leave the lion at the gate lest he should wound or
kill them. And he replies: "Say no more of that! For I shall not enter
without him. Either we shall both find shelter here or else I shall stay
outside; he is as dear to me as I am myself. Yet you need have no fear
of him! For I shall keep him so well in hand that you may be quite
confident." They made answer: "Very well!" Then they entered the town,
and passed on until they met knights and ladies and charming damsels
coming down the street, who salute him and wait to remove his armour as
they say: "Welcome to our midst, fair sire! And may God grant that you
tarry here until you may leave with great honour and satisfaction!" High
and low alike extend to him a glad welcome, and do all they can for him,
as they joyfully escort him into the town. But after they had expressed
their gladness they are overwhelmed by grief, which makes them quickly
forget their joy, as they begin to lament and weep and beat themselves.
Thus, for a long space of time, they cease not to rejoice or make
lament: it is to honour their guest that they rejoice, but their heart
is not in what they do, for they are greatly worried over an event which
they expect to take place on the following day, and they feel very sure
and certain that it will come to pass before midday. My lord Yvain was
so surprised that they so often changed their mood, and mingled grief
with their happiness, that he addressed the lord of the place on the
subject. "For God's sake," he said, "fair gentle sir, will you kindly
inform me why you have thus honoured me, and shown at once such joy and
such heaviness?" "Yes, if you desire to know, but it would be better
for you to desire ignorance and silence. I will never tell you willingly
anything to cause you grief. Allow us to continue to lament, and do you
pay no attention to what we do!" "It would be quite impossible for me
to see you sad and nor take it upon my heart, so I desire to know the
truth, whatever chagrin may result to me." "Well, then," he said, "I
will tell you all. I have suffered much from a giant, who has insisted
that I should give him my daughter, who surpasses in beauty all the
maidens in the world. This evil giant, whom may God confound, is named
Harpin of the Mountain. Not a day passes without his taking all of my
possessions upon which he can lay his hands. No one has a better right
than I to complain, and to be sorrowful, and to make lament. I might
well lose m