Under King Constantine | Page 9

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;