yes. "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