Under King Constantine | Page 3

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