Stanzas XLI–LX

"Petir!" quod Percyvelle the ȝynge,
"Hym thanne wille [I] downe dynge,
And the coupe agayne brynge,
And thou wille make me knyghte."
"Als I am trewe kyng," said he,
"A knyghte salle I make the,
For-thi thou wille brynge mee
The coupe of golde bryghte!"
Up ryses syr Arthoure,
Went to a chamboure
To feche doune armoure
The childe in to dyghte;
Bot are it was doune caste,
Ere was Percyvelle paste,
And on his way folowed faste
That he solde with fyghte.

With his foo for to fighte;
None other gates was he dighte
Bot in thre gayt skynnes, righte
A fole als he ware;
He cryed, "How, mane, on thi mere,
Bryng agayne the kynges gere,
Or with my dart I salle the fere,
And make the unfere!"
And after the rede knyghte he rade
Baldely, withowttene bade,
Sayd, "A knyght I salle be made
For some of thi gere!"
He sware by mekille Goddez payne,
"Bot if thou brynge the coupe agayne,
With my dart thou salle be slayne,
And slongene of thi mere."
The knyghte byhaldez hym in throo,
Calde hym fole that was hys foo,
For he named hyme soo
The stede that hym bere;

And for to see hyme with syghte,
He putt his umbrere on highte,
To byhalde how he was dyghte
That so tille hym spake;
He sayde, "Come I to the, appert fole,
I salle caste the in the pole,
For alle the heghe days of ȝole,
Als ane olde sakke!"
Thanne sayd Percyvelle the free,
"Be I fole or whatte I bee,
Now sone of that salle wee see
Whose browes schalle blakke!"
Of schottyng was the childe slee,
At the knyghte lete he flee,
Smote hym in at the eghe
And oute at the nakke.

For the dynt that he tuke,
Oute of sadille he schoke,
Who so the sothe wille luke,
And ther was he slayne.
He falles downe one the hille,
His stede rynnes whare he wille:
Thanne saide Percyvelle hyme tille,
"Thou art a lethir swayne!"
Then saide the childe in that tyde,
"And thou woldeste me here byde,
After thi mere scholde I ryde,
And brynge hir agayne.
Thenne myȝte we bothe with myȝte
Menskfully togedir fyghte,
Ayther of us as he were a knyghte,
Tille tyme the tone ware slayne."

Now es the rede knyghte slayne,
Lefte dede in the playne,
The childe gone his mere mayne
After the stede;
The stede was swifter than the mere,
For he hade no-thynge to bere
But his sadille and his gere,
Fro hym thofe he ȝede.
The mere was bagged with fole,
And hir-selfe a grete bole,
For to rynne scho myȝte not thole
Ne folowe hym no spede;
The childe saw that it was soo,
And tille his fete he ganne hym too,
The gates that he scholde goo
Made he fulle gnede.

The gates made he fulle gnede,
In the waye ther he ȝede,
With strenght tuke he the stede
And broghte to the knyghte;
"Methynke," he sayde, "thou art fele,
That thou ne wille away stele,
Now I houppe that thou wille dele
Strokes appone hyghte!
I hafe broghte to the thi mere,
And mekille of thyne other gere,
Lepe on hir as thou was ere,
And thou wille more fighte!"
The knyghte lay stille in the stede,
What sulde he say whenne he was dede?
The childe couthe no better rede,
But downe gunne he lyghte.

Now es Percyvelle lyghte
To unspoyle the rede knyghte,
Bot he ne couthe never fynd righte
The lacynge of his wede;
He was armede so wele
In gude iryne and in stele,
He couthe not gett of a dele
For nonkyns nede.
He sayd, "My moder bad me,
Whenne my dart solde brokene be,
Owte of the irene brenne the tree,
Now es me fyre gnede!"
Now he getis hym flynt,
His fyre-irene he hent,
And thenne withowttene any stynt
He kyndilt a glede.

Now he kyndils a glede,
Amonge the buskes he ȝede,
And gedirs fulle gude spede
Wodde a fyre to make;
A grete fyre made he thanne,
The rede knyghte in to brenne,
For he ne couthe nott kenne
His gere off to take.
Be thanne was syr Gawayne dyght,
Folowede after the fyghte
Betwene hym and the rede knyghte,
For the childes sake.
He fande the rede knyght lyggand,
Slayne of Percyvelle hande,
Besyde a fyre brynnande
Off byrke and of akke.

Ther brent of birke and of ake
Gret brandes and blake,
"What wylt thou with this fyre make?"
Sayd Gawayne hym tille;
"Peter!" quod Percyvelle thenne,
"And I myghte hym thus kenne,
Out of his irene I wolde hym brenne
Righte here on this hille."
Bot thenne sayd syr Gawayne,
"The rede knyghte for thou has slayne,
I salle unarme hym agayne,
And thou wille holde the stille!"
Thanne syr Gawayne doun lyghte,
Unlacede the rede knyghte,
The childe in his armour dight
At his awnne wille!

Whenne he was dighte in his atire,
He tase the knyghte bi the swire,
Keste hym reghte in the fyre
The brandes to balde:
Bot thenne said Percyvelle one bost,
"Ly stille therin now and roste,
I kepe nothynge of thi coste
Ne noghte of thi spalde."
The knyghte lygges ther on brede,
The childe es dighte in his wede,
And lepe up apone his stede,
Als hym-selfe wolde.
He luked doune to his fete,
Saw his gere faire and mete,
"For a knyghte I may be lete,
And myghte be calde."

Thenne sayd syr Gawayne hym tille,
"Goo we faste fro this hille,
Thou base done what thou wille,
It neghes nere nyghte!"
"What! trowesthou," quod Percyvelle the ȝynge,
"That I wille agayne brynge
Untille Arthoure the kynge
The golde that es bryghte?
Nay, so mote I thryfe or thee,
I ame als grete a lorde als he,
To day ne schalle he make me
None other gates knyghte!
Take the coupe in thy hande,
And mak thiselfe the presande,
For I wille forthire in-to the lande
Are I doune lyghte!"

Nowther wolde he doune lyghte,
Ne he wolde wende with the knyght,
Bot rydes forthe alle the nyghte,
So prowde was he thanne!
Tille one the morne at forthe dayes,
He mett a wyche, as mene says;
His horse and his harnays
Couthe scho wele kenne.
Scho wende that it hade bene
The rede knyghte that scho hade sene,
Was wount in those armes to bene
To gerre the stede rynne.
In haste scho come hym agayne,
Sayde, "It is not to layne,
Mene tolde me that thou was slayne
With Arthours mene!

"Ther come one of my mene,
Tille ȝonder hille he gane me kenne,
There thou sees the fyre brene,
And sayde that thou was thare."
Ever satt Percyvelle stone stille,
And spakke nothynge hir tille,
Tille scho hade sayde alle hir wille,
And spakke lesse ne mare.
"At ȝondere hille hafe I bene,
Nothynge hafe I there sene
Bot gayte skynnes I wene,
Siche ille farande fare."
"Mi sone, and thou ware thare slayne,
And thyne armes of drawene,
I couthe hele the agayne
Als wele als thou was are!"

Than wist Percyvelle by thatt,
It servede hym of somwhatt
The wylde fyre that he gatt,
Whenne the knyghte was slayne;
And righte so wolde he thare
That the olde wiche ware,
Oppone his spere he hir bare
To the fyre agayne;
In ille wrethe and in grete
He keste the wiche in the hete,
He sayde, "Ly stille and swete
Bi thi sone, that lyther swayne!"
Thus he leves thayme twoo,
And one his gates gane he goo;
Siche dedis to do moo
Was the childe fayne.

Als he come by a wodd syde,
He sawe tene mene ryde,
He said, "For oughte that may betyde,
To thame wille I me."
Whenne those tene saw hym thare,
Thay wende the rede knyghte it ware,
That wolde thame alle for-fare,
And faste gane thay flee;
For he was so gates cledde,
Alle belyffe fro hym thay fledde,
And ever the faster that thay spedde
The swiftly ere sewed hee,
Tille he was warre of a knyghte,
And of the menevaire he had syght,
He put up his umbrere one hight,
And said, "Syr, God luke thee!"

The childe sayde, "God luke the!"
The knyght said, "Now wele the be!
A! lorde Godd, now wele is mee,
That ever was I made!"
For by the vesage hym thoghte
The rede knyȝte was it noȝte,
That hade theme alle by-soughte,
And baldely he bade;
It semede wele bi the syghte
That he had slayne the rede knyȝt,
In his armes was he dighte
And one his stede rade.
Sone sayde the knyghte tho,
And thankede the childe fulle thro,
"Thou hase slayne the moste foo
That ever ȝitt I hade!"

Thenne sayde Percyvelle the free,
"Wherefore fledde
Lange are, whenne ȝe sawe mee
Come rydande ȝow by?"
Bot thanne spake the olde knyghte,
That was paste out of myghte
With any mane for to fyghte,
He ansuerde in hy;
He sayde, "Theis childrene nyne,
Alle are thay sonnes myne,
For ferde or I solde thame tyne,
Therfore fledd I.
We wende wele that it had bene
The rede knyȝte that we hade sene;
He walde hafe slayne us by-dene
With-owttene mercy.

"Withowttene any mercy
He wolde hafe slayne us in hy;
To my sonnes he hade envy
Moste of any menne.
Fiftene ȝeres es it gane
Syne he my brodire hade slane,
Now hadde the theefe undirtane
To si a us alle thenne;
He was ferde lesse my sonnes sold hym slo,
Whenne thay ware eldare and moo,
And that thay solde take hym for thaire foo,
Where thay myȝte hym kenne;
Hade I bene in the stede
Ther he was done to the dede,
I solde never hafe etyne brede
Are I hade sene hym brenne!"

"Petir!" quod Percyvelle, "he es brende,
I haffe spedde better thanne I wend."
Ever at the laste ende
The bly there wexe the knyghte!
By his haulle thaire gates felle,
And ȝerne he prayed Percyvelle
That he solde ther with hym duelle,
And be ther alle that nyghte.
Fulle wele he couthe a geste calle,
He broghte the childe in-to the haulle,
So faire he spake hym with-alle
That he es doune lyghte;
His stede es in stable sett,
And hymselfe to the haulle fett,
And thanne, withowttene any lett,
To the mette thay thame dighte.

Mete and drynke was ther dighte,
And mene to serve thame fulle ryghte,
The childe that come with the knyghte
Enoghe ther he fande;
At the mete as thay beste satte,
Come the portere fro the ȝate,
Saide a mane was theratte
Of the Maydene-lande;
Saide, "Syr, he prayes the
Off mete and drynke for charyte,
For a messagere es he,
And may nott lange stande."
The knyght badde late hym inne,
For he sayde, "It es no synne,
The mane that may the mete wynne
To gyffe the travellande."