About her person she had drawn a mantle of ermine, edged with purple dye from the vats of Alexandria.  By reason of the heat her raiment was unfastened for a little, and her throat and the rondure of her bosom showed whiter and more untouched than hawthorn in May.  The knight came before the bed, and stood gazing on so sweet a sight.  The Maiden beckoned him to draw near, and when he had seated himself at the foot of her couch, spoke her mind.

“Launfal,” she said, “fair friend, it is for you that I have come from my own far land.  I bring you my love.  If you are prudent and discreet, as you are goodly to the view, there is no emperor nor count, nor king, whose day shall be so filled with riches and with mirth as yours.”

When Launfal heard these words he rejoiced greatly, for his heart was litten by another’s torch.

“Fair lady,” he answered, “since it pleases you to be so gracious, and to dower so graceless a knight with your love, there is naught that you may bid me do—­right or wrong, evil or good—­that I will not do to the utmost of my power.  I will observe your commandment, and serve in your quarrels.  For you I renounce my father and my father’s house.  This only I pray, that I may dwell with you in your lodging, and that you will never send me from your side.”

When the Maiden heard the words of him whom so fondly she desired to love, she was altogether moved, and granted him forthwith her heart and her tenderness.  To her bounty she added another gift besides.  Never might Launfal be desirous of aught, but he would have according to his wish.  He might waste and spend at will and pleasure, but in his purse ever there was to spare.  No more was Launfal sad.  Right merry was the pilgrim, since one had set him on the way, with such a gift, that the more pennies he bestowed, the more silver and gold were in his pouch.

But the Maiden had yet a word to say.

“Friend,” she said, “hearken to my counsel.  I lay this charge upon you, and pray you urgently, that you tell not to any man the secret of our love.  If you show this matter, you will lose your friend, for ever and a day.  Never again may you see my face.  Never again will you have seisin of that body, which is now so tender in your eyes.”

Launfal plighted faith, that right strictly he would observe this commandment.  So the Maiden granted him her kiss and her embrace, and very sweetly in that fair lodging passed the day till evensong was come.

Right loath was Launfal to depart from the pavilion at the vesper hour, and gladly would he have stayed, had he been able, and his lady wished.

“Fair friend,” said she, “rise up, for no longer may you tarry.  The hour is come that we must part.  But one thing I have to say before you go.  When you would speak with me I shall hasten to come before your wish.  Well I deem that you will only call your friend where she may be found without reproach or shame of men.  You may see me at your pleasure; my voice shall speak softly in your ear at will; but I must never be known of your comrades, nor must they ever learn my speech.”