Under King Constantine | Page 9

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