From these digressions upon love and glory,
’Tis time we were returning to our story. 
I only meant, in a few words, to tell you
(For fear my heroine’s conduct should repel you)
That if she jests, for instance, out of season,
Perhaps there is a good substantial reason. 
Sir Gawayne, had he seen the stranger wink
And seen the lady blushing, you may think
Might have been spared a most unhappy lot. 
Perhaps you’re right;—­but peradventure not. 
I give you but a hint, for half the art
Of narrative is holding back a part,
And if without reserve I gave my best
In the first canto, who would read the rest?

But now Sir Gawayne, with a troubled eye,
Looked up, and saw his lady standing by. 
Quoth he:  “And if this conjurer unblest
Win no acceptance of his bitter jest,
How then in after days shall Arthur’s court
Confront the calumny and foul report
Of idle tongues?” The wrath in Gawayne’s eyes
Hashed for an instant; then in humbler wise
He spoke on:  “Yet God grant I be not blind
Where honor lights the way; for to my mind
True honor bids us shun the devil’s den,
To fight God’s battles in the world of men. 
Who takes this challenge up, I doubt will rue it.” 
Quoth Elfinhart:  “I’ld like to see you do it!”
She laughed a gay laugh, but by hard constraint: 
Then turned and hid her face, all pale and faint,
As one might be who stabs and turns the knife
In the warm heart of one more dear than life. 
She turned and Gawayne saw not; but he heard,
And felt his heart-strings tighten at her word. 
“Nay, lady, if you wish it I will try;
Be your least wish my will, although I die! 
Yet one thing, if I may, I fain would ask,
Before I make the venture;—­if this task
Prove fateful as it threatens,—­do you care?”
“Perhaps,” said Elfinhart, “you do not dare!”
Lightly she laughed, and scoffing tossed her head,
Yet spoke as one who knew not what she said,
With random words, and with quick-taken breath;
Then turned again, ere that same look of death
Should steal upon her and betray her heart
Despite all stratagems of woman’s art. 
And Gawayne heard but saw not; and the night
Descended on him, and his face grew white
With grief and passion.  When all else is lost,
The brave man gives life too, nor counts the cost. 
“I dreamt,” he murmured to himself, “and dreaming
I took for truth what was but sweetest seeming. 
My waking eyes find naught in life to keep;
I take the venture, and so back—­to sleep.”

By this, the stranger had at last become
Tired of long waiting, and of sitting dumb
Upon his charger; so with greenest leer
He vented his impatience in a sneer. 
“Is this,” he said, “the glorious Table Round,
And is its glory naught but empty sound? 
Braggarts!  I put your bluster to the test,
And find you quail before a merry jest!”
Then the great king himself stood up in ire,
With clenched hand raised, and eyes that gleamed dark fire,
And fronting the Green Knight he cried:  “Forbear! 
For by my sword Excalibur I swear,