When the lady heard of her lover’s purpose, she thanked him for his courtesy, for greatly was his counsel to her mind.  She approved his desire to quit the realm for the sake of his honour, and far from putting let and hindrance in his path, trusted that in the end he would bring again her son.  Since Milon was assured of his friend’s goodwill, he arrayed himself richly, and crossing the sea to Normandy, came afterwards into the land of the Bretons.  There he sought the friendship of the lords of that realm, and fared to all the tournaments of which he might hear.  Milon bore himself proudly, and gave graciously of his wealth, as though he were receiving a gift.  He sojourned till the winter was past in that land, he, and a brave company of knights whom he held in his house with him.  When Easter had come, and the season that men give to tourneys and wars and the righting of their private wrongs, Milon considered how he could meet with the knight whom men called Peerless.  At that time a tournament was proclaimed to be held at Mont St. Michel.  Many a Norman and Breton rode to the game; knights of Flanders and of France were there in plenty, but few fared from England.  Milon drew to the lists amongst the first.  He inquired diligently of the young champion, and all men were ready to tell from whence he came, and of his harness, and of the blazon on his shield.  At length the knight appeared in the lists and Milon looked upon the adversary he so greatly desired to see.  Now in this tournament a knight could joust with that lord who was set over against him, or he could seek to break a lance with his chosen foe.  A player must gain or lose, and he might find himself opposed either by his comrade or his enemy.  Milon did well and worshipfully in the press, and was praised of many that day.  But the Knight Peerless carried the cry from all his fellows, for none might stand before him, nor rival him in skill and address.  Milon observed him curiously.  The lad struck so heavily, he thrust home so shrewdly, that Milon’s hatred changed to envy as he watched.  Very comely showed the varlet, and much to Milon’s mind.  The older knight set himself over against the champion, and they met together in the centre of the field.  Milon struck his adversary so fiercely, that the lance splintered in his gauntlet; but the young knight kept his seat without even losing a stirrup.  In return his spear was aimed with such cunning that he bore his antagonist to the ground.  Milon lay upon the earth bareheaded, for his helmet was unlaced in the shock.  His hair and beard showed white to all, and the varlet was heavy to look on him whom he had overthrown.  He caught the destrier by the bridle, and led him before the stricken man.

“Sir,” said he, “I pray you to get upon your horse.  I am right grieved and vexed that I should have done this wrong.  Believe me that it was wrought unwittingly.”

Milon sprang upon his steed.  He approved the courtesy of his adversary, and looking upon the hand that held his bridle, he knew again his ring.  He made inquiry of the lad.