This widow, however, is rather an Ephesian matron.  The sagacious Lunet, whose confidante she is, suggests to her that, unless she enlists some doughty knight as her champion, the king will confiscate her fief; and that there is no champion like a husband.  A very little more finesse effects the marriage, even though the lady is made aware of the identity of her new lover and her own husband’s slayer. (It is of course necessary to remember that the death of a combatant in fairly challenged and fought single contest was not reckoned as any fault to his antagonist.) Ywain actually shows his prowess against the King:  and has an opportunity of showing Kay once more that it is one thing to blame other people for failing, and another to succeed yourself.  And after this the newly married pair live together happily for a time.  But it was reckoned a fault in a knight to take too prolonged a honeymoon:  and Ywain, after what the French call adieux dechirants, obtains leave for the usual “twelvemonth and a day,” at the expiration of which, on St. John’s Eve, he is without fail to return, the engagement being sealed by the gift from his lady of a special ring.  He forgets his promise of course:  and at the stated time a damsel appears, sternly demands the ring, and announces her lady’s decision to have nothing further to do with him.  There is in such cases only one thing for any true knight, from Sir Lancelot to Sir Amadis, to do:  and that is to go mad, divest himself of his garments, and take to the greenwood.  This Ywain duly does, supporting himself at first on the raw flesh of game which he kills with a bow and arrows wrested from a chance-comer; and then on less savage but still simple food supplied by a benevolent hermit.  As he lies asleep under a tree, a lady rides by with attendants, and one of these (another of the wise damsels of romance) recognises him as Sir Ywain.  The lady has at the time sore need of a champion against a hostile earl, and she also fortunately possesses a box of ointment infallible against madness, which Morgane la Faye has given her.  With this the damsel is sent back to anoint Ywain.  He comes to his senses, is armed and clothed, undertakes the lady’s defence, and discomfits the earl:  but is as miserable as ever.  Resisting the lady’s offer of herself and all her possessions, he rides off once more “with heavy heart and dreary cheer.”

Soon he hears a hideous noise and, riding in its direction, finds that a dragon has attacked a lion.  He succours the holier beast, kills the dragon, and though he has unavoidably wounded the lion in the melee is thenceforth attended by him not merely as a food-provider, but as the doughtiest of squires and comrades in fight.  To aggravate his sorrow he comes to the fountain and thorn-tree of the original adventure, and hears some one complaining in the chapel hard by.  They exchange questions.  “A man,” he said, “some time I was” (which must be one of the earliest