id="id00136">                           "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;
You have not sinned in deed; and though you sinned
In purpose, it was more my fault than yours;
I drove you to it, and would fain atone.
Return with me, and help me overcome,
And with my temper I will tilt, until
I die or kill it. By the Blood of Christ,
I swear to you that you shall love me yet;
For I will be,—God help me,—worthier."

Back to their home she went with Torm, and strove
With gracious sweetness to make him forget;
To banish his keen memory of her love
For Sir Sanpeur, not by disproving it,
But by new proving of new love for him.
The greater made her rich to give the less;
She, being more, had still the more to give.
The apocalyptic vision granted her
Of Love immortal, vital and supreme,—
Kept by the grace of God all undefiled,—
Had dowered her with largess; what she gave,
Albeit not the utmost, was more worth
Than best had been from her starved soul before.

Sir Torm was helped in his self-given task—
To struggle with ill humours and with pride—
Far more by her new gentleness and grace
Than he had been by waywardness and scorn
And fitful fascination, as of old.
To help Torm was her life's new quest, and well
Did she essay to gain it.

                          When the tide
Of sorrow for Sanpeur would over-sweep
Her heart; and when, sometimes, Sir Torm would lapse
Into forgetfulness of his resolve,
Confronting her o'ercome with wine or wrath,
Low to herself she whispered Sanpeur's words,
"Life is the filling of a trust," and straight
Her soul grew strong again.

                            From year to year,
Beneath her planting and her fostering,
Torm's nature blossomed, and his manhood grew
More fine, more fruitful. Men, at last, could mark
In his whole bearing greater dignity;
And Constantine once gave him, for some feat,
A brilliant Order, with the meaning words,
"The greatest conquest is to conquer self."

But there was one deep shadow in his life:
Upon the lovely face of Gwendolaine
Were two long, narrow, seamèd scars. One day
He touched them tenderly, and said, "God's faith,
I would give all but knighthood to efface
Those hellish scars that mar your peerless cheek."

She turned her head quick to his hand's embrace,
Buried her cheek within its palm, and said,
"Those scars, my Torm, I would not now resign
For any dower that the world could give;
They are the Order of my higher life,
The birthmarks of your new nobility."

KATHANAL.

The sky was one unbroken pall of gray,
Casting a gloom upon the restless sea,
Dulling her sapphire splendour to a dark
And minor beauty. All the rock-bound shore
Was silent, save a widowed song-bird sang
Far off at intervals a mournful note,
And on the broken crags of dark gray rock
The waves dashed ceaselessly. Sir Kathanal
Stood with uncovered head and folded arms,
His soul as restless as the surging sea
Lashed into passion by the coming storm.
His helmet lay upon the sand; its crest,
A floating plume of deep-hued violet,
Was tossed and torn in fury by the wind
Until it seemed a thing of life. He stood
And watched it, only half aware at first
That it was there, then scarce aware of aught
Besides the plume. As in the room of death
Some iterated sound or motion holds
Attent the stricken mind, benumbed, and keeps
The horror of its grief awhile at bay
As by a spell, so now, though Kathanal
Had sought the sea-shore to be free of men
Because of his sore agony of heart,
And all the passion of his daring soul
Was tossing like the sea in fierce revolt,
His thoughts and gaze were centred on his crest.
Before the gray of sea and sky he saw
Naught but the waving, waving of the plume;
Before the vision of his love, Leorre,
Her tender eyes aglow with changeless light,
The golden splendour of her sunny hair,
Her winning smiles of grace and sweetness blent,
There came the waving, waving of the plume;
Between his sorrow and his weary soul,
Between his trouble and his clear-eyed self,
There came the waving, waving of the plume;
Until he felt, in some half-conscious way,
It was his heart, and he a stranger there
That looked down, from a height, indifferent
Upon it at the mercy of the wind.

Sudden, with that long lingering trace of youth
That gave to him the fascinating charm
Which other men were fain to emulate,
He quickly stooped, and tore it from his helm,
And cast it far out on the tossing sea.
It lighted on the waves a purple bird,
Floating with swan-like grace before the wind.
The action quenched impatience. Kathanal,
Impulsive, passionate and sensitive,
In moods was ever ready with response
To omen and to change of circumstance.
He stood a moment, and then forward sprang
To catch it ere it vanished out of reach.
It was too late—the outward-flowing tide
Bore it from wave to wave beyond his sight.

"Ah, God!" he cried aloud, "what have I done?
It is the omen of a curse to me;
My crest is gone, my knightly symbol lost,
My helm dishonoured through an act of mine."

Then came the memory of early youth,
The recollection of a high resolve
To keep his manhood free from touch of stain,
To be a knight like Galahad, pure and true.
So few short years had passed since that resolve,
And yet he had forgotten loyalty
And truth and honour for the fair Leorre,
The wife of Reginault, his patron knight,—
The brave old man who treated him as son.
Long had he loved her with a knightly love,
And fought for her, and chosen her the queen
Of many a tournament. She still was young,
Fairer than morning in the early spring.
When she had come, a gladsome bride, to grace
The castle of old Reginault, and warm
His grand old spirit into youth again,
Sir Kathanal had bowed before her, saying,
"My gracious lady, take me as your knight";
And she had answered, with her winning smile,
"You are Sir Reginault's, and therefore mine."

Well had he loved her from that very hour,
Giving her honour as his old friend's bride,
Making the castle ring with