Gawayne rises, dresses himself in noble array, and conceals the “love lace” where he might find it again.  He then hies to mass, shrives him of his misdeeds, and obtains absolution.  On his return to the hall he solaces the ladies with comely carols and all kinds of joy (ll. 1866-1892).  The dark night came, and then the lord of the castle, having slain the fox, returns to his “dear home,” where he finds a fire brightly turning and his guest amusing the ladies (ll. 1893-1927).  Gawayne, in fulfilment of his agreement, kisses his host thrice.[1] “By Christ,” quoth the other knight, “ye have caught much bliss.  I have hunted all this day and nought have I got but the skin of this foul fox (the devil have the goods!), and that is full poor for to pay for such precious things” (ll. 1928-1951).

After the usual evening’s entertainment, Gawayne retires to rest.  The next morning, being New Year’s day, is cold and stormy.  Snow falls, and the dales are full of drift.  Our knight in his bed locks his eyelids, but full little he sleeps.  By each cock that crows he knows the hour, and before day-break he calls for his chamberlain, who quickly brings him his armour (ll. 1952-2014).  While Gawayne clothed himself in his rich weeds he forgot not the “lace, the lady’s gift,” but with it doubly girded his loins.  He wore it not for its rich ornaments, “but to save himself when it behoved him to suffer,” and as a safeguard against sword or knife (ll. 2015-2046).

    Having thanked his host and all the renowned assembly for the great
    kindness he had experienced at their hands, “he steps into stirrups and
    strides aloft” (ll. 2047-2068).

The drawbridge is let down, and the broad gates unbarred and borne open upon both sides, and the knight, after commending the castle to Christ, passes thereout and goes on his way accompanied by his guide, that should teach him to turn to that place where he should receive the much-dreaded blow.  They climb over cliffs, where each hill had a hat and a mist-cloak, until the next morn, when they find themselves on a full high hill covered with snow.  The servant bids his master remain awhile, saying, “I have brought you hither at this time, and now ye are not far from that noted place that ye have so often enquired after.  The place that ye press to is esteemed full perilous, and there dwells a man in that waste the worst upon earth, for he is stiff and stern and loves to strike, and greater is he than any man upon middle-earth, and his body is bigger than the best four in Arthur’s house.  He keeps the Green Chapel; there passes none by that place, however proud in arms, that he does not ‘ding him to death with dint of his hand.’  He is a man immoderate and ‘no mercy uses,’ for be it churl or chaplain that by the chapel rides, monk or mass-priest, or any man else, it is