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In front of a flaming fireside a chairwas pulled into place for Gawain, and paddedwith covers and quilts all cleverly stitched,then a cape was cast across the knightof rich brown cloth with embroidered borders,finished inside with the finest furs,ermine, to be exact, and a hood which echoed it.Resplendently dressed he settled in his seat;as his limbs thawed, so his thoughts lightened.Soon a table was set on sturdy trestlescovered entirely with a clean white clothand cruets of salt and silver spoons.In a while he washed and went to his meal.Staff came quickly and served him in stylewith several soups all seasoned to taste,double helpings as was fitting, and a feast of fish,some baked in bread, some browned over flames,some boiled or steamed, some stewed in spicesand subtle sauces to tantalize his tongue.Then she who desired to see this strangercame from her closet with her sisterly crew.She was fairest amongst them—her face, her flesh,her complexion, her quality, her bearing, her body,more glorious than Guinevere, or so Gawain thought,and in the chancel of the church they exchanged courtesies.

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