Under King Constantine | Page 6

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,