The great King Constantine is at the hunt;
The brilliant cavalcade of knights and dames,
On palfreys and on chargers trapped in gold
And silver and red purple, ride in mirth
Along the winding way, by hill and tarn
And violet-sprinkled dell. Impatient hounds
Sniff the keen morning air, and startled birds
Rustle the foliage redolent with spring.

From time to time some courtier reins his steed
Beside the love-enkindling Gwendolaine,
Whose wayward moods do vary as the winds,—
Now wooing with her soft, seductive grace;
Now fascinating with her stately pride;
Anon, bewitching by her recklessness
Of wilful daring in some wild caprice
Which no one could anticipate or stay.
How fair she is to-day! How beautiful!
Her hunting-robe is bluer than the sky,—
Matching one phase of her great, changeful eyes,—
Clasped with twin falcons of unburnished gold,
The colour of her brown hair in the sun.
The white plumes, drooping from her hunting-cap,
Leave her alluring lips in tempting sight,
But hide the growing shadow in her eyes.
For she marks none of all the court to-day
Save Sir Sanpeur, the passing noble knight
Whose bearing doth bespeak heroic deeds,
There where he rides with the sweet maid Ettonne.

Sir Torm, the husband of fair Gwendolaine,
Is all unconscious of aught else beside
The outward seeming, 'tis enough for him
That she is gay and beautiful, and smiles.
He has a nature small and limited
By sight, and sense, and self, and his desires;
A heart as open as the day to all
That touches his quick impulse, when it costs
Him naught of sacrifice. The needy poor
Flock to his castle for the careless gift
Of falling dole, but his esquire is faint
From his exacting service, night and day
His Lady Gwendolaine is satiate
With costly gems, palfreys, and samite thick
With threads of gold and silver, but the sweet
Heart subtleties and fair observances
Are lost in the of course of married life.
He sees, too quickly, does she fail to smile,
But never sees the shadow in her eyes
His hounds are beaten till they scarce draw breath,
And then caressed beyond the worth of hounds.
His vassals know not if, from day to day,
He will approve, or strike them with a curse.
His humours are the byword of the court,
And, were it not for his good-heartedness,
His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms,
Men would speak lightly of him in disdain;
He is so often in a stormy rage,
Or supplicating humour to atone,—
Too petty to repent in very truth,
Too light and yielding in repentance, when
His temper's force is spent, for dignity
Of truest knighthood. No one feels his faults
So quickly, with such flushing of regret
And shame, as Gwendolaine. But she is wife,
His honour is her own, and she would hide
From all the world, and even from herself,
His pettiness and narrowness of soul.
So she forgets, or doth pretend forget,
Where he has failed, save when he passes bounds;
Then her swift scorn—a piercing force he dreads—
Flashes upon him like a probing lance,
To silence merriment if it be coarse,
To hush his wrath when it is violent.

Though powerful to check, she ne'er could change
The underflow and current of their life.
In the first years, gone by, ere she had grown
A woman of the world, she had essayed
To stem the tide of shallow vanity,
To realise her girlhood's high ideal,
And make her home more reverent, and more fine.
Sir Torm had overborne her words with jest
And noisy laughter, vowing she would learn
Romance and sweet simplicity were well
For harper minstrel, singing in the hall,
But not for courtiers living in the world.
Once, when she faced the thought of motherhood,—
For some brief days of sweet expectancy
Never fulfilled for her,—she was aware
Of thirst for living water, and a dread
Of the light, shallow life she led, fell on her;
She went to Torm, and spoke, in broken words,
The unformed longing of her dawning soul.
He lightly laughed, filliped her ear, called her
"My Lady Abbess," "pretty saint," and then
Said, later, jesting, before all the court,
"Behold a lady too good for her lord!"
The blood swept up her cheeks to lose itself
In her hair's gold, then ebbed again to leave
Her paler than before. She stood in silent,
Momentary hate of Torm, all impotent.
He saw her pallor and her eyes down-dropt,
Came quickly, flung his arm around her, saying,
"God's faith, my girl, you do not mind a jest!
Where are the spirits you are wont to have?"
"My lord, they shall not fail you any more,"
She answered bitterly, and after that
Torm did not see her soul unveiled again.
Thenceforth she turned her strivings after truth
To winning outward charm the more complete,
And hid her inner self more deeply 'neath
The sparkling surface of her brilliant life.

To-day he wearies her with brutal jest
Upon the hunted boar, and calls her dull
That she laughs not as ever.

While Sanpeur
Was far upon a distant quest, all perilous,
She thought with secret longing of the hour
When once again together they should ride.
He has returned triumphant, having won
Fresh honours.

Now at last, the hunt has come,
The day is golden, and her beauty fair,—
And Sir Sanpeur is riding with Ettonne.
A sudden conflict wages in her heart
As she talks lightly to each courtier gay,
Jealous impatience that the Gwendolaine
Whom all men flatter, should be thwarted, fights
A tender yearning to defy all pride
And call him to her for one spoken word.
The world seems better when he talks with her,
No one has ever lifted her above
The empty nothings of a courtly life
As Sir Sanpeur, who makes both life and death
More grandly solemn, yet more simply clear.
In a steep curving of the road, he turns
To meet her smile, which deepens as he comes.
Sanpeur, bronzed by the eastern sun, is tall,
Straight as a javelin, in each noble line
His knighthood is revealed. Slighter than Torm,
Whose strength is in his size, but full as strong,
Sanpeur's unrivalled strength is in his sinew
His scarlet garb, deep furred with miniver,
Is broidered with the cross which leaves untold
The fame he won in lands of which it tells
Upon his breast he wears the silver dove,
The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost,
Which Gwendolaine once noted with the words,
"What famous honours you have won, my lord!"
And he had answered with all knightly grace,
"My Lady Gwendolaine, I seldom think
Of the high honour, though I greatly prize
This recognition, far beyond my worth;
My thought is ever what it signifieth.
It is my consecration I belong
To God the Father, and this is the sign
Of His most Holy Spirit, sent to us
By our ascended Saviour, Jesu Christ,
By Whom alone I live from day to day."
His quiet words, amid the laughing court,
Had startled her, as if a solemn peal
Of full cathedral music had rung clear
Above the jousting cry of "Halt and Ho!"
Then, as she wondered if he were a man
Like other men, or priest in knightly garb,
He spoke of her rich jewels with delight
And worldly wisdom, telling her the tale
Of many jewelled mysteries she wore
"In the far East, the sapphire stone is held
To be the talisman for Love and Truth,
So is it fitly placed upon your robe;
It is the stone of stones to girdle you"
"A man, indeed," she thought, "but not like men."

As on his foam-flecked charger, Carn-Aflang,
He rides to-day towards Lady Gwendolaine,
She draws her rein more tightly, arching more
Her palfrey's head, and all unconsciously
Uplifts her own,—for she has waited long.

"Good morrow, my fair Lady Gwendolaine."

"Good morrow, Sir Sanpeur, pray do you mark
My new gerfalcon, from beyond the sea?
Your eyes are just the colour of her wings."

"Now, by my troth, I challenge any knight
To say precisely what that colour is."

"'Tis there the likeness serves so well, Sanpeur."

"My Lady Gwendoline, your speech is, far
Beyond your purpose, gracious, for right well
I mind me that you told me, once, your heart
Often rebelled against the well-defined,
And I should be content to have my eyes
The motley colour of your falcon's plume,
Lest they make you rebel."

"Ah, Sir Sanpeur,
Your memory is far too steadfast!"

"Naught
Can be too steadfast for your grace, fair dame."

Now he has come, the wayward Gwendolaine
Is fain to punish him for his delay.
"Methinks," she says, in pique, against her will,
"The beautiful Ettonne looks for her knight;
It scarce seems chivalrous to leave her thus."

"'Tis true, my lady, I came not to stay,
But for a greeting, which I now have said."

He left her, the light shadow darker grew
Within her eyes, and golden hawking bells
Upon her jesses clashed with sudden clink,
As her fair hand had closed impatiently.

Betimes came Constantine, who looked a man
Of hard-won conquests, not the least, o'er self.
Before his stately presence Gwendolaine
Bowed low with heartfelt loyalty.

"My King,
Care rides beside you, banish him, to-day,
He will but spoil the sunshine and the hunt."

"Alas! he is the Sovereign of the King,
And stays, defying all command, fair Gwendolaine."
Then, smiling grimly,—"My great heritage,
As heir to fragments of the Table Round,
Brings me no wealth of ease."

In converse light
They rode together. When the hunt was done,
The King, all courteous, said, "My gracious dame,
Well have you learned of nature her great laws;
The sun, that warms with its intensity
The earth to fruitage, is the same that throws
Stray sportive gleams to beautify alone;
And you, who meet my purposes of state
With a responsive thought and sympathy,
As no dame of the court,—and scarcely knight,—
Has ever done, are first in making me
Forget their weight. Gramercy for your grace!
It has revived me as a summer shower
Revives the parched and under-trodden grass;
It is but seldom I have time to seek
Refreshment, save of labour changed."

"My King,"—
She passed from gay to grave,—"my own heart aches
With life's vexed questions, and its stern demands,
Full often even in my sheltered state;
And you, my liege, must be well-nigh o'ercome
With the vast load of duties you fulfil
So nobly, to the glory of the realm.
Would I could serve you, as you well deserve;
But I am only woman, so I smile
In lieu of fighting for you, as I would
Unto the death, if I were but a knight."
And this same dame who spoke so earnestly
To Constantine, said when she next had speech
With Sir Sanpeur, "Life is a merry play
To me, naught else, I seldom think beyond
The fashion of the robe I wear!"

Sanpeur,
Alone of all the men who came within
Her circle, varied not at smiles or frowns,
And when he would not humour passing mood,
And when she felt within her wayward heart
The silent protest of his calm reserve,—
Although a longing she had never known
Awoke in her,—her pride, in arms, cried truce
To striving spirit, and she laughed the more.
And oftentimes the stirring of new life,
Without its recognition, made her quick
To war against the wall that Sir Sanpeur
Confronted to some phases of her charm;
Made her assume a wilful shallowness,
To hide the soul she was afraid to face.

One day, at court, her restless spirits rose
To a defiant mood of recklessness,
And half because she wanted to be true,
And half because she could not act the false
Except to overdo it, her clear laugh
Rang out at witty words her heart disdained;
Some knights, ignoble, hating noble men,
Were loud decrying virtue, Gwendolaine
With laugh-begetting words made quick assent
To the unworthy wit

She scarce had spoken,
Ere Sanpeur raised his penetrating eyes,—
The only ones, in all that laughing group,
Which were not bright with an approving smile,—
To meet her own, with silent gravity,
A swift arrest within their shining depths
To one more word unworthy of herself.
And Gwendolaine, the peerless queen of dames,
Cast down her eyes, for once, before Sanpeur.

Later, he stood beside her, as she passed,
"My Lady Gwendolaine,—incomparable,—
'Tis not your wont to be so cowardly."

"No? Sanpeur," answered Gwendolaine, "nor yours,
It seems, to be well mannered; may I ask
Where I have failed in bravery, forsooth?"

"You were a coward to your better self
In your light answer to the empty words
Your nature disavowed."

"Alack, my lord!
That is my armour; warriors ever wear
A cuirass of strong steel before their breasts;
A woman carries but a little shield
Of scorn and badinage, to break the force
On her weak woman-heart, of javelins hurled."

"That is well said, my Lady Gwendolaine,
But it is not the same, by your fair grace;
Our armour is our armour, nothing more;
Your shield of scorn is lasting lance of harm,
For every word a noble woman says,
And every act and influence from her,
Live on forever, to the end of time;
Your true soul is too true to be belied."

"Who told you, Sir Sanpeur?"

"My heart," he said.
She raised her eyes in a triumphant thrill
Of sudden rapture, and of gratitude,
And saw herself enwrapped by a long look
That came from deeper depths than she had known,
And reached a depth in her as yet unstirred.
She stood enspelled by his long silent gaze
Of subtle power. His unswerving eyes
Quelled her by steadfast calm, yet kindled her
By lavish love and light.

Although no word
Was said between them, as they moved apart,
She knew he loved her, and he wist she knew.

And with the revelation there was born
A wider knowledge of life's mystery.
Sir Torm had never satisfied her soul;
But though in outward seeming she was proud,
High-spirited, and passing courtly dame,
At heart the Lady Gwendolaine was still
A hungry child who craved love's nourishing,
Unconscious of her hunger; so she had clung,—
In spite of shocks, repeated time on time,—
Close to the thought of Torm, remembering all
He was to her in wooing her; rehearsed—
As children count their pennies one by one
Day after day to prove their wealth—each good
And sign of promise in his nature generous,
Until her buoyant heart, quick to react,
Had warmed itself, and kept itself alive,
By its own warmth and fire of earnest zeal.
And as men, lost in a morass, feed fast
On berries, lest they starve, and call it food,
Thus, with shut eyes, had Gwendolaine, till now,
Fed on affection and chance tenderness,
And called it by the great and awful name
Of Love, not knowing what love meant. But swift
As light floods darkened chamber, when one flings
The window wide, so her unconscious soul
Was flooded with the strange incoming thought—
In that eternal moment—of true love,
Love as a vital force within the soul,
A strength, a power, an illuming light.
And Sanpeur loved her! O immortal crown.
She was not conscious of her love for him,
Her love for his love was enough for her.

Then she awoke to joy; all things became
Pregnant with deep significance. The sky
Flushed with the coming of the rosy dawn;
The mountains reaching heavenward; the sun
That warmed the flowers, and drank their dew; the birds
That built their nests well hid in leafy shade;
The grass that bent in homage to the wind,—
All touched her heart anew with subtle thoughts;
And joy brought rich unfolding in her life.

She had more pity for the men she scorned,
More quick forgiveness for the envious dames,
And when the little children crossed her path,
She stooped, and kissed them, as was not her wont.

Alas! too often, this new harmony
Of life was clashed by discord. Sir Torm flung
Upon the homage Sanpeur rendered her
Unworthy jest and spiteful words, for well
He hated him with grudge despiteous.
Full oft his wrath was roused to such a point
He could not hold his peace; even to the King
He jeered one day at visionary knights.
The keen-eyed King, with intuition, knew
The motive of his speech,—"Our knight, Sanpeur,
But contradicts your verdict, Torm, and proves
That which the great King Arthur taught,—the man
Is strongest who can claim a strength divine
From whence to draw his own." Sir Torm had grown
More wrathful in his heart at this, and kept
Sanpeur long while from word with Gwendolaine.
Then, when Torm's anger did not baffle her,
Sometimes a doubt would come, and doubt hides joy.
Sir Sanpeur honoured her before the court
With chivalrous and frankest loyalty.
At the great tournament of Christmas-tide,
He cried, "Such peerless presence in our midst
As the unrivalled Lady Gwendolaine
Strengthens the arm to prove her without peer!
Let him who will dispute it!" Those who did,
But proved it by their fall, for worshipfully
He overthrew them with so simple ease
His cause seemed justice rather than love's boast.
Then when they met for converse face to face,
He spoke from his unsullied, fearless soul
Straight to her own, without reserve or fear.
Yet he was wrapped in a calm self-control;
No word, no whisper of his love for her
Had ever passed his lips to tell, in truth,
The love that she was sure of in her heart.
And when he lingered by some maiden fair,
With that true-hearted careful courtesy
He never for a moment's space forgot
To any woman, queen or serving-maid;
And when the maiden's eyes gave bright response
To his fair words of thought-betaking grace,
The heart of Gwendolaine would faster beat,
And all her waywardness would quick return;
Then, if Sanpeur approached her, she would mock
At life, and love, and fling the gauntlet down
As challenge for a tournament of speech.

"And pray, Sanpeur," she said one eve to him,
When they were at a feast at Camelot,
"Why is your life so lone and incomplete,
When any lovely maiden of the court
Would follow you most gladly at your call?"

"You know full well, my Lady Gwendolaine."

"By your kind grace, I cannot guess," she said,
Repenting as she said it, instantly.

"Because I love you only, evermore;
You long have felt it, known it; and I thought
Cared not to hear me say it with my voice;
But, as you wish it, I have said it now,
My Lady Gwendolaine."

They stood among
The knights and ladies, therefore he spoke low,
In quiet dignity, as he might say
"How well the colour of your robe beseems
Your beauty";—not a trace of passionate
Intensity, save in his lucent eyes.
No passion nor embrace could so have moved her,
As this calm telling her in quiet words
The secret of all secrets in God's world,
As though it were a part of daily life;
This power to hold a passion in his hand,—
Which his true eyes declared was measureless,—
As though he were its master, utterly.
True women are like Nature, their great mother,
Stirred on the surface by each passing wind,
But ruled by silent forces at the heart.
She caught her breath a moment in surprise,—
For naught has to the mind more of surprise
Than the sweet long-expected, if it come
When one expects it not,—and paused a space,
With downcast eyes; and then her woman-soul
Went out in sudden impulse, graciously,
In boundless thought for him who gave her all.
"O Sanpeur, love one worthier than I,
And where your love will not be guerdonless!"

"To love you is a guerdon of itself,
You are so well worth loving, Gwendolaine."

He passed with knightly bow, and joined the court,
And left her with a glory in her eyes.
Never was Gwendolaine so radiant
As on that evening; courtiers one by one
Drew near, and marvelled at her loveliness.
When the great feast was ended, she was well
Content to leave the court for Tormalot;
For, in the quiet of her chamber, when
Sir Torm had slept, she lived in thought again
The sure triumphant moment when she knew,
Beyond all peradventure, of a love
That her heart told her was above all love
Of other men in strength and purity.
And on the morrow, when she woke, her joy
Woke with her, and encompassed her soul.

In strides Sir Torm, equipped for tournament.
The Lady Gwendolaine goes not to-day,
For it will be a savage tournament,
"Unfit for ladies," Torm had said to her,
"Unworthy men," she thought, but did not say.

"Come, Gwendolaine, my beauty, ere I go,
I wait to have you buckle on my sword."

Smiling, she does his bidding.

"Ah! my Torm,
How heavy, and how mighty is your sword;
I revel in the glory of your strength,
And in your prowess. Well I mind me, dear,
When first I saw you, on your charger black,
Riding in knightly state to my old home.
'By our King Arthur's soul,' my father said,
'There is a knight of valour and of strength!'
And then you wooed me to become your bride,
Me, scarce a maiden, naught but wilful child
So prone, alas to mischief and mistake,
Of humble fortune, with but whims for dower
You were so kind, so generous, you flashed
My low estate with splendour. I recall
How my heart laughed with girlish pride and glee
At the surpassing bounty of your gifts."

"Ha! Gwendolaine, by the great Holy Grail
I caught an eagle when I caught that dove,
For now you are the queen of all the dames,
Even King Constantine, who seldom marks
A lady of the court, comes to your side
And flatters you with royal courtesies,
Which you receive with far too proud a grace;
For, wit ye well, I would not let it slip,
This honour of his preference for you."

"My lord, save that I reverence him as man,
I do not care for favour of the King."

"I care, that is enough for you," said Torm.
"No knight has charger like my Roanault,
No knight has castle like my Tormalot,
And none has mistress like my Gwendolaine—
I choose that none approach her but the King."

He laughed a loud and taunting laugh, and turned
And kissed her with a loud resounding kiss.

"I think the King is safe for you, and well
For me in my advancement. Other knights
May serve you at a distance, but had best
Not seek your side too often."

Her sweet head
Lay like a lily on his mailed breast,
While she toyed lightly with the yellow scarf
That floated from his helmet.

"Goes Sanpeur
To the great tournament to-day?" he asked.

"I think not, Torm; it never is his wont
To tilt in tourneys like to-day's."

"Think not!
I want an honest answer. Do you know?"

"No more than I have told you, my Sir Torm;
It scarce becomes his chivalry to fight
In these new tourneys of such savage guise."

"His chivalry! Now God defend! Methinks
You are too daring. What of mine, forsooth?"

"I long have told you that I thought your strength
Was worthy finer service. You well know
I like not tournaments that waste the land
By useless bloodshed; but, my Torm, you are
Your own adviser, so I say no more.
Bend down and kiss me, Torm, before you go;
Pray be not wroth with Gwendolaine, my lord."

"Kiss you I will, if you can tell me true
You will not see that coward knight to-day."

Back drew she from his breast, and said in scorn,
"I know not whom you mean, my lord Sir Torm."

"Tell me no lies," said Torm; "I mean Sanpeur."

"Sanpeur, the fearless knight, a coward!—he?
What, think you, would your great King Constantine
Say to your daring slander? Sir Sanpeur
Is the unquestioned Launcelot at court;
The King rests on him with unfailing trust
In every valiant deed and feat of arms."
She drew her beauty to its fullest height,
And swept him with her eyes. "Fear not for me,
Sir Torm. Sanpeur, alas! is too engrossed
With duties for his Master, Jesu Christ,
And for his lord, the King, to loiter here
With any woman, howe'er fair she be."

Torm laughed a quick and scornful laugh, that made
The heart of Gwendolaine beat fast and fierce
Against its sound in spirit of revolt.

"Pray who was coward when Sanpeur refused
In open court to joust with Dinadan?"

"You know, my, lord, the reason that he gave."

"Ha, ha! some empty boast of holy day,
And prayers, and fasting, and such foolery."

"And who, my lord," she said in sudden scorn,
"Unhorsed once, years ago, the brave Sir Torm,
Who never was unhorsed by knight before?"

The hot blood flushed his heavy-bearded face;
His loud voice vibrated with rising wrath.

"So your fine, fearless knight of chivalry
Has won his way to your most wifely heart
By boasting of his prowess! By my sword!
That is a knightly virtue in all truth."

"It did not need, Sir Torm, that he should tell
The story that was waiting for your bride
In every prattling mouth about the court.
Had it been so, she never would have heard;
It lies with petty souls alone to boast,
Not with the royal soul of Sir Sanpeur."

"Now, by the blessed Mother of our Lord!
Methinks you love this valiant knight, Sanpeur."

"And if I did," she cried, her soul aglow
With exultation of defense of him,
"It well might be my glory; for there lives
No knight so stainless and so pure as he."

"Peace, wanton!" said Sir Torm. "It is your shame!"

And lifting his strong heavy mailed hand,
He struck the lovely face of Gwendolaine,
And went out cursing.

Motionless she leaned
Against the window mullion, where she reeled,
White as the pearls she wore; and love for Torm—
The thing that she had nourished and called love—
Fell dead within her, murdered by his blow.
And in her heart true love arose at last
for Sir Sanpeur, proclaiming need of him;—
A love, for many days hushed and suppressed
By wifely loyalty, now well awake,
With conscious sense of immortality.

Half dazed, she swiftly to her chamber went,
Stopped not to wipe the blood from her pale cheek;
Dropped off, in haste, her brilliant robe, and donned
A russet gown she kept for merry plays,
And, wrapping o'er her head a wimple, dark
As her dark gown, crept down the castle steps.
The vassals looked at her askance; she drew
Her wimple closer, and deceived their gaze,
Until the gate of Tormalot was passed,
And she was out upon the lonely moor.
Onward she went, too wrenched with pain and wrath
To fear, or wonder at her fearlessness.

The knight Sanpeur was on his battlements,
Silvered with light from the full summer moon,
And heard his seneschal with loud replies
Denying entrance, as his orders were;
He would be left alone and undisturbed
With memory and thought of Gwendolaine.
"What sweetness infinite beneath the ebb
And flow of moods," he said, half audibly;
"What truth beneath her laughter and her mirth!
I ask but that her nature be fulfilled,
That is enough for me; it matters not
If I may only see her from afar.
My love was sent to vivify her life,
Not to imperil, and to make no claim
Of her but her unfolding; to remind
Her soul of its immortal heritage,
And teach her joy,—she knew but merriment.
And this, meseems, it hath done, Christ be praised.
Her soul asserts itself through her gay life,
And joy pervades her,—she is radiant.
How wonderful she looked, last night, at Camelot!
She moved in glowing beauty like a star."

And with the vision of her in his heart,
In all the splendour of her state and pride,
In golden-threaded samite strewn with pearls,
He turned, in the quick pacing of his walk,
And faced her in her simple russet gown,
Her hair unbound, and blowing in the wind,
Her cheeks as colourless as white May flowers,
Save on the one a deep and crimson stain.
"My God!" he cried, and caught her as she fell.

She told the story of her bitter wrong
In poignant words of passionate disdain.
"And I have come straightway to you, Sanpeur,—
Having more faith in your true love for me
Than any woman ever had before
In love of man, or chivalry of knight,—
To tell you that I love you more than life.
Long have I loved you, well I know it now,
Although I knew it not, until this blow
Stamped it in blood upon my mind and soul.
I rose this morn resolved to be more true
To your high thought of womanhood, and wife,
To bear with Torm more patiently, and strive
To make my life more worthy of your love;
And then,—God help me,—my resolve was crushed
By Torm's fierce hand, and love for you set free.
Yea, now my heart is sure,—beyond all doubt,
Beyond all question and all fear of men,—
That I, for ever, love you utterly.
Take me, beloved, I am yours, I want,
I need, I pant, I tremble for your care.
O meet me not so coldly! I shall die
If you repulse me; I have come so far
And fast, without a fear,—I loved you so,—
To seek the blessed shelter of your arms.
My brain is dizzy, and my senses fail;
For God's sake tell me you are glad I came
To you—and only you—in my despair."

He took her hands, full tenderly, and said,—
His eyes alone embracing her the while,—
"Beloved Gwendolaine, loved far above
All women on the earth, loved with a love
That words would but conceal, were they essayed,
Soul of my soul, and spirit of myself,
If I am cold, you know it is in truth
A cold that burns more deeply than all fire.
Deep-stirred am I that you could trust me so,
And you will trust me yet, dear, when I say
You must go back to your brave lord, Sir Torm."

"Back to Sir Torm!" she said, in a half dream.
"O Blessed Virgin, Mother of the Christ!
Save me and keep me from the bitter shame
Of such humiliation to my soul."

"No deed done for the right, my Gwendolaine,
Can bring humiliation to a soul.
Sir Torm has loved you long and loyally—"

"He knows not how to love," she said in scorn.

"He knows his way, and in it loves you well;
Your wit and beauty are his chiefest pride;
He would refuse you nothing you could ask
To gratify your pleasure and desire.
He brought you from a narrow, hidden lot,
To share with you his honours at the court.
You will not let all that be wiped away
By one swift deed of anger, which Sir Torm
Has bitterly repented and bewailed
Full long ere this; of that you are right sure,
Because you know his loving heart's rebound."

"To live with him, Sanpeur, would now be death."

"Naught can bring death to immortality
But sin,—and life with me, my Gwendolaine,
Would be the death of all we hold most high."

"Jesu have mercy! Sanpeur casts me off;
He does not love me! I have dreamed it all."

Sanpeur said almost sternly, "Gwendolaine,
Unsay that; it is false! You know full well
How far I love you above thought of self;
If I half loved you, I would fold you close."

"It is unsaid, Sanpeur; but woe is me
That I should fall so far from my estate
To plead in vain with any man, howe'er
He love; where is my pride, my boasted pride?"

"'Tis in my heart, if anywhere, my love."

"I can not go, Sanpeur. Torm forfeited
His right to loyalty by cruelty."

"The debt of loyalty is due to self,
And we must well fulfil it, Gwendolaine,
No matter how another may have failed."

A sudden horror crossed her thought,—"Sanpeur;
You do not love me less that I have come?"

"Ah! my beloved woman-child, I know
Your many-sided nature far too well
To judge you or condemn you by one act,
Born of a frenzied moment of despair;
When the true Gwendolaine has time to think,
Naught I could urge would keep her, though she came."

"But Torm would kill me if I did return"—

"Leave that to me; but if he should, my love,
Your soul would then be free,—what ask you more?
Now you are weary, very weary, sweet;
Go in the castle, let me call my dames
To tend and serve you until morning light;
And on the morrow you will choose to go
With me, I am full sure, and make your peace
With Torm, as worthy of your better self."

"With you? O God! Sanpeur, if I return,
I go alone as I have come! Think you
That I would take you with me to your death?"

"My life is yours,—how use it better, dear,
Than winning peace and happiness for you?"

"But it would be keen misery for life"—

"It leadeth unto happiness and peace
In the far future, if we fail not now.
This life is but the filling of a trust,
To prove us worthy of the life beyond,
And happiness is never to be sought.
If it comes,—well; if not, we shall know why.
When we are happy in the sight of God."

Then there was silence on the battlements;
No sound was heard but the slow measured clang
Of feet that paced the stony path below;—
Gwendolaine pushed aside the wind-blown hair
From her wild eyes, and gazed into Sanpeur's.
As the slow minutes passed the frenzied mood
Faded away from her like fevered dream;
With hands clasped in a passion of devout,
Complete surrender, falling at his feet
She whispered, brokenly, between her sobs;

"Sanpeur, I will go back to Torm,—for you,—
Go back and live my life as best I may,
If he forgive me;—and if not, receive
The condemnation of my fault as meet.
Your love has done what love should ever do,—
Illumined duty's path, and its far goal,
Hid for a moment by a dark despair.
I thought I loved you perfectly before,
But my soul tells me, deep below the pain,
I love you more than if you bade me stay."

He took her hands and kissed them tenderly
With quiet kisses, long and calm, which held
Sure promise of the strength he fain would give;
Then, bending o'er her yearningly, he said
In tones that stilled her spirit into rest,
"God guard you, my beloved, evermore."
A new force flowed into her soul from his.

She rose and left him.

He gave orders strict
For her best comfort; then walked out alone,
To meet and wrestle with his passion, held
So long in leash by honour, free at last
With overmastering and giant strength.
The subtle fragrance of her hands pervades
His senses; in his veins he feels the flow
Of her warm breath, which entered into them
That moment he had caught her as she fell;
Her words of love sweep like a surging tide
Across the quiet of his self-control.
When she was there, his love for her had kept
His passion from uprising, though against
His pleading heart, so long her pleading seemed.
Now she is gone, all calm and thought are lost
In the impassioned wish for her, the thirst
To drink the sweetness of her deep, rich soul,
Without a thought of Torm, or all the world.
Sanpeur's well-rounded nature is triune,
And flesh and sense as much a part of him
As his clear brain and spirit consecrate.
Passion for once asserts itself; he starts,
And towards the castle strides with rapid steps;
"She is my own, Fate sent her here to me;
I cannot war against it any more;
I will go in and fold her to myself."

He clasps his empty arms upon his breast,
In the abandonment of wild desire,
And feels, beneath the pressure of his hands,
The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost.
"Good Lord, deliver me from sin," he cries,
And bows his knightly head in silent prayer.

No earnest soul can ask and not receive:
Before the warden's deep-toned voice calls out
Another watch, Sanpeur has overcome.

He passed his night beneath the silent stars,
Below the resting-room of Gwendolaine,
Who lay within his castle, loving him,
While he kept watch, to guard her from himself.

Just ere the morning light, there was a cry
From his most faithful seneschal to rouse
The vassals to defend the brave Sanpeur,
Loved loyally; and from the battlements
He saw Sir Torm, waging a savage fight
To win an entrance through his castle gate.
With hurried steps he reached the gate, and with
The cry,—drowned by the din of clashing arms,—
"Withhold! it is a friend," he threw himself
Before Sir Torm, and took the mortal wound
That had been aimed by his own seneschal.

"Let fighting cease; hurt not Sir Torm!" he cried,
And fell into the arms of grim old Ule,
Who pierced his own soul when he wounded him.

A sudden sound of wailing rent the court;
The dames flocked from the castle in dismay,
And with them came the Lady Gwendolaine,
A pace or two, and then stood motionless;
Her limbs, that brought her quickly to confront
The evil she had wrought, grew powerless;
Her wide, tense gaze was as of one who walks
In sleep unseeing; her dishevelled hair
Veiled the abandon of her dress, her cheeks
Were colourless as marble, but for the stain
Of crimson. Paralysed and dumb she stood,
Too far to reach him, but full near to hear,
As Sanpeur, having lifted hand to hush
The wailing, broke the silence rapidly,
Like one who feels his time for speech is short.

"In Christ's dear name, who alway doth forgive,
I pray you, hear me speak one word, Sir Torm."

There was a force within Sir Sanpeur's eyes
Sir Torm dared not resist "Speak on," he said.

"Your wife, my lord, is here, and in my care,
She came to me scarce knowing what she did,—
Wounded, and driven to a wild despair
By your quick anger, which has stamped its seal
Upon the perfect beauty of her face.
The cause of that fierce blow she told me not;
Be what it may, I know full well, my lord,
It could not merit such a harsh retort
To wife whose loyalty and troth to you
Have been the marvel of the court; whose name,
Her beauty notwithstanding, has been held
As high from stain as she has e'er held yours.
She has not failed to you until this hour,
When she was not herself for one brief space,
Mad with the fever in her heated brain
You long have known I loved her,—none could well
Withhold the tribute of his life from her,—
And you must know, my lord, beyond all doubt,
I loved her with a love that honoured you
In thought, in word, in purpose, and in deed.
She came to me because her trust in me
Was absolute as knowledge that my love
Was measureless I would not plead, Sir Torm,
Excuse for sin; alas! I know her act
Was most unworthy of her truer self.
But this I say—he should not blame her most
Who drove her to this deed against herself.
And I will tell you,—should it chance you fail
To know from your own knowledge of your wife,
Without the need of confirmation sure,—
That when her passionate, poor, wounded heart
Had time and strength to reassert itself,
Her memory, and truth to you as wife,
Enwrapt her once again, and she withdrew
E'en from the love that, trusting, she had sought.
She lay within my castle with my dames,
Resting, and waiting for the dawn of day,
When she had bade me lead her back to you,
That she might ask forgiveness for her fault.
Now, by my knighthood and the sign I wear,
I speak the truth, Sir Torm!—With my last breath
I pray you grant her pardon, for my sake,
Who die, to save you, of wounds meant for you."

His breath came slower. None beholding him
Could doubt him, for within his steadfast eyes,
Though growing dim with coming death, was that
The Order on his bosom symbolised.
Torm bowed before him, silent, with a sense
Of hallowed presence from beyond this earth.
Convinced of Sanpeur's truth, there flashed on him
The revelation of a better life
Than self-indulgence and the pride of arms;
And here, at last, before the passing soul,
Strong in its purity and in its peace,
He felt a new-born and a deep desire
For truer life than he had ever known.

After the whisper, "God shield Gwendolaine,"
The slow breath ceased.

With shrill and piercing cry
Gwendolaine broke the strange, benumbing trance
That had withheld her; rushing from the dames
And falling prone upon the silent form
That gave her heart no answering throb, she cried,
With voice grief-pierced and sorrow-broken, "Wait
For Gwendolaine, O Sanpeur! Wait for Gwendolaine,
And take her with you unto death!"

She lay
In silent desolation on his breast,
So still, awhile, they thought her spirit gone;
Then rose majestic in the dignity
Of her incomparable grief.

"Sir Torm,"
She said in tense, surcharged tones, "Sanpeur
Has told but half the story; he forgot
To tell, as noble souls are wont to do,
The measure of his own nobility.
I came to stay, my lord, to be his wife,
His serving-maid, his mistress,—what he would;
I told him that I loved him beyond men;
I pleaded and entreated him, in vain,
To keep and hold me evermore. No word
Could move him, no allurement charm; he bade
Me wait the dawn and then return to you,
To beg you with humility for grace,
And pardon for my utter want of truth,
Complete forgetfulness of womanhood,
And wifely loyalty. My lord, Sir Torm,
I promised him! and by his silent corse,—
And with a broken heart,—I pray that you
Will grant me pardon, though you cast me off."

"My Gwendolaine," Torm answered quickly, moved
By an uplifting impulse in his soul,—
"For you are mine, whomever you may love,—
I know that Sir Sanpeur did speak the truth;
You have not sinned in deed; and though you sinned
In purpose, it was more my fault than yours;
I drove you to it, and would fain atone.
Return with me, and help me overcome,
And with my temper I will tilt, until
I die or kill it. By the Blood of Christ,
I swear to you that you shall love me yet;
For I will be,—God help me,—worthier."

Back to their home she went with Torm, and strove
With gracious sweetness to make him forget;
To banish his keen memory of her love
For Sir Sanpeur, not by disproving it,
But by new proving of new love for him.
The greater made her rich to give the less;
She, being more, had still the more to give.
The apocalyptic vision granted her
Of Love immortal, vital and supreme,—
Kept by the grace of God all undefiled,—
Had dowered her with largess; what she gave,
Albeit not the utmost, was more worth
Than best had been from her starved soul before.

Sir Torm was helped in his self-given task—
To struggle with ill humours and with pride—
Far more by her new gentleness and grace
Than he had been by waywardness and scorn
And fitful fascination, as of old.
To help Torm was her life's new quest, and well
Did she essay to gain it.

When the tide
Of sorrow for Sanpeur would over-sweep
Her heart; and when, sometimes, Sir Torm would lapse
Into forgetfulness of his resolve,
Confronting her o'ercome with wine or wrath,
Low to herself she whispered Sanpeur's words,
"Life is the filling of a trust," and straight
Her soul grew strong again.

From year to year,
Beneath her planting and her fostering,
Torm's nature blossomed, and his manhood grew
More fine, more fruitful. Men, at last, could mark
In his whole bearing greater dignity;
And Constantine once gave him, for some feat,
A brilliant Order, with the meaning words,
"The greatest conquest is to conquer self."

But there was one deep shadow in his life:
Upon the lovely face of Gwendolaine
Were two long, narrow, seamÈd scars. One day
He touched them tenderly, and said, "God's faith,
I would give all but knighthood to efface
Those hellish scars that mar your peerless cheek."

She turned her head quick to his hand's embrace,
Buried her cheek within its palm, and said,
"Those scars, my Torm, I would not now resign
For any dower that the world could give;
They are the Order of my higher life,
The birthmarks of your new nobility."