more simply clear.
In a steep curving of the road, he turns
To meet her smile, which deepens as he comes.
Sanpeur, bronzed by the eastern sun, is tall,
Straight as a javelin, in each noble line
His knighthood is revealed. Slighter than Torm,
Whose strength is in his size, but full as strong,
Sanpeur's unrivalled strength is in his sinew
His scarlet garb, deep furred with miniver,
Is broidered with the cross which leaves untold
The fame he won in lands of which it tells
Upon his breast he wears the silver dove,
The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost,
Which Gwendolaine once noted with the words,
"What famous honours you have won, my lord!"
And he had answered with all knightly grace,
"My Lady Gwendolaine, I seldom think
Of the high honour, though I greatly prize
This recognition, far beyond my worth;
My thought is ever what it signifieth.
It is my consecration I belong
To God the Father, and this is the sign
Of His most Holy Spirit, sent to us
By our ascended Saviour, Jesu Christ,
By Whom alone I live from day to day."
His quiet words, amid the laughing court,
Had startled her, as if a solemn peal
Of full cathedral music had rung clear
Above the jousting cry of "Halt and Ho!"
Then, as she wondered if he were a man
Like other men, or priest in knightly garb,
He spoke of her rich jewels with delight
And worldly wisdom, telling her the tale
Of many jewelled mysteries she wore
"In the far East, the sapphire stone is held
To be the talisman for Love and Truth,
So is it fitly placed upon your robe;
It is the stone of stones to girdle you"
"A man, indeed," she thought, "but not like men."

As on his foam-flecked charger, Carn-Aflang,
He rides to-day towards Lady Gwendolaine,
She draws her rein more tightly, arching more
Her palfrey's head, and all unconsciously
Uplifts her own,—for she has waited long.

"Good morrow, my fair Lady Gwendolaine."

"Good morrow, Sir Sanpeur, pray do you mark
My new gerfalcon, from beyond the sea?
Your eyes are just the colour of her wings."

"Now, by my troth, I challenge any knight
To say precisely what that colour is."

"'Tis there the likeness serves so well, Sanpeur."

"My Lady Gwendoline, your speech is, far
Beyond your purpose, gracious, for right well
I mind me that you told me, once, your heart
Often rebelled against the well-defined,
And I should be content to have my eyes
The motley colour of your falcon's plume,
Lest they make you 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?"