves to wait no longer, but, mounting, she
passed close by him, as if unaware of his presence. Quite indifferent as
to whence might come the help, which he needed so much to lead him away
to some lodging-place, where he might recruit his strength, he calls out
to her with all his might. And the damsel, for her part, looks about
her as if not knowing what the trouble is. Confused, she goes hither and
thither, not wishing to go straight up to him. Then he begins to call
again: "Damsel, come this way, here!" And the damsel guided toward him
her soft-stepping palfrey. By this ruse she made him think that she knew
nothing of him and had never seen him before; in so doing she was wise
and courteous. When she had come before him, she said: "Sir knight, what
do you desire that you call me so insistently?" "Ah," said he, "prudent
damsel, I have found myself in this wood by some mishap--I know not
what. For God's sake and your belief in Him, I pray you to lend me,
taking my word as pledge, or else to give me outright, that palfrey
you are leading in your hand." "Gladly, sire: but you must accompany me
whither I am going." "Which way?" says he. "To a town that stands near
by, beyond the forest." "Tell me, damsel, if you stand in need of me."
"Yes," she says, "I do; but I think you are not very well. For the next
two weeks at least you ought to rest. Take this horse, which I hold in
my right hand, and we shall go to our lodging-place." And he, who had no
other desire, takes it and mounts, and they proceed until they come to a
bridge over a swift and turbulent stream. And the damsel throws into the
water the empty box she is carrying, thinking to excuse herself to her
mistress for her ointment by saying that she was so unlucky as to let
the box fall into the water for, when her palfrey stumbled under her,
the box slipped from her gasp, and she came near falling in too, which
would have been still worse luck. It is her intention to invent this
story when she comes into her mistress' presence. Together they held
their way until they came to the town, where the lady detained my lord
Yvain and asked her damsel in private for her box and ointment: and the
damsel repeated to her the lie as she had invented it, not daring to
tell her the truth. Then the lady was greatly enraged, and said: "This
is certainly a very serious loss, and I am sure and certain that the
box will never be found again. But since it has happened so, there is
nothing more to be done about it. One often desires a blessing which
turns out to be a curse; thus I, who looked for a blessing and joy from
this knight, have lost the dearest and most precious of my possessions.
However, I beg you to serve him in all respects." "Ah, lady, how wisely
now you speak! For it would be too bad to convert one misfortune into
two."

(Vv. 3131-3254.) Then they say no more about the box, but minister in
every way they can to the comfort of my lord Yvain, bathing him and
washing his hair, having him shaved and clipped, for one could have
taken up a fist full of hair upon his face. His every want is satisfied:
if he asks for arms, they are furnished him: if he wants a horse, they
provide him with one that is large and handsome, strong and spirited.
He stayed there until, upon a Tuesday, Count Alier came to the town with
his men and knights, who started fires and took plunder. Those in the
town at once rose up and equipped themselves with arms. Some armed and
some unarmed, they issued forth to meet the plunderers, who did not
deign to retreat before them, but awaited them in a narrow pass. My lord
Yvain struck at the crowd; he had had so long a rest that his strength
was quite restored, and he struck a knight upon his shield with such
force that he sent down in a heap, I think, the knight together with his
horse. The knight never rose again, for his backbone was broken and
his heart burst within his breast. My lord Yvain drew back a little to
recover. Then protecting himself completely with his shield, he spurred
forward to clear the pass. One could not have counted up to four before
one would have seen him cast down speedily four knights. Whereupon,
those who were with him waxed more brave, for many a man of poor and
timid heart, at the sight of some brave man who attacks a dangerous task
before his eyes, will be overwhelmed by confusion and shame, which will
drive out the poor heart in his body and give him another like to a
hero's for courage. So these men grew brave and each stood his ground in
the fight and attack. And the lady was up in the tower, whence she saw
the fighting and the rush to win and gain possession of the pass, and
she saw lying upon the ground many who were wounded and many killed,
both of her own party and of the enemy, but more of the enemy than of
her own. For my courteous, bold, and excellent lord Yvain made them
yield just as a falcon does the teal. And the men and women who had
remained within the town declared as they watched the strife: "Ah, what
a valiant knight! How he makes his enemies yield, and how fierce is his
attack! He was about him as a lion among the fallow deer, when he is
impelled by need and hunger. Then, too, all our other knights are more
brave and daring because of him, for, were it not for him alone, not a
lance would have been splintered nor a sword drawn to strike. When such
an excellent man is found he ought to be loved and dearly prized. See
now how he proves himself, see how he maintains his place, see how he
stains with blood his lance and bare sword, see how he presses the enemy
and follows them up, how he comes boldly to attack them, then gives
away and turns about; but he spends little time in giving away, and soon
returns to the attack. See him in the fray again, how lightly he esteems
his shield, which he allows to be cut in pieces mercilessly. Just see
how keen he is to avenge the blows which are dealt at him. For, if some
one should use all the forest of Argone [319] to make lances for him,
I guess he would have none left by night. For he breaks all the lances
that they place in his socket, and calls for more. And see how he
wields the sword when he draws it! Roland never wrought such havoc with
Durendal against the Turks at Ronceval or in Spain! [320] If he had in
his company some good companions like himself, the traitor, whose attack
we are suffering, would retreat today discomfited, or would stand his
ground only to find defeat." Then they say that the woman would be
blessed who should be loved by one who is so powerful in arms, and who
above all others may be recognised as a taper among candles, as a moon
among the stars, and as the sun above the moon. He so won the hearts of
all that the prowess which they see in him made them wish that he had
taken their lady to wife, and that he were master of the land.

(Vv. 3255-3340.) Thus men and women alike praised him, and in doing so
they but told the truth. For his attack on his adversaries was such
that they vie with one another in flight. But he presses hard upon their
heels, and all his companions follow him, for by his side they feel
as safe as if they were enclosed in a high and thick stone wall.
The pursuit continues until those who flee become exhausted, and the
pursuers slash at them and disembowel their steeds. The living roll
over upon the dead as they wound and kill each other. They work dreadful
destruction upon each other; and meanwhile the Count flees with my
lord Yvain after him, until he comes up with him at the foot of a steep
ascent, near the entrance of a strong place which belonged to the Count.
There the Count was stopped, with no one near to lend him aid; and
without any excessive parley my lord Yvain received his surrender. For
as soon as he held him in his hands, and they were left just man to
man, there was no further possibility of escape, or of yielding, or of
self-defence; so the Count pledged his word to go to surrender to the
lady of Noroison as her prisoner, and to make such peace as she might
dictate. And when he had accepted his word he made him disarm his head
and remove the shield from about his neck, and the Count surrendered to
him his sword. Thus he won the honour of leading off the Count as his
prisoner, and of giving him over to his enemies, who make no secret of
their joy. But the news was carried to the town before they themselves
arrived. While all come forth to meet them, the lady herself leads the
way. My lord Yvain holds his prisoner by the hand, and presents him to
her. The Count gladly acceded to her wishes and demands, and secured
her by his word, oath, and pledges. Giving her pledges, he swears to her
that he will always live on peaceful terms with her, and will make good
to her all the loss which she can prove, and will build up again the
houses which he had destroyed. When these things were agreed upon in
accordance with the lady's wish, my lord Yvain asked leave to depart.
But she would not have granted him this permission had he been willing
to take her as his mistress, or to marry her. But he would not allow
himself to be followed or escorted a single step, but rather departed
hastily: in this case entreaty was of no avail. So he started out to
retrace his path, leaving the lady much chagrined, whose joy he had
caused a while before. When he will not tarry longer she is the more
distressed and ill at ease in proportion to the happiness he had brought
to her, for she would have wished to honour him, and would have made
him, with his consent, lord of all her possessions, or else she would
have paid him for his services whatever sum he might have named. But he
would not heed any word of man or woman. Despite their grief he left the
knights and the lady who vainly tried to detain him longer.

(Vv. 3341-3484.) Pensively my lord Yvain proceeded through a deep wood,
until he heard among the trees a very loud and dismal cry, and he turned
in the direction whence it seemed to come. And when he had arrived upon
the spot he saw in a cleared space a lion, and a serpent which held
him by the tail, burning his hind-quarters with flames of fire. My lord
Yvain did not gape at this strange spectacle, but took counsel with
himself as to which of the two he should aid. Then he says that he will
succour the lion, for a treacherous and venomous creature deserves to
be harmed. Now the serpent is poisonous, and fire bursts forth from its
mouth--so full of wickedness is the creature. So my lord Yvain decides
that he will kill the serpent first. Drawing his sword he steps forward,
holding the shield before his face in order not to be harmed by the
flame emerging from the creature's throat, which was larger than a pot.
If the lion attacks him next, he too shall have all the fight he wishes;
but whatever may happen afterwards he makes up his mind to help him now.
For pity urges him and makes request that he should bear succour and aid
to the gentle and noble beast. With his sword, which cuts so clean, he
attacks the wicked serpent, first cleaving him through to the earth and
cutting him in two, then continuing his blows until he reduces him to
tiny bits. But he had to cut off a piece of the lion's tail to get at
the serpent's head, which held the lion by the tail. He cut off only so
much as was necessary and unavoidable. When he had set the lion free, he
supposed that he would have to fight with him, and that the lion would
come at him; but the lion was not minded so. Just hear now what the
lion did! He acted nobly and as one well-bred; for he began to make
it evident that he yielded himself to him, by standing upon his two
hind-feet and bowing his face to the earth, with his fore-feet joined
and stretched out toward him. Then he fell on his knees again, and all
his face was wet with the tears of humility. My lord Yvain knows for a
truth that the lion is thanking him and doing him homage because of the
serpent which he had killed, thereby delivering him from death. He was
greatly pleased by this episode. He cleaned his sword of the serpent's
poison and filth; then he replaced it in its scabbard, and resumed his
way. And the lion walks close by his side, unwilling henceforth to part
from him: he will always in future accompany him, eager to serve and
protect him. [321] He goes ahead until he scents in the wind upon his
way some wild beasts feeding; then hunger and his nature prompt him to
seek his prey and to secure his sustenance. It is his nature so to do.
He started ahead a little on the trail, thus showing his master that he
had come upon and detected the odour and scent of some wild game.
Then he looks at him and halts, wishing to serve his every wish, and
unwilling to proceed against his will. Yvain understands by his attitude
that he is showing that he awaits his pleasure. He perceives this and
understands that if he holds back he will hold back too, and that if he
follows him he will seize the game which he has scented. Then he incites
and cries to him, as he would do to hunting-dogs. At once the lion
directed his nose to the scent which he had detected, and by which he
was not deceived, for he had not gone a bow-shot when he saw in a valley
a deer grazing all alone. This deer he will seize, if he has his way.
And so he did, at the first spring, and then drank its blood still warm.
When he had killed it he laid it upon his back and carried it back to
his master, who thereupon conceived a greater affection for him, and
chose him as a companion for all his life, because of the great devotion
he found in him. It was near nightfall now, and it seemed good to him
to spend the night there, and strip from the deer as much as he cared to
eat. Beginning to carve it he splits the skin along the rib, and taking
a steak from the loin he strikes from a flint a spark, which he catches
in some dry brush-wood; then he quickly puts his steak upon a roasting
spit to cook before the fire, and roasts it until it is quite cooked
through. But there was no pleasure in the meal, for there was no bread,
or wine, or salt, or cloth, or knife, or anything else. While he was
eating, the lion lay at his feet; nor a movement did he make, but
watched him steadily until he had eaten all that he could eat of the
steak. What remained of the deer the lion devoured, even to the bones.
And while all night his master laid his head upon his shield to gain
such rest as that afforded, the lion showed such intelligence that he
kept awake, and was careful to guard the horse as it fed upon the grass,
which yielded some slight nourishment.

(Vv. 3485-3562.) In the morning they go off together, and the same sort
of existence, it seems, as they had led that night, they two continued
to lead all the ensuing week, until chance brought them to the spring
beneath the pine-tree. There my lord Yvain almost lost his wits a second
time, as he approached the spring, with its stone and the chapel that
stood close by. So great was his distress that a thousand times he
sighed "alas!" and grieving fell in a swoon; and the point of his sharp
sword, falling from its scabbard, pierced the meshes of his hauberk
right in the neck beside the cheek. There is not a mesh that does not
spread, and the sword cuts the flesh of his neck beneath the shining
mail, so that it causes the blood to start. Then the lion thinks that
he sees his master and companion dead. You never heard greater grief
narrated or told about anything than he now began to show. He casts
himself about, and scratches and cries, and has the wish to kill himself
with the sword with which he thinks his master has killed himself.
Taking the sword from him with his teeth he lays it on a fallen tree,
and steadies it on a trunk behind, so that it will not slip or give
way, when he hurls his breast against it, His intention was nearly
accomplished when his master recovered from his swoon, and the lion
restrained himself as he was blindly rushing upon death, like a wild
boar heedless of where he wounds himself. Thus my lord Yvain lies in
a swoon beside the stone, but, on recovering, he violently reproached
himself for the year during which he had overstayed his leave, and
for which he had incurred his lady's hate, and he said: "Why does this
wretch not kill himself who has thus deprived himself of joy? Alas! why
do I not take my life? How can I stay here and look upon what belongs
to my lady? Why does the soul still tarry in my body? What is the soul
doing in so miserable a frame? If it had already escaped away it would
not be in such torment. It is fitting to hate and blame and despise
myself, even as in fact I do. Whoever loses his bliss and contentment
through fault or error of his own ought to hate himself mortally. He
ought to hate and kill himself. And now, when no one is looking on, why
do I thus spare myself? Why do I not take my life? Have I not seen this
lion a prey to such grief on my behalf that he was on the point just now
of thrusting my sword through his breast? And ought I to fear death who
have changed happiness into grief? Joy is now a stranger to me. Joy?
What joy is that? I shall say no more of that, for no one could speak of
such a thing; and I have asked a foolish question. That was the greatest
joy of all which was assured as my possession, but it endured for but
a little while. Whoever loses such joy through his own misdeed is
undeserving of happiness."

(Vv. 3563-3898.) While he thus bemoaned his fate, a lorn damsel in sorry
plight, who was in the chapel, saw him and heard his words through
a crack in the wall. As soon as he was recovered from his swoon, she
called to him: "God," said she, "who is that I hear? Who is it that thus
complains?" And he replied: "And who are you?" "I am a wretched one,"
she said, "the most miserable thing alive." And he replied: "Be silent,
foolish one! Thy grief is joy and thy sorrow is bliss compared with that
in which I am cast down. In proportion as a man becomes more accustomed
to happiness and joy, so is he more distracted and stunned than any
other man by sorrow when it comes. A man of little strength can carry,
through custom and habit, a weight which another man of greater strength
could not carry for anything." "Upon my word," she said, "I know
the truth of that remark; but that is no reason to believe that your
misfortune is worse than mine. Indeed, I do not believe it at all, for
it seems to me that you can go anywhere you choose to go, whereas I am
imprisoned here, and such a fate is my portion that to-morrow I shall be
seized and delivered to mortal judgment." "Ah, God!" said he, "and for
what crime?" "Sir knight, may God never have mercy upon my soul, if I
have merited such a fate! Nevertheless, I shall tell you truly, without
deception, why I am here in prison: I am charged with treason, and I
cannot find any one to defend me from being burned or hanged to-morrow."
"In the first place," he replied, "I may say that my grief and woe are
greater than yours, for you may yet be delivered by some one from the
peril in which you are. Is that not true:" "Yes, but I know not yet by
whom. There are only two men in the world who would dare on my behalf
to face three men in battle." "What? In God's name, are there three
of them?" "Yes, sire, upon my word. There are three who accuse me of
treachery." "And who are they who are so devoted to you that either one
of them would be bold enough to fight against three in your defence?" "I
will answer your question truthfully: one of them is my lord Gawain, and
the other is my lord Yvain, because of whom I shall to-morrow be handed
over unjustly to the martyrdom of death." "Because of whom?" he asked,
"what did you say?" "Sire, so help me God, because of the son of King
Urien." "Now I understand your words, but you shall not die, without
he dies too. I myself am that Yvain, because of whom you are in such
distress. And you, I take it, are she who once guarded me safely in the
hall, and saved my life and my body between the two portcullises, when I
was troubled and distressed, and alarmed at being trapped. I should have
been killed or seized, had it not been for your kind aid. Now tell me,
my gentle friend, who are those who now accuse you of treachery, and
have confined you in this lonely place?" "Sire, I shall not conceal it
from you, since you desire me to tell you all. It is a fact that I was
not slow in honestly aiding you. Upon my advice my lady received you,
after heeding my opinion and my counsel. And by the Holy Paternoster,
more for her welfare than for your own I thought I was doing it, and I
think so still. So much now I confess to you: it was her honour and
your desire that I sought to serve, so help me God! But when it became
evident that you had overstayed the year when you should return to my
mistress, then she became enraged at me, and thought that she had been
deceived by putting trust in my advice. And when this was discovered by
the seneschal--a rascally, underhanded, disloyal wretch, who was jealous
of me because in many matters my lady trusted me more than she trusted
him, he saw that he could now stir up great enmity between me and
her. In full court and in the presence of all he accused me of having
betrayed her in your favour. And I had no counsel or aid except my own;
but I knew that I had never done or conceived any treacherous act toward
my lady, so I cried out, as one beside herself, and without the advice
of any one, that I would present in my own defence one knight who should
fight against three. The fellow was not courteous enough to scorn
to accept such odds, nor was I at liberty to retreat or withdraw
for anything that might happen. So he took me at my word, and I was
compelled to furnish bail that I would present within forty days a
knight to do battle against three knights. Since then I have visited
many courts; I was at King Arthur's court, but found no help from any
there, nor did I find any one who could tell me any good news of you,
for they knew nothing of your affairs." "Pray tell me. Where then was my
good and gentle lord Gawain? No damsel in distress ever needed his aid
without its being extended to her." "If I had found him at court, I
could not have asked him for anything which would have been refused me;
but a certain knight has carried off the Queen, so they told me; surely
the King was mad to send her off in his company. [322] I believe it was
Kay who escorted her to meet the knight who has taken her away; and my
lord Gawain in great distress has gone in search for her. He will never
have any rest until he finds her. Now I have told you the whole truth of
my adventure. To-morrow I shall be put to a shameful death, and shall
be burnt inevitably, a victim of your criminal neglect." And he replies:
"May God forbid that you should be harmed because of me! So long as
I live you shall not die! You may expect me tomorrow, prepared to the
extent of my power to present my body in your cause, as it is proper
that I should do. But have no concern to tell the people who I am!
However the battle may turn out, take care that I be not recognised!"
"Surely, sire, no pressure could make me reveal your name. I would
sooner suffer death, since you will have it so. Yet, after all, I beg
you not to return for my sake. I would not have you undertake a battle
which will be so desperate. I thank you for your promised word that you
would gladly undertake it, but consider yourself now released, for it is
better that I should die alone than that I should see them rejoice over
your death as well as mine; they would not spare my life after they had
put you to death. So it is better for you to remain alive than that we
both should meet death." "That is very ungrateful remark, my dear," says
my lord Yvain; "I suppose that either you do not wish to be delivered
from death, or else that you scorn the comfort I bring you with my aid.
I will not discuss the matter more, for you have surely done so much
for me that I cannot fail you in any need. I know that you are in great
distress; but, if it be God's will, in whom I trust, they shall all
three be discomfited. So no more upon that score: I am going off now to
find some shelter in this wood, for there is no dwelling near at hand."
"Sire," she says, "may God give you both good shelter and good night,
and protect you as I desire from everything that might do you harm!"
Then my lord Yvain departs, and the lion as usual after him. They
journeyed until they came to a baron's fortified place, which was
completely surrounded by a massive, strong, and high wall. The castle,
being extraordinarily well protected, feared no assault of catapult or
storming-machine; but outside the walls the ground was so completely
cleared that not a single hut or dwelling remained standing. You will
learn the cause of this a little later, when the time comes. My lord
Yvain made his way directly toward the fortified place, and seven
varlets came out who lowered the bridge and advanced to meet him. But
they were terrified at sight of the lion, which they saw with him, and
asked him kindly to leave the lion at the gate lest he should wound or
kill them. And he replies: "Say no more of that! For I shall not enter
without him. Either we shall both find shelter here or else I shall stay
outside; he is as dear to me as I am myself. Yet you need have no fear
of him! For I shall keep him so well in hand that you may be quite
confident." They made answer: "Very well!" Then they entered the town,
and passed on until they met knights and ladies and charming damsels
coming down the street, who salute him and wait to remove his armour as
they say: "Welcome to our midst, fair sire! And may God grant that you
tarry here until you may leave with great honour and satisfaction!" High
and low alike extend to him a glad welcome, and do all they can for him,
as they joyfully escort him into the town. But after they had expressed
their gladness they are overwhelmed by grief, which makes them quickly
forget their joy, as they begin to lament and weep and beat themselves.
Thus, for a long space of time, they cease not to rejoice or make
lament: it is to honour their guest that they rejoice, but their heart
is not in what they do, for they are greatly worried over an event which
they expect to take place on the following day, and they feel very sure
and certain that it will come to pass before midday. My lord Yvain was
so surprised that they so often changed their mood, and mingled grief
with their happiness, that he addressed the lord of the place on the
subject. "For God's sake," he said, "fair gentle sir, will you kindly
inform me why you have thus honoured me, and shown at once such joy and
such heaviness?" "Yes, if you desire to know, but it would be better
for you to desire ignorance and silence. I will never tell you willingly
anything to cause you grief. Allow us to continue to lament, and do you
pay no attention to what we do!" "It would be quite impossible for me
to see you sad and nor take it upon my heart, so I desire to know the
truth, whatever chagrin may result to me." "Well, then," he said, "I
will tell you all. I have suffered much from a giant, who has insisted
that I should give him my daughter, who surpasses in beauty all the
maidens in the world. This evil giant, whom may God confound, is named
Harpin of the Mountain. Not a day passes without his taking all of my
possessions upon which he can lay his hands. No one has a better right
than I to complain, and to be sorrowful, and to make lament. I might
well lose my senses from very grief, for I had six sons who were
knights, fairer than any I knew in the world, and the giant has taken
all six of them. Before my eyes he killed two of them, and to-morrow he
will kill the other four, unless I find some one who will dare to fight
him for the deliverance of my sons, or unless I consent to surrender my
daughter to him; and he says that when he has her in his possession he
will give her over to be the sport of the vilest and lewdest fellows in
his house, for he would scorn to take her now for himself. That is the
disaster which awaits me to-morrow, unless the Lord God grant me His
aid. So it is no wonder, fair sir, if we are all in tears. But for your
sake we strive for the moment to assume as cheerful a countenance as we
can. For he is a fool who attracts a gentleman to his presence and then
does not honour him; and you seem to be a very perfect gentleman. Now
I have told you the entire story of our great distress. Neither in town
nor in fortress has the giant left us anything, except what we have
here. If you had noticed, you must have seen this evening that he has
not left us so much as an egg, except these walls which are new; for he
has razed the entire town. When he had plundered all he wished, he set
fire to what remained. In this way he has done me many an evil turn."

(Vv. 3899-3956.) My lord Yvain listened to all that his host told him,
and when he had heard it all he was pleased to answer him: "Sire, I am
sorry and distressed about this trouble of yours; but I marvel greatly
that you have not asked assistance at good King Arthur's court. There is
no man so mighty that he could not find at his court some who would be
glad to try their strength with his." Then the wealthy man reveals and
explains to him that he would have had efficient help if he had known
where to find my lord Gawain. "He would not have failed me upon this
occasion, for my wife is his own sister; but a knight from a strange
land, who went to court to seek the King's wife, has led her away.
However, he could not have gotten possession of her by any means of his
own invention, had it not been for Kay, who so befooled the King that he
gave the Queen into his charge and placed her under his protection. He
was a fool, and she imprudent to entrust herself to his escort. And I
am the one who suffers and loses in all this; for it is certain that my
excellent lord Gawain would have made haste to come here, had he known
the facts, for the sake of his nephews and his niece. But he knows
nothing of it, wherefore I am so distressed that my heart is almost
breaking, for he is gone in pursuit of him, to whom may God bring shame
and woe for having led the Queen away." While listening to this recital
my lord Yvain does not cease to sigh. Inspired by the pity which he
feels, he makes this reply: "Fair gentle sire, I would gladly undertake
this perilous adventure, if the giant and your sons should arrive
to-morrow in time to cause me no delay, for tomorrow at noon I shall
be somewhere else, in accordance with a promise I have made." "Once
for all, fair sire," the good man said, "I thank you a hundred thousand
times for your willingness." And all the people of the house likewise
expressed their gratitude.

(Vv. 3957-4384.) Just then the damsel came out of a room, with her
graceful body and her face so fair and pleasing to look upon. She was
very simple and sad and quiet as she came, for there was no end to the
grief she felt: she walked with her head bowed to the ground. And her
mother, too, came in from an adjoining room, for the gentleman had sent
for them to meet his guest. They entered with their mantles wrapped
about them to conceal their tears; and he bid them throw back their
mantles, and hold up their heads, saying: "You ought not to hesitate
to obey my behests, for God and good fortune have given us here a very
well-born gentleman who assures me that he will fight against the giant.
Delay no longer now to throw yourselves at his feet!" "May God never let
me see that!" my lord Yvain hastens to exclaim; "surely it would not be
proper under any circumstances for the sister and the niece of my lord
Gawain to prostrate themselves at my feet. May God defend me from ever
giving place to such pride as to let them fall at my feet! Indeed, I
should never forget the shame which I should feel; but I should be
very glad if they would take comfort until to-morrow, when they may see
whether God will consent to aid them. I have no other request to make,
except that the giant may come in such good time that I be not compelled
to break my engagement elsewhere; for I would not fail for anything
to be present to-morrow noon at the greatest business I could ever
undertake." Thus he is unwilling to reassure them completely, for he
fears that the giant may not come early enough to allow him to reach
in time the damsel who is imprisoned in the chapel. Nevertheless, he
promises them enough to arouse good hope in them. They all alike join in
thanking him, for they place great confidence in his prowess, and they
think he must be a very good man, when they see the lion by his side as
confident as a lamb would be. They take comfort and rejoice because of
the hope they stake on him, and they indulge their grief no more. When
the time came they led him off to bed in a brightly lighted room; both
the damsel and her mother escorted him, for they prized him dearly, and
would have done so a hundred thousand times more had they been informed
of his prowess and courtesy. He and the lion together lay down there and
took their rest. The others dared not sleep in the room; but they closed
the door so tight that they could not come out until the next day at
dawn. When the room was thrown open he got up and heard Mass, and then,
because of the promise he had made, he waited until the hour of prime.
Then in the hearing of all he summoned the lord of the town and said:
"My lord, I have no more time to wait, but must ask your permission
to leave at once; I cannot tarry longer here. But believe truly that
I would gladly and willingly stay here yet awhile for the sake of the
nephews and the niece of my beloved lord Gawain, if I did not have a
great business on hand, and if it were not so far away." At this the
damsel's blood quivered and boiled with fear, as well as the lady's and
the lord's. They were so afraid he would go away that they were on the
point of humbling themselves and casting themselves at his feet, when
they recalled that he would not approve or permit their action. Then the
lord makes him an offer of all he will take of his lands or wealth, if
only he will wait a little longer. And he replied: "God forbid that ever
I should take anything of yours!" Then the damsel, who is in dismay,
begins to weep aloud, and beseeches him to stay. Like one distracted and
prey to dread, she begs him by the glorious queen of heaven and of the
angels, and by the Lord, not to go but to wait a little while; and
then, too, for her uncle's sake, whom he says he knows, and loves, and
esteems. Then his heart is touched with deep pity when he hears her
adjuring him in the name of him whom he loves the most, and by the
mistress of heaven, and by the Lord, who is the very honey and sweet
savour of pity. Filled with anguish he heaved a sigh, for were the
kingdom of Tarsus at stake he would not see her burned to whom he had
pledged his aid. If he could not reach her in time, he would be unable
to endure his life, or would live on without his wits on the other hand,
the kindness of his friend, my lord Gawain, only increased his distress;
his heart almost bursts in half at the thought that he cannot delay.
Nevertheless, he does not stir, but delays and waits so long that the
giant came suddenly, bringing with him the knights: and hanging from his
neck he carried a big square stake with a pointed end, and with this he
frequently spurred them on. For their part they had no clothing on that
was worth a straw, except some soiled and filthy shirts: and their feet
and hands were bound with cords, as they came riding upon four limping
jades, which were weak, and thin, and miserable. As they came riding
along beside a wood, a dwarf, who was puffed up like a toad, had
tied the horses' tails together, and walked beside them, beating them
remorselessly with a four-knotted scourge until they bled, thinking
thereby to be doing something wonderful. Thus they were brought along in
shame by the giant and the dwarf. Stopping in the plain in front of the
city gate, the giant shouts out to the noble lord that he will kill his
sons unless he delivers to him his daughter, whom he will surrender to
his vile fellows to become their sport. For he no longer loves her nor
esteems her, that he should deign to abase himself to her. She shall be
constantly beset by a thousand lousy and ragged knaves, vacant wretches,
and scullery boys, who all shall lay hands on her. The worthy man is
well-nigh beside himself when he hears how his daughter will be made
a bawd, or else, before his very eyes, his four sons will be put to a
speedy death. His agony is like that of one who would rather be dead
than alive. Again and again he bemoans his fate, and weeps aloud and
sighs. Then my frank and gentle lord Yvain thus began to speak to him:
"Sire, very vile and impudent is that giant who vaunts himself out
there. But may God never grant that he should have your daughter in his
power! He despises her and insults her openly. It would be too great a
calamity if so lovely a creature of such high birth were handed over
to become the sport of boys. Give me now my arms and horse! Have the
drawbridge lowered, and let me pass. One or the other must be cast down,
either I or he, I know not which. If I could only humiliate the cruel
wretch who is thus oppressing you, so that he would release your sons
and should come and make amends for the insulting words he has spoken
to you, then I would commend you to God and go about my business." Then
they go to get his horse, and hand over to him his arms, striving so
expeditiously that they soon have him quite equipped. They delayed as
little as they could in arming him. When his equipment was complete,
there remained nothing but to lower the bridge and let him go. They
lowered it for him, and he went out. But the lion would by no means
stay behind. All those who were left behind commended the knight to
the Saviour, for they fear exceedingly lest their devilish enemy, who
already had slain so many good men on the same field before their eyes,
would do the same with him. So they pray God to defend him from death,
and return him to them safe and sound, and that He may give him strength
to slay the giant. Each one softly prays to God in accordance with his
wish. And the giant fiercely came at him, and with threatening words
thus spake to him: "By my eyes, the man who sent thee here surely had
no love for thee! No better way could he have taken to avenge himself on
thee. He has chosen well his vengeance for whatever wrong thou hast done
to him." But the other, fearing naught, replies: "Thou treatest of what
matters not. Now do thy best, and I'll do mine. Idle parley wearies me."
Thereupon my lord Yvain, who was anxious to depart, rides at him. He
goes to strike him on the breast, which was protected by a bear's skin,
and the giant runs at him with his stake raised in air. My lord Yvain
deals him such a blow upon the chest that he thrusts through the skin
and wets the tip of his lance in his body's blood by way of sauce. And
the giant belabours him with the stake, and makes him bend beneath the
blows. My lord Yvain then draws the sword with which he knew how to
deal fierce blows. He found the giant unprotected, for he trusted in his
strength so much that he disdained to arm himself. And he who had drawn
his blade gave him such a slash with the cutting edge, and not with the
flat side, that he cut from his cheek a slice fit to roast. Then the
other in turn gave him such a blow with the stake that it made him sing
in a heap upon his horse's neck. Thereupon the lion bristles up, ready
to lend his master aid, and leaps up in his anger and strength, and
strikes and tears like so much bark the heavy bearskin the giant wore,
and he tore away beneath the skin a large piece of his thigh, together
with the nerves and flesh. The giant escaped his clutches, roaring and
bellowing like a bull, for the lion had badly wounded him. Then raising
his stake in both hands, he thought to strike him, but missed his aim,
when the lion leaded backward so he missed his blow, and fell exhausted
beside my lord Yvain, but without either of them touching the other.
Then my lord Yvain took aim and landed two blows on him. Before he could
recover himself he had severed with the edge of his sword the giant's
shoulder from his body. With the next blow he ran the whole blade of his
sword through his liver beneath his chest; the giant falls in death's
embrace. And if a great oak tree should fall, I think it would make no
greater noise than the giant made when he tumbled down. All those who
were on the wall would fain have witnessed such a blow. Then it became
evident who was the most fleet of foot, for all ran to see the game,
just like hounds which have followed the beast until they finally come
up with him. So men and women in rivalry ran forward without delay to
where the giant lay face downward. The daughter comes running, and
her mother too. And the four brothers rejoice after the woes they have
endured. As for my lord Yvain they are very sure that they could not
detain him for any reason they might allege, but they beseech him to
return and stay to enjoy himself as soon as he shall have completed the
business which calls him away. And he replies that he cannot promise
them anything, for as yet he cannot guess whether it will fare well or
ill with him. But thus much did he say to his host: that he wished that
his four sons and his daughter should take the dwarf and go to my lord
Gawain when they hear of his return, and should tell and relate to him
how he has conducted himself. For kind actions are of no use if you are
not willing that they be known. And they reply: "It is not right that
such kindness as this should be kept hid: we shall do whatever you
desire. But tell us what we can say when we come before him. Whose
praises can we speak, when we know not what your name may be?" And he
answers them: "When you come before him, you may say thus much: that I
told you 'The Knight with the Lion' was my name. And at the same time
I must beg you to tell him from me that, if he does not recognise who I
am, yet he knows me well and I know him. Now I must be gone from here,
and the thing which most alarms me is that I may too long have tarried
here, for before the hour of noon be passed I shall have plenty to do
elsewhere, if indeed I can arrive there in time." Then, without further
delay, he starts. But first his host begged him insistently that he
would take with him his four sons: for there was none of them who would
not strive to serve him, if he would allow it. But it did not please
or suit him that any one should accompany him; so he left the place to
them, and went away alone. And as soon as he starts, riding as fast as
his steed can carry him, he heads toward the chapel. The path was good
and straight, and he knew well how to keep the road. But before he could
reach the chapel, the damsel had been dragged out and the pyre prepared
upon which she was to be placed. Clad only in a shift, she was held
bound before the fire by those who wrongly attributed to her an
intention she had never had. My lord Yvain arrived, and, seeing her
beside the fire into which she was about to be cast, he was naturally
incensed. He would be neither courteous nor sensible who had any
doubt about that fact. So it is true that he was much incensed; but he
cherishes within himself the hope that God and the Right will be on his
side. In such helpers he confides; nor does he scorn his lion's aid.
Rushing quickly toward the crowd, he shouts: "Let the damsel be, you
wicked folk! Having committed no crime, it is not right that she should
be cast upon a pyre or into a furnace." And they draw off on either
side, leaving a passage-way for him. But he yearns to see with his own
eyes her whom his heart beholds in whatever place she may be. His eyes
seek her until he finds her, while he subdues and holds in check his
heart, just as one holds in check with a strong curb a horse that pulls.
Nevertheless, he gladly gazes at her, and sighs the while; but he does
not sigh so openly that his action is detected; rather does he stifle
his sighs, though with difficulty. And he is seized with pity at
hearing, seeing, and perceiving the grief of the poor ladies, who cried:
"Ah, God, how hast Thou forgotten us! How desolate we shall now remain
when we lose so kind a friend, who gave us such counsel and such aid,
and interceded for us at court! It was she who prompted madame to clothe
us with her clothes of vair. Henceforth the situation will change, for
there will be no one to speak for us! Cursed be he who is the cause of
our loss! For we shall fare badly in all this. There will be no one to
utter such advice as this: 'My lady, give this vair mantle, this cloak,
and this garment to such and such an honest dame! Truly, such charity
will be well employed, for she is in very dire need of them.' No such
words as these shall be uttered henceforth, for there is no one else who
is frank and courteous; but every one solicits for himself rather than
for some one else, even though he have no need."

(Vv. 4385-4474.) Thus they were bemoaning their fate; and my lord Yvain
who was in their midst, heard their complaints, which were neither
groundless nor assumed. He saw Lunete on her knees and stripped to her
shift, having already made confession, and besought God's mercy for her
sins. Then he who had loved her deeply once came to her and raised her
up, saying: "My damsel, where are those who blame and accuse you? Upon
the spot, unless they refuse, battle will be offered them." And she, who
had neither seen nor looked at him before, said: "Sire, you come from
God in this time of my great need! The men who falsely accuse me are all
ready before me here; if you had been a little later I should soon have
been reduced to fuel and ashes. You have come here in my defence,
and may God give you the power to accomplish it in proportion as I am
guiltless of the accusation which is made against me!" The seneschal and
his two brothers heard these words. "Ah!" they exclaim, "woman, chary
of uttering truth but generous with lies! He indeed is mad who for thy
words assumes so great a task. The knight must be simple-minded who has
come here to die for thee, for he is alone and there are three of us. My
advice to him is that he turn back before any harm shall come to him."
Then he replies, as one impatient to begin: "Whoever is afraid, let him
run away! I am not so afraid of your three shields that I should go off
defeated without a blow. I should be indeed discourteous, if, while yet
unscathed and in perfect case, I should leave the place and field to
you. Never, so long as I am alive and sound, will I run away before
such threats. But I advise thee to set free the damsel whom thou hast
unjustly accused; for she tells me, and I believe her word, and she has
assured me upon the salvation of her soul, that she never committed,
or spoke, or conceived any treason against her mistress. I believe
implicitly what she has told me, and will defend her as best I can, for
I consider the righteousness of her cause to be in my favour. For, if
the truth be known, God always sides with the righteous cause, for God
and the Right are one; and if they are both upon my side, then I have
better company and better aid than thou." [323] Then the other responds
imprudently that he may make every effort that pleases him and is
convenient to do him injury, provided that his lion shall not do him
harm. And he replies that he never brought the lion to champion his
cause, nor does he wish any but himself to take a hand: but if the lion
attacks him, let him defend himself against him as best he can, for
concerning him he will give no guarantee. Then the other answers:
"Whatever thou mayst say; unless thou now warn thy lion, and make him
stand quietly to one side, there is no use of thy longer staying here,
but begone at once, and so shalt thou be wise; for throughout this
country every one is aware how this girl betrayed her lady, and it is
right that she receive her due reward in fire and flame." "May the Holy
Spirit forbid!" says he who knows the truth; "may God not let me
stir from here until I have delivered her!" Then he tells the lion to
withdraw and to lie down quietly, and he does so obediently.

(Vv. 4475-4532.) The lion now withdrew, and the parley and quarrel being
ended between them two, they all took their distance for the charge. The
three together spurred toward him, and he went to meet them at a walk.
He did not wish to be overturned or hurt at this first encounter. So he
let them split their lances, while keeping his entire, making for them a
target of his shield, whereon each one broke his lance. Then he galloped
off until he was separated from them by the space of an acre; but he
soon returned to the business in hand, having no desire to delay. On
his coming up the second time, he reached the seneschal before his two
brothers, and breaking his lance upon his body, he carried him to earth
in spite of himself, and he gave him such a powerful blow that for a
long while he lay stunned, incapable of doing him any harm. And then the
other two came at him with their swords bared, and both deal him great
blows, but they receive still heavier blows from him. For a single one
of the blows he deals is more than a match for two of theirs; thus he
defends himself so well that they have no advantage over him, until the
seneschal gets up and does his best to injure him, in which attempt the
others join, until they begin to press him and get the upper hand. Then
the lion, who is looking on, delays no longer to lend him aid; for it
seems to him that he needs it now. And all the ladies, who are devoted
to the damsel, beseech God repeatedly and pray to Him earnestly not to
allow the death or the defeat of him who has entered the fray on her
account. The ladies, having no other weapons, thus assist him with their
prayers. And the lion brings him such effective aid, that at his first
attack, he strikes so fiercely the seneschal, who was now on his feet,
that he makes the meshes fly from the hauberk like straw, and he drags
him down with such violence that he tears the soft flesh from his
shoulder and all down his side. He strips whatever he touches, so that
the entrails lie exposed. The other two avenge this blow.

(Vv. 4533-4634.) Now they are all even on the field. The seneschal is
marked for death, as he turns and welters in the red stream of warm
blood pouring from his body. The lion attacks the others; for my
lord Yvain is quite unable, though he did his best by beating or
by threatening him, to drive him back; but the lion doubtless feels
confident that his master does not dislike his aid, but rather loves him
the more for it: so he fiercely attacks them, until they have reason
to complain of his blows, and they wound him in turn and use him badly.
When my lord Yvain sees his lion wounded, his heart is wroth within his
breast, and rightly so; but he makes such efforts to avenge him, and
presses them so hard, that he completely reduces them; they no longer
resist him, but surrender to him at discretion, because of the lion's
help, who is now in great distress; for he was wounded everywhere, and
had good cause to be in pain. For his part, my lord Yvain was by no
means in a healthy state, for his body bore many a wound. But he is not
so anxious about himself as about his lion, which is in distress. Now
he has delivered the damsel exactly in accordance with his wish, and
the lady has very willingly dismissed the grudge that she bore her.
And those men were burned upon the pyre which had been kindled for
the damsel's death; for it is right and just that he who has misjudged
another, should suffer the same manner of death as that to which he had
condemned the other. Now Lunete is joyous and glad at being reconciled
with her mistress, and together they were more happy than any one ever
was before. Without recognising him, all present offered to him, who was
their lord, their service so long as life should last; even the lady,
who possessed unknowingly his heart, begged him insistently to tarry
there until his lion and he had quite recovered. And he replied: "Lady,
I shall not now tarry here until my lady removes from me her displeasure
and anger: then the end of all my labours will come." "Indeed," she
said, "that grieves me. I think the lady cannot be very courteous who
cherishes ill-will against you. She ought not to close her door against
so valorous a knight as you, unless he had done her some great wrong."
"Lady," he replies, "however great the hardship be, I am pleased by what
ever may be her will. But speak to me no more of that; for I shall say
nothing of the cause or crime, except to those who are informed of it."
"Does any one know it, then, beside you two?" "Yes, truly, lady." "Well,
tell us at least your name, fair sir; then you will be free to go."
"Quite free, my lady? No, I shall not be free. I owe more than I can
pay. Yet, I ought not to conceal from you my name. You will never hear
of 'The Knight with the Lion' without hearing of me; for I wish to be
known by that name." "For God's sake, sir, what does that name mean? For
we never saw you before, nor have we ever heard mentioned this name
of yours." "My lady, you may from that infer that my fame is not
widespread." Then the lady says: "Once more, if it did not oppose your
will, I would pray you to tarry here." "Really, my lady, I should not
dare, until I knew certainly that I had regained my lady's good-will."
"Well, then, go in God's name, fair sir; and, if it be His will, may He
convert your grief and sorrow into joy." "Lady," says he, "may God hear
your prayer." Then he added softly under his breath: "Lady, it is you
who hold the key, and, though you know it not, you hold the casket in
which my happiness is kept under lock."

(Vv. 4635-4674.) Then he goes away in great distress, and there is no
one who recognises him save Lunete, who accompanied him a long distance.
Lunete alone keeps him company, and he begs her insistently never to
reveal the name of her champion. "Sire," says she, "I will never do so."
Then he further requested her that she should not forget him, and that
she should keep a place for him in his mistress' heart, whenever the
chance arose. She tells him to be at ease on that score; for she will
never be forgetful, nor unfaithful, nor idle. Then he thanks her a
thousand times, and he departs pensive and oppressed, because of his
lion that he must needs carry, being unable to follow him on foot. He
makes for him a litter of moss and ferns in his shield. When he has made
a bed for him there, he lays him in it as gently as he can, and carries
him thus stretched out full length on the inner side of his shield.
Thus, in his shield he bears him off, until he arrives before the gate
of a mansion, strong and fair. Finding it closed, he called, and the
porter opened it so promptly that he had no need to call but once. He
reaches out to take his rein, and greets him thus: "Come in, fair sire.
I offer you the dwelling of my lord, if it please you to dismount." "I
accept the offer gladly," he replies, "for I stand in great need of it,
and it is time to find a lodging."

(Vv. 4675-4702.) Thereupon, he passed through the gate, and saw the
retainers in a mass coming to meet him. They greeted him and helped him
from his horse, and laid down upon the pavement his shield with the lion
on it. And some, taking his horse, put it in a stable: while others very
properly relieved him of his arms and took them. Then the lord of the
castle heard the news, and at once came down into the courtyard,
and greeted him. And his lady came down, too, with all her sons and
daughters and a great crowd of other people, who all rejoiced to offer
him a lodging. They gave him a quiet room, because they deemed that he
was sick; but their good nature was put to a test when they allowed the
lion to go with him. His cure was undertaken by two maidens skilled in
surgery, who were daughters of the lord. I do not know how many days
he stayed there, until he and his lion, being cured, were compelled to
proceed upon their way.

(Vv. 4703-4736.) But within this time it came about that my lord of
Noire Espine had a struggle with Death, and so fierce was Death's attack
that he was forced to die. After his death it happened that the elder of
two daughters whom he had, announced that she would possess uncontested
all the estates for herself during her entire lifetime, and that she
would give no share to her sister. And the other one said that she would
go to King Arthur's court to seek help for the defence of her claim to
the land. When the former saw that her sister would by no means concede
all the estates to her without contest, she was greatly concerned, and
thought that, if possible, she would get to court before her. At once
she prepared and equipped herself, and without any tarrying or delay,
she proceeded to the court. The other followed her, and made all the
haste she could; but her journey was all in vain, for her eider sister
had already presented her case to my lord Gawain, and he had promised
to execute her will. But there was an agreement between them that if any
one should learn of the facts from her, he would never again take arms
for her, and to this arrangement she gave consent.

(Vv. 4737-4758.) Just then the other sister arrived at court, clad in
a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fresh ermine. It happened to be
the third day after the Queen had returned from the captivity in which
Maleagant had detained her with all the other prisoners; but Lancelot
had remained behind, treacherously confined within a tower. And on that
very day, when the damsel came to court, news was received of the cruel
and wicked giant whom the knight with the lion had killed in battle. In
his name, my lord Gawain was greeted by his nephews and niece, who told
him in detail of all the great service and great deeds of prowess he
had done for them for his sake, and how that he was well acquainted with
him, though not aware of his identity.

(Vv. 4759-4820.) All this was heard by her, who was plunged thereby
into great despair and sorrow and dejection; for, since the best of the
knights was absent, she thought she would find no aid or counsel at the
court. She had already made several loving and insistent appeals to my
lord Gawain; but he had said to her: "My dear, it is useless to appeal
to me; I cannot do it; I have another affair on hand, which I shall
in no wise give up." Then the damsel at once left him, and presented
herself before the King. "O King," said she, "I have come to thee and to
thy court for aid. But I find none, and I am very much mazed that I can
get no counsel here. Yet it would not be right for me to go away without
taking leave. My sister may know, however, that she might obtain by
kindness whatever she desired of my property; but I will never surrender
my heritage to her by force, if I can help it, and if I can find any
aid or counsel." "You have spoken wisely," said the King; "since she is
present here, I advise, recommend, and urge her to surrender to you what
is your right." Then the other, who was confident of the best knight in
the world, replied: "Sire, may God confound me, if ever I bestow on her
from my estates any castle, town, clearing, forest, land, or anything
else. But if any knight dares to take arms on her behalf and desires to
defend her cause, let him step forth at once." "Your offer to her is not
fair; she needs more time," the King replied; "if she desires, she may
have forty days to secure a champion, according to the practice of all
courts." To which the elder sister replied: "Fair King, my lord, you may
establish your laws as it pleases you, and as seems good, nor is it
my place to gainsay you, so I must consent to the postponement, if she
desires it." Whereupon, the other says that she does desire it, and she
makes formal request for it. Then she commended the King to God, and
left the court resolving to devote her life to the search through all
the land for the Knight with the Lion, who devotes himself to succouring
women in need of aid.

(Vv. 4821-4928.) Thus she entered upon her quest, and traversed many
a country without hearing any news of him, which caused her such grief
that she fell sick. But it was well for her that it happened so; for she
came to the dwelling of a friend of hers, by whom she was dearly loved.
By this time her face showed clearly that she was not in good health.
They insisted upon detaining her until she told them of her plight;
whereupon, another damsel took up the quest wherein she had been
engaged, and continued the search on her behalf. So while the one
remained in this retreat, the other rode rapidly all day long, until the
darkness of night came on, and caused her great anxiety. [324] And her
trouble was doubled when the rain came on with terrible violence, as
if God Himself were doing His worst, while she was in the depths of the
forest. The night and the woods cause her great distress, but she is
more tormented by the rain than by either the woods or the night. And
the road was so bad that her horse was often up to the girth in mud; any
damsel might well be terrified to be in the woods, without escort, in
such bad weather and in such darkness that she could not see the horse
she was riding. So she called on God first, and His mother next, and
then on all the saints in turn, and offered up many a prayer that
God would lead her out from this forest and conduct her to some
lodging-place. She continued in prayer until she heard a horn, at which
she greatly rejoiced; for she thought now she would find shelter, if she
could only reach the place. So she turned in the direction of the sound,
and came upon a paved road which led straight toward the horn whose
sound she heard; for the horn had given three long, loud blasts. And she
made her way straight toward the sound, until she came to a cross which
stood on the right side of the road, and there she thought that she
might find the horn and the person who had sounded it. So she spurred
her horse in that direction, until she drew near a bridge, and descried
the white walls and the barbican of a circular castle. Thus, by chance
she came upon the castle, setting her course by the sound which had led
her thither. She had been attracted by the sound of the horn blown by a
watchman upon the walls. As soon as the watchman caught sight of her, he
called to her, then came down, and taking the key of the gate, opened
it for her and said: "Welcome, damsel, whoe'er you be. You shall be
well lodged this night." "I have no other desire than that," the damsel
replied, as he let her in. After the toil and anxiety she had endured
that day, she was fortunate to find such a lodging-place; for she was
very comfortable there. After the meal the host addressed her, and
inquired where she was going and what was her quest. Whereupon, she thus
replied: "I am seeking one whom I never saw, so far as I am aware, and
never knew; but he has a lion with him, and I am told that, if I find
him, I can place great confidence in him." "I can testify to that," the
other said: "for the day before yesterday God sent him here to me in
my dire need. Blessed be the paths which led him to my dwelling. For he
made me glad by avenging me of a mortal enemy and killing him before
my eyes. Outside yonder gate you may see to-morrow the body of a mighty
giant, whom he slew with such ease that he hardly had to sweat." "For
God's sake, sire," the damsel said, "tell me now the truth, if you know
whither he went, and where he is." "I don't know," he said, "as God sees
me here; but to-morrow I will start you on the road by which he went
away from here." "And may God," said she, "lead me where I may hear true
news of him. For if I find him, I shall be very glad."

(Vv. 4929-4964.) Thus they continued in long converse until at last they
went to bed. When the day dawned, the maid arose, being in great concern
to find the object of her quest. And the master of the house arose with
all his companions, and set her upon the road which led straight to the
spring beneath the pine. And she, hastening on her way toward the town,
came and asked the first men whom she met, if they could tell her where
she would find the lion and the knight who travelled in company. And
they told her that they had seen him defeat three knights in that very
place. Whereupon, she said at once: "For God's sake, since you have said
so much, do not keep back from me anything that you can add." "No," they
replied; "we know nothing more than we have said, nor do we know what
became of him. If she for whose sake he came here, cannot give you
further news, there will be no one here to enlighten you. You will not
have far to go, if you wish to speak with her; for she has gone to make
prayer to God and to hear Mass in yonder church, and judging by the time
she has been inside, her orisons have been prolonged."

(Vv. 4965-5106.) While they were talking thus, Lunete came out from the
church, and they said: "There she is." Then she went to meet her, and
they greeted each other. She asked Lunete at once for the information
she desired; and Lunete said that she would have a palfrey saddled; for
she wished to accompany her, and would take her to an enclosure where
she had left him. The other maiden thanked her heartily. Lunete mounts
the palfrey which is brought without delay, and, as they ride, she tells
her how she had been accused and charged with treason, and how the pyre
was already kindled upon which she was to be laid, and how he had come
to help her in just the moment of her need. While speaking thus, she
escorted her to the road which led directly to the spot where my lord
Yvain had parted from her. When she had accompanied her thus far, she
said: "Follow this road until you come to a place where, if it please
God and the Holy Spirit, you will hear more reliable news of him than
I can tell. I very well remember that I left him either near here, or
exactly here, where we are now; we have not seen each other since then,
and I do not know what he has done. When he left me, he was in sore need
of a plaster for his wounds. So I will send you along after him, and if
it be God's will, may He grant that you find him to-night or to-morrow
in good health. Now go: I commend you to God. I must not follow you any
farther, lest my mistress be displeased with me." Then Lunete leaves her
and turns back; while the other pushed on until she found a house,
where my lord Yvain had tarried until he was restored to health. She saw
people gathered before the gate, knights, ladies and men-at-arms, and
the master of the house; she saluted them, and asked them to tell her,
if possible, news of a knight for whom she sought. "Who is he?" they
ask. "I have heard it said that he is never without a lion." "Upon my
word, damsel," the master says, "he has just now left us. You can come
up with him to-night, if you are able to keep his tracks in sight, and
are careful not to lose any time." "Sire," she answers, "God forbid.
But tell me now in what direction I must follow him." And they tell
her: "This way, straight ahead," and they beg her to greet him on their
behalf. But their courtesy was not of much avail; for, without giving
any heed, she galloped off at once. The pace seemed much too slow to
her, though her palfrey made good time. So she galloped through the mud
just the same as where the road was good and smooth, until she caught
sight of him with the lion as his companion. Then in her gladness she
exclaims: "God, help me now. At last I see him whom I have so long
pursued, and whose trace I have long followed. But if I pursue and
nothing gain, what will it profit me to come up with him? Little or
nothing, upon my word. If he does not join in my enterprise, I have
wasted all my pains." Thus saying, she pressed on so fast that her
palfrey was all in a sweat; but she caught up with him and saluted him.
He thus at once replied to her: "God save you, fair one, and deliver you
from grief and woe." "The same to you, sire, who, I hope, will soon be
able to deliver me." Then she draws nearer to him, and says: "Sire, I
have long searched for you. The great fame of your merit has made me
traverse many a county in my weary search for you. But I continued my
quest so long, thank God, that at last I have found you here. And if I
brought any anxiety with me, I am no longer concerned about it, nor do I
complain or remember it now. I am entirely relieved; my worry has taken
flight the moment I met with you. Moreover, the affair is none of mine:
I come to you from one that is better than I, a woman who is more noble
and excellent. But if she be disappointed in her hopes of you, then she
has been betrayed by your fair renown, for she has no expectation of
other aid. My damsel, who is deprived of her inheritance by a sister,
expects with your help to win her suit; she will have none but you
defend her cause. No one can make her believe that any one else could
bear her aid. By securing her share of the heritage, you will have won
and acquired the love of her who is now disinherited, and you will also
increase your own renown. She herself was going in search for you to
secure the boon for which she hoped; no one else would have taken her
place, had she not been detained by an illness which compels her to keep
her bed. Now tell me, please, whether you will dare to come, or whether
you will decline." "No," he says; "no man can win praise in a life of
ease; and I will not hold back, but will follow you gladly, my sweet
friend, whithersoever it may please you. And if she for whose sake you
have sought me out stands in some great need of me, have no fear that I
shall not do all I can for her. Now may God grant me the happiness and
grace to settle in her favour her rightful claim."

(Vv. 5107-5184.) [325] Thus conversing, they two rode away until they
approached the town of Pesme Avanture. They had no desire to pass it
by, for the day was already drawing to a close. They came riding to the
castle, when all the people, seeing them approach, called out to the
knight: "Ill come, sire, ill come. This lodging-place was pointed out to
you in order that you might suffer harm and shame. An abbot might take
his oath to that." "Ah," he replied, "foolish and vulgar folk, full
of all mischief, and devoid of honour, why have you thus assailed me?"
"Why? you will find out soon enough, if you will go a little farther.
But you shall learn nothing more until you have ascended to the
fortress." At once my lord Yvain turns toward the tower, and the crowd
cries out, all shouting aloud at him: "Eh, eh, wretch, whither goest
thou? If ever in thy life thou hast encountered one who worked thee
shame and woe, such will be done thee there, whither thou art going,
as will never be told again by thee." My lord Yvain, who is listening,
says: "Base and pitiless people, miserable and impudent, why do you
assail me thus, why do you attack me so? What do you wish of me, what
do you want, that you growl this way after me?" A lady, who was somewhat
advanced in years, who was courteous and sensible, said: "Thou hast no
cause to be enraged: they mean no harm in what they say; but, if thou
understoodest them aright, they are warning thee not to spend the night
up there; they dare not tell thee the reason for this, but they are
warning and blaming thee because they wish to arouse thy fears. This
they are accustomed to do in the case of all who come, so that they may
not go inside. And the custom is such that we dare not receive in our
own houses, for any reason whatsoever, any gentleman who comes here from
a distance. The responsibility now is thine alone; no one will stand in
thy way. If thou wishest, thou mayst go up now; but my advice is to turn
back again." "Lady," he says, "doubtless it would be to my honour and
advantage to follow your advice; but I do not know where I should find
a lodging-place to-night." "Upon my word," says she, "I'll say no more,
for the concern is none of mine. Go wherever you please. Nevertheless,
I should be very glad to see you return from inside without too great
shame; but that could hardly be." "Lady," he says, "may God reward you
for the wish. However, my wayward heart leads me on inside, and I
shall do what my heart desires." Thereupon, he approaches the gate,
accompanied by his lion and his damsel. Then the porter calls to him,
and says: "Come quickly, come. You are on your way to a place where you
will be securely detained, and may your visit be accursed."

(Vv. 5185-5346.) The porter, after addressing him with this very
ungracious welcome, hurried upstairs. But my lord Yvain, without making
reply, passed straight on, and found a new and lofty hall; in front
of it there was a yard enclosed with large, round, pointed stakes,
and seated inside the stakes he saw as many as three hundred maidens,
working at different kinds of embroidery. Each one was sewing with
golden thread and silk, as best she could. But such was their poverty,
that many of them wore no girdle, and looked slovenly, because so poor;
and their garments were torn about their breasts and at the elbows, and
their shifts were soiled about their necks. Their necks were thin, and
their faces pale with hunger and privation. They see him, as he looks at
them, and they weep, and are unable for some time to do anything or to
raise their eyes from the ground, so bowed down they are with woe. When
he had contemplated them for a while, my lord Yvain turned about and
moved toward the door; but the porter barred the way, and cried: "It
is no use, fair master; you shall not get out now. You would like to be
outside: but, by my head, it is of no use. Before you escape you will
have suffered such great shame that you could not easily suffer more;
so you were not wise to enter here, for there is no question of escaping
now." "Nor do I wish to do so, fair brother," said he; "but tell me,
by thy father's soul, whence came the damsels whom I saw in the yard,
weaving cloths of silk and gold. I enjoy seeing the work they do, but I
am much distressed to see their bodies so thin, and their faces so pale
and sad. I imagine they would be fair and charming, if they had what
they desire." "I will tell you nothing," was the reply; "seek some one
else to tell you." "That will I do, since there is no better way." Then
he searches until he finds the entrance of the yard where the damsels
were at work: and coming before them, he greets them all, and sees tears
flowing from their eyes, as they weep. Then he says to them: "May it
please God to remove from your hearts, and turn to joy, this grief, the
cause of which I do not know." One of them answers: "May you be heard by
God, to whom you have addressed your prayer. It shall not be concealed
from you who we are, and from what land: I suppose that is what you wish
to know." "For no other purpose came I here," says he. [326] "Sire,
it happened a long while ago that the king of the Isle of Damsels went
seeking news through divers courts and countries, and he kept on his
travels like a dunce until he encountered this perilous place. It was an
unlucky hour when he first came here, for we wretched captives who are
here receive all the shame and misery which we have in no wise deserved.
And rest assured that you yourself may expect great shame, unless a
ransom for you be accepted. But, at any rate, so it came about that my
lord came to this town, where there are two sons of the devil (do not
take it as a jest) who were born of a woman and an imp. These two were
about to fight with the king, whose terror was great, for he was not yet
eighteen years old, and they would have been able to cleave him through
like a tender lamb. So the king, in his terror, escaped his fate as best
he could, by swearing that he would send hither each year, as required,
thirty of his damsels, and with this rent he freed himself. And when
he swore, it was agreed that this arrangement should remain in force
as long as the two devils lived. But upon the day when they should
be conquered and defeated in battle, he would be relieved from this
tribute, and we should be delivered who are now shamefully given over to
distress and misery. Never again shall we know what pleasure is. But I
spoke folly just now in referring to our deliverance, for we shall never
more leave this place. We shall spend our days weaving cloths of silk,
without ever being better clad. We shall always be poor and naked, and
shall always suffer from hunger and thirst, for we shall never be able
to earn enough to procure for ourselves any better food. Our bread
supply is very scarce--a little in the morning and less at night, for
none of us can gain by her handiwork more than fourpence a day for her
daily bread. And with this we cannot provide ourselves with sufficient
food and clothes. For though there is not one of us who does not earn as
much as twenty sous [327] a week, yet we cannot live without hardship.
Now you must know that there is not a single one of us who does not do
twenty sous worth of work or more, and with such a sum even a duke would
be considered rich. So while we are reduced to such poverty, he, for
whom we work, is rich with the product of our toil. We sit up many
nights, as well as every day, to earn the more, for they threaten to do
us injury, when we seek some rest, so we do not dare to rest ourselves.
But why should I tell you more? We are so shamefully treated and
insulted that I cannot tell you the fifth part of it all. But what makes
us almost wild with rage is that we very often see rich and excellent
knights, who fight with the two devils, lose their lives on our account.
They pay dearly for the lodging they receive, as you will do to-morrow.
For, whether you wish to do so or not, you will have to fight
singlehanded and lose your fair renown with these two devils." "May God,
the true and spiritual, protect me," said my lord Yvain, "and give you
back your honour and happiness, if it be His will. I must go now and see
the people inside there, and find out what sort of entertainment they
will offer me." "Go now, sire, and may He protect you who gives and
distributes all good things."

(Vv. 5347-5456.) Then he went until he came to the hall where he found
no one, good or bad, to address him. Then he and his companion passed
through the house until they came to a garden. They never spoke of, or
mentioned, stabling their horses. But what matters it? For those who
considered them already as their own had stabled them carefully. I do
not know whether their expectation was wise, for the horses' owners are
still perfectly hale. The horses, however, have oats and hay, and stand
in litter up to their belly. My lord Yvain and his company enter the
garden. There he sees, reclining upon his elbow upon a silken rug, a
gentleman, to whom a maiden was reading from a romance about I know
not whom. There had come to recline there with them and listen to the
romance a lady, who was the mother of the damsel, as the gentleman was
her father; they had good reason to enjoy seeing and hearing her, for
they had no other children. She was not yet sixteen years old, and
was so fair and full of grace that the god of Love would have devoted
himself entirely to her service, if he had seen her, and would never
have made her fall in love with anybody except himself. For her sake he
would have become a man, and would lay aside his deity, and would smite
his own body with that dart whose wound never heals unless some base
physician attends to it. It is not fitting that any one should recover
until he meets with faithlessness. Any one who is cured by other means
is not honestly in love. I could tell you so much about this wound, if
you were pleased to listen to it, that I would not get through my tale
to-day. But there would be some one who would promptly say that I was
telling you but an idle tale; for people don't fall in love nowadays,
nor do they love as they used to do, so they do not care to hear of it.
[328] But hear now in what fashion and with what manner of hospitality
my lord Yvain was received. All those who were in the garden leaped to
their feet when they saw him come, and cried out: "This way, fair sire.
May you and all you love be blessed with all that God can do or say." I
know not if they were deceiving him, but they receive him joyfully and
act as if they are pleased that he should be comfortably lodged. Even
the lord's daughter serves him very honourably, as one should treat a
worthy guest. She relieves him of all his arms, nor was it the least
attention she bestowed on him when she herself washed his neck and face.
The lord wishes that all honour should be shown him, as indeed they do.
She gets out from her wardrobe a folded shirt, white drawers, needle and
thread for his sleeves, which she sews on, thus clothing him. [329] May
God want now that this attention and service may not prove too costly to
him! She gave him a handsome jacket to put on over his shirt, and about
his neck she placed a brand new spotted mantle of scarlet stuff.
She takes such pains to serve him well that he feels ashamed and
embarrassed. But the damsel is so courteous and open-hearted and polite
that she feels she is doing very little. And she knows well that it is
her mother's will that she shall leave nothing undone for him which she
thinks may win his gratitude. That night at table he was so well served
with so many dishes that there were too many. The servants who brought
in the dishes might well have been wearied by serving them. That night
they did him all manner of honour, putting him comfortably to bed, and
not once going near him again after he had retired. His lion lay at
his feet, as his custom was. In the morning, when God lighted His great
light for the world, as early as was consistent in one who was always
considerate, my lord Yvain quickly arose, as did his damsel too. They
heard Mass in a chapel, where it was promptly said for them in honour of
the Holy Spirit.

(Vv. 5457-5770.) After the Mass my lord Yvain heard bad news, when he
thought the time had come for him to leave and that nothing would stand
in his way; but it could not be in accordance with his wish. When he
said: "Sire, if it be your will, and with your permission, I am going
now," the master of the house replied: "Friend, I will not grant you
permission yet. There is a reason why I cannot do so, for there is
established in this castle a very terrible practice which I am bound
to observe. I shall now cause to approach two great, strong fellows of
mine, against whom, whether right or wrong, you must take arms. If you
can defend yourself against them, and conquer and slay them both, my
daughter desires you as her lord, and the suzerainty of this town and
all its dependencies awaits you." "Sire," said he, "for all this I have
no desire. So may God never bestow your daughter upon me, but may she
remain with you; for she is so fair and so elegant that the Emperor
of Germany would be fortunate to win her as his wife." "No more, fair
guest," the lord replied: "there is no need of my listening to your
refusal, for you cannot escape. He who can defeat the two, who are about
to attack you, must by right receive my castle, and all my land, and
my daughter as his wife. There is no way of avoiding or renouncing
the battle. But I feel sure that your refusal of my daughter is due to
cowardice, for you think that in this manner you can completely avoid
the battle. Know, however, without fail that you must surely fight. No
knight who lodges here can possibly escape. This is a settled custom
and statute, which will endure yet for many a year, for my daughter will
never be married until I see them dead or defeated." "Then I must fight
them in spite of myself. But I assure you that I should very gladly give
it up. In spite of my reluctance, however, I shall accept the battle,
since it is inevitable." Thereupon, the two hideous, black sons of
the devil come in, both armed with a crooked club of a cornelian
cherry-tree, which they had covered with copper and wound with brass.
They were armed from the shoulders to the knees, but their head and
face were bare, as well as their brawny legs. Thus armed, they advanced,
bearing in their hands round shields, stout and light for fighting. The
lion begins to quiver as soon as he sees them, for he sees the arms they
have, and perceives that they come to fight his master. He is aroused,
and bristles up at once, and, trembling with rage and bold impulse, he
thrashes the earth with his tail, desiring to rescue his master before
they kill him. And when they see him they say: "Vassal, remove the lion
from here that he may not do us harm. Either surrender to us at once, or
else, we adjure you, that lion must be put where he can take no part in
aiding you or in harming us. You must come alone to enjoy our sport, for
the lion would gladly help you, if he could." My lord Yvain then replies
to them: "Take him away yourselves if you are afraid of him. For I shall
be well pleased and satisfied if he can contrive to injure you, and I
shall be grateful for his aid." They answer: "Upon my word that will
not do; you shall never receive any help from him. Do the best you can
alone, without the help of any one. You must fight single-handed against
us two. If you were not alone, it would be two against two; so you must
follow our orders, and remove your lion from here at once, however much
you may dislike to do so." "Where do you wish him to be?" he asks, "or
where do you wish me to put him?" Then they show him a small room, and
say: "Shut him up in there." "It shall be done, since it is your will."
Then he takes him and shuts him up. And now they bring him arms for his
body, and lead out his horse, which they give to him, and he mounts. The
two champions, being now assured about the lion, which is shut up in
the room, come at him to injure him and do him harm. They give him such
blows with the maces that his shield and helmet are of little use, for
when they hit him on the helmet they batter it in and break it; and the
shield is broken and dissolved like ice, for they make such holes in
it that one could thrust his fists through it: their onslaught is truly
terrible. And he--what does he do against these two devils? Urged on
by shame and fear, he defends himself with all his strength. He strains
every nerve, and exerts himself to deal heavy, and telling blows; they
lost nothing by his gifts, for he returned their attentions with
double measure. In his room, the lion's heart is heavy and sad, for he
remembers the kind deed done for him by this noble man, who now must
stand in great need of his service and aid. If now he could escape
from there, he would return him the kindness with full measure and
full bushel, without any discount whatsoever. He looks about in all
directions, but sees no way of escape. He hears the blows of the
dangerous and desperate fight, and in his grief he rages and is beside
himself. He investigates, until he comes to the threshold, which was
beginning to grow rotten; and he scratches at it until he can squeeze
himself in as far as his haunches, when he sticks fast. Meanwhile, my
lord Yvain was hard pressed and sweating freely, for he found that the
two fellows were very strong, fierce, and persistent. He had received
many a blow, and repaid it as best he could, but without doing them any
harm, for they were well skilled in fencing, and their shields were not
of a kind to be hacked by any sword, however sharp and well tempered
it might be. So my lord Yvain had good reason to fear his death, yet he
managed to hold his own until the lion extricated himself by continued
scratching beneath the threshold. If the rascals are not killed now,
surely they will never be. For so long as the lion knows them to be
alive, they can never obtain truce or peace with him. He seizes one of
them, and pulls him down to earth like a tree-trunk. The wretches are
terrified, and there is not a man present who does not rejoice. For he
whom the lion has dragged down will never be able to rise again, unless
the other succours him. He runs up to bring him aid, and at the same
time to protect himself, lest the lion should attack him as soon as he
had despatched the one whom he had thrown down; he was more afraid of
the lion than of his master. But my lord Yvain will be foolish now if
he allows him longer life, when he sees him turn his back, and sees his
neck bare and exposed; this chance turned out well for him. When the
rascal exposed to him his bare head and neck, he dealt him such a blow
that he smote his head from his shoulders so quietly that the fellow
never knew a word about it. Then he dismounts, wishing to help and save
the other one from the lion, who holds him fast. But it is of no use,
for already he is in such straits that a physician can never arrive in
time; for the lion, coming at him furiously, so wounded him at the first
attack, that he was in a dreadful state. Nevertheless, he drags the lion
back, and sees that he had torn his shoulder from its place. He is in
no fear of the fellow now, for his club has fallen from his hand, and
he lies like a dead man without action or movement; still he has enough
strength to speak, and he said as clearly as he could: "Please take your
lion away, fair sire, that he may not do me further harm. Henceforth you
may do with me whatever may be your desire. Whoever begs and prays
for mercy, ought not to have his prayer refused, unless he addresses a
heartless man. I will no longer defend myself, nor will I ever get up
from here with my own strength; so I put myself in your hands." "Speak
out then," he says, "if thou dost admit that thou art conquered and
defeated." "Sire," he says, "it is evident. I am defeated in spite of
myself, and I surrender, I promise you." "Then thou needest have no
further fear of me, and my lion will leave thee alone." Then he is
surrounded by all the crowd, who arrive on the scene in haste. And both
the lord and his lady rejoice over him, and embrace him, and speak to
him of their daughter, saying: "Now you will be the lord and master of
us all, and our daughter will be your wife, for we bestow her upon you
as your spouse." "And for my part," he says. "I restore her to you. Let
him who has her keep her. I have no concern with her, though I say it
not in disparagement. Take it not amiss if I do not accept her, for
I cannot and must not do so. But deliver to me now, if you will, the
wretched maidens in your possession. The agreement, as you well know,
is that they shall all go free." "What you say is true," he says: "and I
resign and deliver them freely to you: there will be no dispute on that
score. But you will be wise to take my daughter with all my wealth, for
she is fair, and charming, and sensible. You will never find again such
a rich marriage as this." "Sire," he replies, "you do not know of my
engagements and my affairs, and I do not dare to explain them to you.
But, you may be sure, when I refuse what would never be refused by any
one who was free to devote his heart and intentions to such a fair and
charming girl, that I too would willingly accept her hand if I could, or
if I were free to accept her or any other maid. But I assure you that I
cannot do it: so let me depart in peace. For the damsel, who escorted
me hither, is awaiting me. She has kept me company, and I would not
willingly desert her whatever the future may have in store." "You wish
to go, fair sire? But how? My gate will never be opened for you unless
my judgment bids me give the command; rather shall you remain here as my
prisoner. You are acting haughtily and making a mistake when you disdain
to take my daughter at my request." "Disdain, my lord? Upon my soul, I
do not disdain her. Whatever the penalty may be, I cannot marry a wife
or tarry here. I shall follow the damsel who is my guide: for otherwise
it cannot be. But, with your consent, I will pledge you my right hand,
and you may take my word, that, just as you see me now, I will return
if possible, and then will accept your daughter's hand, whenever it may
seem good ro you." "Confound any one," he says, "who asks you for your
word or promise or pledge. If my daughter pleases you, you will return
quickly enough. You will not return any sooner. I think, for having
given your word or sworn an oath. Begone now. I release you from all
oaths and promises. If you are detained by rain or wind, or by nothing
at all, it is of no consequence to me. I do not hold my daughter so
cheap as to bestow her upon you forcibly. Now go about your business.
For it is quite the same to me whether you go or whether you stay."

(Vv. 5771-5871.) Thereupon my lord Yvain turns away and delays no longer
in the castle. He escorted the poor and ill-clad wretches, who were now
released from captivity, and whom the lord committed to his care. These
maidens feel that now they are rich, as they file out in pairs before
him from the castle. I do not believe that they would rejoice so much as
they do now were He who created the whole world to descend to earth from
Heaven. Now all those people who had insulted him in every possible way
come to beseech him for mercy and peace, and escort him on his way. He
replies that he knows nothing of what they mean. "I do not understand
what you mean," he says; "but I have nothing against you. I do not
remember that you ever said anything that harmed me." They are very glad
for what they hear, and loudly praise his courtesy, and after escorting
him a long distance, they all commend him to God. Then the damsels,
after asking his permission, separated from him. When they left him,
they all bowed to him, and prayed and expressed the wish that God might
grant him joy and health, and the accomplishment of his desire, wherever
in the future he should go. Then he, who is anxious to be gone, says
that he hopes God will save them all. "Go," he says, "and may God
conduct you into your countries safe and happy." Then they continue
their way joyfully; and my lord Yvain departs in the other direction.
All the days of that week he never ceases to hurry on under the escort
of the maid, who was well acquainted with the road, and with the retired
place where she had left the unhappy and disconsolate damsel who had
been deprived of her inheritance. But when she heard news of the arrival
of the maiden and of the Knight with the Lion. There never was such joy
as she felt within her heart. For now she thinks that, if she insists,
her sister will cede her a part of her inheritance. The damsel had long
lain sick, and had just recovered from her malady. It had seriously
affected her, as was apparent from her face. Straightway she went forth
to meet them, greeting them and honouring them in every way she could.
There is no need to speak of the happiness that prevailed that night
in the house. No mention will be made of it, for the story would be too
long to tell. I pass over all that, until they mounted next morning and
went away. They rode until they saw the town where King Arthur had been
staying for a fortnight or more. And there, too, was the damsel who
had deprived her sister of her heritage, for she had kept close to the
court, waiting for the arrival of her sister, who now draws near. But
she does not worry much, for she does not think that her sister can find
any knight who can withstand my lord Gawain's attack, and only one day
of the forty yet remains. If this single day had passed, she would have
had the reasonable and legal right to claim the heritage for herself
alone. But more stands in the way than she thinks or believes. That
night they spent outside the town in a small and humble house, where,
in accordance with their desire, they were not recognised. At the first
sign of dawn the next morning they necessarily issue forth, but ensconce
themselves in hiding until broad daylight.

(Vv. 5872-5924.) I know not how many days had passed since my lord
Gawain had so completely disappeared that no one at court knew anything
about him, except only the damsel in whose cause he was to fight. He
had concealed himself three or four leagues from the court, and when he
returned he was so equipped that even those who knew him perfectly
could not recognise him by the arms he bore. The damsel, whose injustice
toward her sister was evident, presented him at court in the sight of
all, for she intended with his help to triumph in the dispute where she
had no rights. So she said to the King: "My lord, time passes. The
noon hour will soon be gone, and this is the last day. As you see, I am
prepared to defend my claim. If my sister were going to return, there
would be nothing to do but await her arrival. But I may praise God that
she is not coming back again. It is evident that she cannot better her
affairs, and that her trouble has been for naught. For my part, I have
been ready all the time up to this last day, to prove my claim to what
is mine. I have proved my point entirely without a fight, and now I
may rightfully go to accept my heritage in peace; for I shall render no
accounting for it to my sister as long as I live, and she will lead a
wretched and miserable existence." Then the King, who well knew that the
damsel was disloyally unjust toward her sister, said to her: "My dear,
upon my word, in a royal court one must wait as long as the king's
justice sits and deliberates upon the verdict. It is not yet time to
pack up, for it is my belief that your sister will yet arrive in time."
Before the King had finished, he saw the Knight with the Lion and the
damsel with him. They two were advancing alone, having slipped away from
the lion, who had stayed where they spent the night.

(Vv. 5925-5990.) The King saw the damsel whom he did not fail to
recognise, and he was greatly pleased and delighted to see her, for
he was on her side of the quarrel, because he had regard for what was
right. Joyfully he cried out to her as soon as he could: "Come forward,
fair one: may God save you!" When the other sister hears these words,
she turns trembling, and sees her with the knight whom she had brought
to defend in her claim: then she turned blacker than the earth. The
damsel, after being kindly welcomed by all, went to where the King was
sitting. When she had come before him, she spoke to him thus: "God save
the King and his household. If my rights in this dispute can be settled
by a champion, then it will be done by this knight who has followed
me hither. This frank and courteous knight had many other things to do
elsewhere; but he felt such pity for me that he cast aside all his other
affairs for the sake of mine. Now, madame, my very dear sister, whom I
love as much as my own heart, would do the right and courteous thing if
she would let me have so much of what is mine by right that there might
be peace between me and her; for I ask for nothing that is hers." "Nor
do I ask for anything that is thine," the other replied; "for thou hast
nothing, and nothing shalt thou have. Thou canst never talk so much as
to gain anything by thy words. Thou mayest dry up with grief." Then the
other, who was very polite and sensible and courteous, replied with the
words: "Certainly I am sorry that two such gentlemen as these should
fight on our behalf over so small a disagreement. But I cannot disregard
my claim, for I am in too great need of it. So I should be much obliged
to you if you would give me what is rightly mine." "Surely," the other
said, "any one would be a fool to consider thy demands. May I burn in
evil fire and flame if I give thee anything to ease thy life! The banks
of the Seine will meet, and the hour of prime will be called noon,
before I refuse to carry out the fight." "May God and the right, which
I have in this cause, and in which I trust and have trusted till the
present time, aid him, who in charity and courtesy has offered himself
in my service, though he knows not who I am, and though we are ignorant
of each other's identity."

(Vv. 5991-6148.) So they talked until their conversation ceased, and
then produced the knights in the middle of the court. Then all the
people crowd about, as people are wont to do when they wish to witness
blows in battle or in joust. But those who were about to fight did
not recognise each other, though their relations were wont to be very
affectionate. Then do they not love each other now? I would answer you
both "yes" and "no." And I shall prove that each answer is correct. In
truth, my lord Gawain loves Yvain and regards him as his companion, and
so does Yvain regard him, wherever he may be. Even here, if he knew who
he was, he would make much of him, and either one of them would lay down
his head for the other before he would allow any harm to come to him. Is
not that a perfect and lofty love? Yes, surely. But, on the other hand,
is not their hate equally manifest? Yes; for it is a certain thing that
doubtless each would be glad to have broken the other's head, and so
to have injured him as to cause his humiliation. Upon my word, it is a
wondrous thing, that Love and mortal Hate should dwell together. God!
How can two things so opposed find lodging in the same dwelling-place?
It seems to me they cannot live together; for one could not dwell with
the other, without giving rise to noise and contention, as soon as each
knew of the other's presence. But upon the ground-floor there may be
several apartments: for there are halls and sleeping-rooms. It may be
the same in this case: I think Love had ensconced himself in some hidden
room, while Hate had betaken herself to the balconies looking on the
high-road, because she wishes to be seen. Just now Hate is in the
saddle, and spurs and pricks forward as she can, to get ahead of Love
who is indisposed to move. Ah! Love, what has become of thee? Come out
now, and thou shalt see what a host has been brought up and opposed to
thee by the enemies of thy friends. The enemies are these very men who
love each other with such a holy love for love, which is neither false
nor feigned, is a precious and a holy thing. In this case Love is
completely blind, and Hate, too, is deprived of sight. For if Love had
recognised these two men, he must have forbidden each to attack the
other, or to do any thing to cause him harm. In this respect, then,
Love is blind and discomfited and beguiled; for, though he sees them, he
fails to recognise those who rightly belong to him. And though Hate is
unable to tell why one of them should hate the other, yet she tries to
engage them wrongfully, so that each hates the other mortally. You know,
of course, that he cannot be said to love a man who would wish to harm
him and see him dead. How then? Does Yvain wish to kill his friend, my
lord Gawain? Yes, and the desire is mutual. Would, then, my lord Gawain
desire to kill Yvain with his own hands, or do even worse than I have
said? Nay, not really, I swear and protest. One would not wish to injure
or harm the other, in return for all that God has done for man, or for
all the empire of Rome. But this, in turn, is a lie of mine, for it is
plainly to be seen that, with lance raised high in rest, each is ready
to attack the other, and there will be no restraint of the desire of
each to wound the other with intent to injure him and work him woe. Now
tell me! When one will have defeated the other, of whom can he complain
who has the worst of it? For if they go so far as to come to blows, I am
very much afraid that they will continue the battle and the strife
until victory be definitely decided. If he is defeated, will Yvain be
justified in saying that he has been harmed and wronged by a man who
counts him among his friends, and who has never mentioned him but by the
name of friend or companion? Or, if it comes about perchance that Yvain
should hurt him in turn, or defeat him in any way, will Gawain have
the right to complain? Nay, for he will not know whose fault it is. In
ignorance of each other's identity, they both drew off and took their
distance. At this first shock, their lances break, though they were
stout, and made of ash. Not a word do they exchange, for if they had
stopped to converse their meeting would have been different. In that
case, no blow would have been dealt with lance or sword; they would have
kissed and embraced each other rather than sought each other's harm. For
now they attack each other with injurious intent. The condition of the
swords is not improved, nor that of the helmets and shields, which are
dented and split; and the edges of the swords are nicked and dulled. For
they strike each other violently, not with the fiat of the swords,
but with the edge, and they deal such blows with the pommels upon the
nose-guards and upon the neck, forehead and cheeks, that they are all
marked black and blue where the blood collects beneath the skin. And
their hauberks are so torn, and their shields so broken in pieces, that
neither one escaped without wounds. Their breath is almost exhausted
with the labour of the strife; they hammer away at each other so lustily
that every hyacinth and emerald set in their helmets is crushed and
smashed. For they give each other such a battering with their pommels
upon the helmets that they are quite stunned, as they almost beat out
each other's brains. The eyes in their heads gleam like sparks, as, with
stout square fists, and strong nerves, and hard bones, they strike each
other upon the mouth as long as they can grip their swords, which are of
great service to them in dealing their heavy blows.

(Vv. 6149-6228.) When they had for a long time strained themselves,
until the helmets were crushed, and the hauberks' meshes were torn
apart with the hammering of the swords, and the shields were split and
cracked, they drew apart a little to give their pulse a rest and to
catch their breath again. However, they do not long delay, but run at
each other again more fiercely than before. And all declare that they
never saw two more courageous knights. "This fight between them is no
jest, but they are in grim earnest. They will never be repaid for their
merits and deserts." The two friends, in their bitter struggle, heard
these words, and heard how the people were talking of reconciling the
two sisters; but they had no success in placating the elder one. And the
younger one said she would leave it to the King, and would not gainsay
him in anything. But the elder one was so obstinate that even the
Queen Guinevere and the knights and the King and the ladies and the
townspeople side with the younger sister, and all join in beseeching the
King to give her a third or a fourth part of the land in spite of the
elder sister, and to separate the two knights who had displayed such
bravery, for it would be too bad if one should injure the other or
deprive him of any honour. And the King replied that he would take no
hand in making peace, for the elder sister is so cruel that she has no
desire for it. All these words were heard by the two, who were attacking
each other so bitterly that all were astonished thereat; for the battle
is waged so evenly that it is impossible to judge which has the better
and which the worse. Even the two men themselves, who fight, and who
are purchasing honour with agony, are filled with amazement and stand
aghast, for they are so well matched in their attack, that each wonders
who it can be that withstands him with such bravery. They fight so long
that the day draws on to night, while their arms grow weary and their
bodies sore, and the hot, boiling blood flows from many a spot and
trickles down beneath their hauberks: they are in such distress that
it is no wonder if they wish to rest. Then both withdraw to rest
themselves, each thinking within himself that, however long he has had
to wait, he now at last has met his match. For some time they thus seek
repose, without daring to resume the fight. They feel no further desire
to fight, because of the night which is growing dark, and because of the
respect they feel for each other's might. These two considerations keep
them apart, and urge them to keep the peace. But before they leave the
field they will discover each other's identity, and joy and mercy will
be established between them.

(Vv. 6229-6526.) My brave and courteous lord Yvain was the first to
speak. But his good friend was unable to recognise him by his utterance;
for he was prevented by his low tone and by his voice which was hoarse,
weak, and broken; for his blood was all stirred up by the blows he had
received. "My lord," he says, "the night comes on! I think no blame
or reproach will attach to us if the night comes between us. But I
am willing to admit, for my own part, that I feel great respect and
admiration for you, and never in my life have I engaged in a battle
which has made me smart so much, nor did I ever expect to see a knight
whose acquaintance I should so yearn to make. You know well how to land
your blows and how to make good use of them: I have never known a knight
who was so skilled in dealing blows. It was against my will that I
received all the blows you have bestowed on me to-day; I am stunned
by the blows you have I struck upon my head." "Upon my word," my lord
Gawain replies, "you are not so stunned and faint but that I am as much
so, or more. And if I should tell you the simple truth, I think you
would not be loath to hear it, for if I have lent you anything of mine,
you have fully paid me back, principal and interest; for you were more
ready to pay back than I was to accept the payment. But however that
may be, since you wish me to inform you of my name, it shall not be kept
from you: my name is Gawain the son of King Lot." As soon as my
lord Yvain heard that, he was amazed and sorely troubled; angry and
grief-stricken, he cast upon the ground his bloody sword and broken
shield, then dismounted from his horse, and cried: "Alas, what mischance
is this! Through what unhappy ignorance in not recognising each other
have we waged this battle! For if I had known who you were, I should
never have fought with you; but, upon my word, I should have surrendered
without a blow." "How is that?" my lord Gawain inquires, "who are you,
then?" "I am Yvain, who love you more than any man in the whole wide
world, for you have always been fond of me and shown me honour in every
court. But I wish to make you such amends and do you such honour in this
affair that I will confess myself to have been defeated." "Will you do
so much for my sake?" my gentle lord Gawain asks him; "surely I should
be presumptuous to accept any such amends from you. This honour shall
never be claimed as mine, but it shall be yours, to whom I resign
it." "Ah, fair sire, do not speak so. For that could never be. I am so
wounded and exhausted that I cannot endure more." "Surely, you have no
cause to be concerned." his friend and companion replies; "but for my
part, I am defeated and overcome; I say it not as a compliment; for
there is no stranger in the world, to whom I would not say as much,
rather than receive any more blows." Thus saying, he got down from his
horse, and they threw their arms about each other's neck, kissing each
other, and each continuing to assert that it is he who has met defeat.
The argument is still in progress when the King and the knights come
running up from every side, at the sight of their reconciliation; and
great is their desire to hear how this can be, and who these men are who
manifest such happiness. The King says: "Gentlemen, tell us now who
it is that has so suddenly brought about this friendship and harmony
between you two, after the hatred and strife there has been this day?"
Then his nephew, my lord Gawain, thus answers him: "My lord, you shall
be informed of the misfortune and mischance which have been the cause of
our strife. Since you have tarried in order to hear and learn the cause
of it, it is right to let you know the truth. I, Gawain, who am your
nephew, did not recognise this companion of mine, my lord Yvain, until
he fortunately, by the will of God, asked me my name. After each had
informed the other of his name, we recognised each other, but not until
we had fought it out. Our struggle already has been long; and if we had
fought yet a little longer, it would have fared ill with me, for, by my
head, he would have killed me, what with his prowess and the evil cause
of her who chose me as her champion. But I would rather be defeated than
killed by a friend in battle." Then my lord Yvain's blood was stirred,
as he said to him in reply: "Fair dear sire, so help me God, you have no
right to say so much. Let my lord, The King, well know in this battle
I am surely the one who has been defeated and overcome!" "I am the one"
"No, I am." Thus each cries out, and both are so honest and courteous
that each allows the victory and crown to be the other's prize, while
neither one of them will accept it. Thus each strives to convince the
King and all the people that he has been defeated and overthrown.
But when he had listened to them for a while, the King terminated the
dispute. He was well pleased with what he heard and with the sight of
them in each other's arms, though they had wounded and injured each
other in several places. "My lords," he says, "there is deep affection
between you two. You give clear evidence of that, when each insists that
it is he who has been defeated. Now leave it all to me! For I think I
can arrange it in such a way that it will redound to your honour, and
every one will give consent." Then they both promised him that they
would do his will in every particular. And the King says that he will
decide the quarrel fairly and faithfully. "Where is the damsel," he
inquires, "who has ejected her sister from her land, and has forcibly
and cruelly disinherited her?" "My lord," she answers, "here I am." "Are
you there? Then draw near to me! I saw plainly some time ago that you
were disinheriting her. But her right shall no longer be denied; for you
yourself have avowed the truth to me. You must now resign her share to
her." "Sire," she says, "if I uttered a foolish and thoughtless word,
you ought not to take me up in it. For God's sake, sire, do not be hard
on me! You are a king, and you ought to guard against wrong and error."
The King replies: "That is precisely why I wish to give your sister her
rights; for I have never defended what is wrong. And you have surely
heard how your knight and hers have left the matter in my hands. I shall
not say what is altogether pleasing to you; for your injustice is well
known. In his desire to honour the other, each one says that he has been
defeated. But there is no need to delay further: since the matter has
been left to me, either you will do in all respects what I say, without
resistance, or I shall announce that my nephew has been defeated in the
fight. That would be the worst thing that could happen to your cause,
and I shall be sorry to make such a declaration." In reality, he would
not have said it for anything; but he spoke thus in order to see if he
could frighten her into restoring the heritage to her sister; for he
clearly saw that she never would surrender anything to her for any
words of his unless she was influenced by force or fear. In fear and
apprehension, she replied to him: "Fair lord, I must now respect your
desire, though my heart is very loath to yield. Yet, however hard it may
go with me, I shall do it, and my sister shall have what belongs to her.
I give her your own person as a pledge of her share in my inheritance,
in order that she may be more assured of it." "Endow her with it, then,
at once," the King replies; "let her receive it from your hands, and
let her vow fidelity to you! Do you love her as your vassal, and let
her love you as her sovereign lady and as her sister." Thus the King
conducts the affair until the damsel takes possession of her land, and
offers her thanks to him for it. Then the King asked the valiant and
brave knight who was his nephew to allow himself to be disarmed; and
he requested my lord Yvain to lay aside his arms also; for now they may
well dispense with them. Then the two vassals lay aside their arms and
separate on equal terms. And while they are taking off their armour,
they see the lion running up in search of his master. As soon as he
catches sight of him, he begins to show his joy. Then you would have
seen people draw aside, and the boldest among them takes to flight.
My lord Yvain cries out: "Stand still, all! Why do you flee? No one is
chasing you. Have no fear that yonder lion will do you harm. Believe
me, please, when I say that he is mine, and I am his, and we are both
companions." Then it was known of a truth by all those who had heard
tell of the adventures of the lion and of his companion that this must
be the very man who had killed the wicked giant. And my lord Gawain said
to him: "Sir companion, so help me God, you have overwhelmed me with
shame this day. I did not deserve the service that you did me in killing
the giant to save my nephews and my niece. I have been thinking about
you for some time, and I was troubled because it was said that we
were acquainted as loving friends. I have surely thought much upon the
subject: but I could not hit upon the truth, and had never heard of any
knight that I had known in any land where I had been, who was called
'The Knight with the Lion.'" While they chatted thus they took their
armour off, and the lion came with no slow step to the place where his
master sat, and showed such joy as a dumb beast could. Then the two
knights had to be removed to a sick-room and infirmary, for they needed
a doctor and piaster to cure their wounds. King Arthur, who loved them
well, had them both brought before him, and summoned a surgeon whose
knowledge of surgery was supreme. He exercised his art in curing them,
until he had healed their wounds as well and as quickly as possible.
When he had cured them both, my lord Yvain, who had his heart set fast
on love, saw clearly that he could not live, but that he finally would
die unless his lady took pity upon him; for he was dying for love of
her; so he thought he would go away from the court alone, and would go
to fight at the spring that belonged to her, where he would cause such
a storm of wind and rain that she would be compelled perforce to make
peace with him; otherwise, there would be no end to the disturbance of
the spring, and to the rain and wind.

(Vv. 6527-6658.) As soon as my lord Yvain felt that he was cured and
sound again, he departed without the knowledge of any one. But he had
with him his lion, who never in his life wished to desert him. They
travelled until they saw the spring and made the rain descend. Think not
that this is a lie of mine, when I tell you that the disturbance was so
violent that no one could tell the tenth part of it: for it seemed as if
the whole forest must surely be engulfed. The lady fears for her town,
lest it, too, will crumble away; the walls totter, and the tower rocks
so that it is on the verge of falling down. The bravest Turk would
rather be a captive in Persia than be shut up within those walls. The
people are so stricken with terror that they curse all their ancestors,
saying: "Confounded be the man who first constructed a house in this
neighbourhood, and all those who built this town! For in the wide world
they could not have found so detestable a spot, for a single man is able
here to invade and worry and harry us." "You must take counsel in this
matter, my lady," says Lunete; "you will find no one who will undertake
to aid you in this time of need unless you seek for him afar. In the
future we shall never be secure in this town, nor dare to pass beyond
the walls and gate. You know full well that, were some one to summon
together all your knights for this cause, the best of them would not
dare to step forward. If it is true that you have no one to defend
your spring, you will appear ridiculous and humiliated. It will redound
greatly to your honour, forsooth, if he who has attacked you shall
retire without a fight! Surely you are in a bad predicament if you do
not devise some other plan to benefit yourself." The lady replies: "Do
thou, who art so wise, tell me what plan I can devise, and I will follow
thy advice." "Indeed, lady, if I had any plan, I should gladly propose
it to you. But you have great need of a wiser counsellor. So I shall
certainly not dare to intrude, and in common with the others I shall
endure the rain and wind until, if it please God, I shall see some
worthy man appear here in your court who will assume the responsibility
and burden of the battle; but I do not believe that that will happen
to-day, and we have not yet seen the worst of your urgent need." Then
the lady replies at once: "Damsel, speak now of something else! Say no
more of the people of my household; for I cherish no further expectation
that the spring and its marble brim will ever be defended by any of
them. But, if it please God, let us hear now what is your opinion
and plan; for people always say that in time of need one can test his
friend." [330] "My lady, if there is any one who thinks he could find
him who slew the giant and defeated the three knights, he would do
well to go to search for him. But so long as he shall incur the enmity,
wrath, and displeasure of his lady, I fancy there is not under heaven
any man or woman whom he would follow, until he had been assured upon
oath that everything possible would be done to appease the hostility
which his lady feels for him, and which is so bitter that he is dying
of the grief and anxiety it causes him." And the lady said: "Before you
enter upon the quest, I am prepared to promise you upon my word and to
swear that, if he will return to me, I will openly and frankly do all
I can to bring about his peace of mind." Then Lunete replies to her:
"Lady, have no fear that you cannot easily effect his reconciliation,
when once it is your desire to do so; but, if you do not object, I will
take your oath before I start." "I have no objection," the lady says.
With delicate courtesy, Lunete procured at once for her a very precious
relic, and the lady fell upon her knees. Thus Lunete very courteously
accepted her upon her oath. In administering the oath, she forgot
nothing which it might be an advantage to insert. "Lady," she says, "now
raise your hand! I do not wish that the day after to-morrow you should
lay any charge upon me; for you are not doing anything for me, but you
are acting for your own good. If you please now, you shall swear that
you will exert yourself in the interests of the Knight with the Lion
until he recover his lady's love as completely as he ever possessed it."
The lady then raised her right hand and said: "I swear to all that thou
hast said, so help me God and His holy saint, that my heart may never
fail to do all within my power. If I have the strength and ability,
I will restore to him the love and favour which with his lady he once
enjoyed."

(Vv. 6659-6716.) Lunete has now done well her work; there was nothing
which she had desired so much as the object which she had now attained.
They had already got out for her a palfrey with an easy pace. Gladly and
in a happy frame of mind Lunete mounts and rides away, until she finds
beneath the pine-tree him whom she did not expect to find so near at
hand. Indeed, she had thought that she would have to seek afar before
discovering him. As soon as she saw him, she recognised him by the lion,
and coming toward him rapidly, she dismounted upon the solid earth. And
my lord Yvain recognised her as soon as he saw her, and greeted her, as
she saluted him with the words: "Sire, I am very happy to have found you
so near at hand." And my lord Yvain said in reply: "How is that? Were
you looking for me, then?" "Yes, sire, and in all my life I have never
felt so glad, for I have made my mistress promise, if she does not go
back upon her word, that she will be again your lady as was once the
case, and that you shall be her lord; this truth I make bold to tell."
My lord Yvain was greatly elated at the news he hears, and which he
had never expected to hear again. He could not sufficiently show his
gratitude to her who had accomplished this for him. He kisses her eyes,
and then her face, saying: "Surely, my sweet friend, I can never repay
you for this service. I fear that ability and time will fail me to do
you the honour and service which is your due." "Sire," she replies, "have
no concern, and let not that thought worry you! For you will have an
abundance of strength and time to show me and others your good will. If
I have paid this debt I owed, I am entitled to only so much gratitude as
the man who borrows another's goods and then discharges the obligation.
Even now I do not consider that I have paid you the debt I owed."
"Indeed you have, as God sees me, more than five hundred thousand times.
Now, when you are ready, let us go. But have you told her who I am?"
"No, I have not, upon my word. She knows you only by the name of 'The
Knight with the Lion.'"

(Vv. 6717-6758.) Thus conversing they went along, with the lion
following after them, until they all three came to the town. They said
not a word to any man or woman there, until they arrived where the lady
was. And the lady was greatly pleased as soon as she heard that the
damsel was approaching, and that she was bringing with her the lion and
the knight, whom she was very anxious to meet and know and see. All
clad in his arms, my lord Yvain fell at her feet upon his knees, while
Lunete, who was standing by, said to her: "Raise him up, lady, and apply
all your efforts and strength and skill in procuring that peace and
pardon which no one in the world, except you, can secure for him." Then
the lady bade him rise, and said: "He may dispose of all my power!
I shall be very happy, if possible, to accomplish his wish and his
desire." "Surely, my lady," Lunete replied, "I would not say it if it
were not true. But all this is even more possible for you than I have
said: but now I will tell you the whole truth, and you shall see: you
never had and you never will have such a good friend as this gentleman.
God, whose will it is that there should be unending peace and love
between you and him, has caused me to find him this day so near at hand.
In order to test the truth of this, I have only one thing to say: lady,
dismiss the grudge you bear him! For he has no other mistress than you.
This is your husband, my lord Yvain."

(Vv. 6759-6776.) The lady, trembling at these words, replied: "God save
me! You have caught me neatly in a trap! You will make me love, in spite
of myself, a man who neither loves nor esteems me. This is a fine piece
of work, and a charming way of serving me! I would rather endure the
winds and the tempests all my life: And if it were not a mean and
ugly thing to break one's word, he would never make his peace or be
reconciled with me. This purpose would have always lurked within me, as
a fire smoulders in the ashes; but I do not wish to renew it now, nor do
I care to refer to it, since I must be reconciled with him."

(Vv. 6777-6798.) My lord Yvain hears and understands that his cause is
going well, and that he will be peacefully reconciled with her. So he
says: "Lady, one ought to have mercy on a sinner. I have had to pay, and
dearly to pay, for my mad act. It was madness that made me stay away,
and I now admit my guilt and sin. I have been bold, indeed, in daring
to present myself to you; but if you will deign to keep me now, I never
again shall do you any wrong." She replied: "I will surely consent to
that; for if I did not do all I could to establish peace between you
and me, I should be guilty of perjury. So, if you please, I grant your
request." "Lady," says he, "so truly as God in this mortal life could
not otherwise restore me to happiness, so may the Holy Spirit bless me
five hundred times!"

(Vv. 6799-6813.) Now my lord Yvain is reconciled, and you may believe
that, in spite of the trouble he has endured, he was never so happy
for anything. All has turned out well at last; for he is beloved and
treasured by his lady, and she by him. His troubles no longer are in
his mind; for he forgets them all in the joy he feels with his precious
wife. And Lunete, for her part, is happy too: all her desires are
satisfied when once she had made an enduring peace between my polite
lord Yvain and his sweetheart so dear and so elegant.

(Vv. 6814-6818.) Thus Chretien concludes his romance of the Knight with
the Lion; for I never heard any more told of it, nor will you ever hear
any further particulars, unless some one wishes to add some lies.

----Endnotes: Yvain

Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by "(F.)"; all other
endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.

[Footnote 31:

       "cele feste, qui tant coste,
      Qu'an doit clamer la pantecoste."

 This rhyme is frequently met in mediaeval narrative poems.
 (F.)]]

[Footnote 32: The contemporary degeneracy of lovers and of the art of
love is a favourite theme of mediaeval poets.]

[Footnote 33: Cf. "Roman de la Rose", 9661, for the stinking manure pit.
(F.)]

[Footnote 34: The forest of Broceliande is in Brittany, and in it
Chretien places the marvellous spring of Barenton, of which we read
in the sequel. In his version the poet forgets that the sea separates
the court at Carduel from the forest of Broceliande. His readers,
however, probably passed over this "lapsus". The most famous passage
relating to this forest and its spring is found in Wace, "Le Roman de
Rou et des dues de Normandie", vv. 6395-6420, 2 vols. (Heilbronn,
1877-79). Cf. further the informing note by W.L. Holland, "Chretien von
Troies", p. 152 f. (Tubingen, 1854).]

[Footnote 35: This grotesque portrait of the "vilain" is perfectly
conventional in aristocratic poetry, and is also applied to some
Saracens in the epic poems. Cf. W.W. Comfort in "Pub. of the Modern
Language Association of America", xxi. 494 f., and in "The Dublin
Review", July 1911.]

[Footnote 36: For the description of the magic fountain, cf. W.A. Nitze,
"The Fountain Defended" in "Modern Philology", vii. 145-164; G.L.
Hamilton, "Storm-making Springs", etc., in "Romantic Review", ii.
355-375; A.F. Grimme in "Germania", xxxiii. 38; O.M. Johnston in
"Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association",
xxxiii., p. lxxxiii. f.]

[Footnote 37: Eugen Kolbing, "Christian von Troyes Yvain und die
Brandanuslegende" in "Ztsch. fur vergleichende Literaturgeschichte"
(Neue Folge, xi. Brand, 1897), pp. 442-448, has pointed out other
striking allusions in the Latin "Navigatio S. Brandans" (ed. Wahlund,
Upsala, 1900) and elsewhere in Celtic legend to trees teeming with
singing birds, in which the souls of the blessed are incorporated. A
more general reference to trees, animated by the souls of the dead, is
found in J.G. Frazer, "The Golden Bough" (2nd ed. 1900), vol. I., p. 178
f.]

[Footnote 38: Cf. A. Tobler in "Ztsch. fur romanische Philologie", iv.
80-85, who gives many other instances of boasting after meals. See
next note.]

[Footnote 39: Noradin is the Sultan Nureddin Mahmud (reigned 1146-1173),
a contemporary of the poet; Forre is a legendary Saracen king of
Naples, mentioned in the epic poems (cf. E. Langlois, "Table des noms
propres de toute nature compris dans les chansons de geste", Paris,
1904; Albert Counson, "Noms epiques entres dans le vocabulaire commun"
in "Romanische Forschungen", xxiii. 401-413). These names are mentioned
here in connection with the brave exploits which Christian knights,
while in their cups, may boast that they will accomplish (F.). This
practice of boasting was called indulging in "gabs" (=Eng. "gab"), a
good instance of which will be found in "Le Voyage de Charlemagne a
Jeruslaem" (ed. Koschwitz), v. 447 ff.]

[Footnote 310: It is evident in this passage that Chretien's version is
not clear; the reader cannot be sure in what sort of an apartment
Yvain is secreted. The passage is perfectly clear, however, in the
Welsh "Owein", as shown by A.C.L. Brown in "Romanic Review", iii.
143-172, "On the Independent Character of the Welsh 'Owain'", where he
argues convincingly for an original older than either the extant French
of Welsh versions.]

[Footnote 311: The damsel's surprise and fright at the sight of Yvain,
which puzzled Professor Foerster, is satisfactorily explained by J.
Acher in "Ztsch. fur franzosische Sprache und Literatur", xxxv. 150.]

[Footnote 312: For magic rings, cf. A. Hertel, "Verzauberte
Oertlichkeiten", etc. (Hanover, 1908); D.B. Easter, "The Magic Elements
in the romans d'aventure and the romans bretons" (Baltimore, 1906).]

[Footnote 313: Much has been written on the widespread belief that a
dead person's wounds would bleed afresh in the presence of his
murderer. The passage in our text is interesting as being the earliest
literary reference to the belief. Other instances will be found in
Shakespear ("King Richard III., Act. I., Sc. 2), Cervantes ("Don
Quixote"), Scott ("Ballads"), and Schiller ("Braut von Messina"). In
the 15th and 16th centuries especially, the bleeding of the dead became
in Italy, Germany, France, and Spain an absolute or contributory proof
of guilt in the eyes of the law. The suspected culprit might be
subjected to this ordeal as part of the inquisitional method to
determine guilt. For theories of the origin of this belief and of its
use in legal trials, as well as for more extended bibliography, cf. Karl
Lehmann in "Germanistische Abhandlungen fur Konrad von Maurer"
(Gottingen, 1893), pp. 21-45; C.V. Christensen, "Baareproven"
(Copenhagen, 1900).]

[Footnote 314: W.L. Holland in his note for this passage recalls
Schiller's "Jungfrau von Orleans", Act III. Sc. 7, and Shakespeare,
first part of "King Henry IV.", Act V. Sc. 4:

      "When that this body did contain a spirit,
      A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
      But now two paces of the vilest earth
      Is room enough."]

[Footnote 315: Foerster regards this excuse for Kay's defeat as
ironical.]

[Footnote 316: It is hoped that the following passage may have retained
in the translation some of the gay animation which clothes this
description of a royal entry into a mediaeval town.]

[Footnote 317: This idea forms the dominating motive, it will be
recalled, in "Erec et Enide" (cf. note to "Erec", v. 2576).]

[Footnote 318: The parallel between Yvain's and Roland's madness will
occur to readers of Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso", though in the
former case Yvain's madness seems to be rather a retribution for his
failure to keep his promise, while Roland's madness arises from excess
of love.]

[Footnote 319: Argonne is the name of a hilly and well-wooded district
in the north-east of France, lying between the Meuse and the Aisne.]

[Footnote 320: An allusion to the well-known epic tradition embodied in
the "Chanson de Roland". It was common for mediaeval poets to give
names to both the horses and the swords of their heroes.]

[Footnote 321: For the faithful lion in the Latin bestiaries and
mediaeval romances, see the long note of W.L. Holland, "Chretien von
Troies" (Tubingen, 1854), p. 161 f., and G. Baist in Zeitschrift fur
romanische Philologie, xxi. 402-405. To the examples there cited may be
added the episodes in "Octavian" (15th century), published in the
"Romanische Bibliothek" (Heilbronn, 1883).]

[Footnote 322: This is the first of three references in this poem to the
abduction of Guinevere as fully narrated in the poem of "Lancelot". The
other references are in v. 3918 and v.4740 f.]

[Footnote 323: Yvain here states the theory of the judicial trial by
combat. For another instance see "Lancelot", v. 4963 f. Cf. M. Pfeffer
in "Ztsch. fur romanische Philogie", ix. 1-74, and L. Jordan, id. Xxix.
385-401.]

[Footnote 324: A similar description of a distressed damsel wandering at
night in a forest is found in "Berte aus grans pies", by Adenet le Roi
(13th century).]

[Footnote 325: The lion is forgotten for the moment, but will appear
again v. 5446. (F.)]

[Footnote 326: This entire passage belongs in the catagory of widespread
myths which tell of a tribute of youths or maidens paid to some cruel
monster, from which some hero finally obtains deliverance. Instances
are presented in the adventures of Theseus and Tristan.]

[Footnote 327: The old French monetary table was as follows:

10 as = 1 denier; 12 deniers = 1 sol; 20 sous = 1 livre]

[Footnote 328: It appears to be the poet's prerogative in all epochs of
social history to bemoan the degeneracy of true love in his own
generation.]

[Footnote 329: The sleeves of shirts were detachable, and were sewed on
afresh when a clean garment was put on. (F.)]

[Footnote 330: This was an axiom of feudal society, and occurs more
frequently in feudal literature than any other statement of mediaeval
social relations.]

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