Under King Constantine | Page 2

fulfilled for her,--she was aware Of thirst for living water, and a dread Of the light, shallow life she led, fell on her; She went to Torm, and spoke, in broken words, The unformed longing of her dawning soul. He lightly laughed, filliped her ear, called her "My Lady Abbess," "pretty saint," and then Said, later, jesting, before all the court, "Behold a lady too good for her lord!" The blood swept up her cheeks to lose itself In her hair's gold, then ebbed again to leave Her paler than before. She stood in silent, Momentary hate of Torm, all impotent. He saw her pallor and her eyes down-dropt, Came quickly, flung his arm around her, saying, "God's faith, my girl, you do not mind a jest! Where are the spirits you are wont to have?" "My lord, they shall not fail you any more," She answered bitterly, and after that Torm did not see her soul unveiled again. Thenceforth she turned her strivings after truth To winning outward charm the more complete, And hid her inner self more deeply 'neath The sparkling surface of her brilliant life.
To-day he wearies her with brutal jest Upon the hunted boar, and calls her dull That she laughs not as ever.
While Sanpeur Was far upon a distant quest, all perilous, She thought with secret longing of the hour When once again together they should ride. He has returned triumphant, having won Fresh honours.
Now at last, the hunt has come, The day is golden, and her beauty fair,-- And Sir Sanpeur is riding with Ettonne. A sudden conflict wages in her heart As she talks lightly to each courtier gay, Jealous impatience that the Gwendolaine Whom all men flatter, should be thwarted, fights A tender yearning to defy all pride And call him to her for one spoken word. The world seems better when he talks with her, No one has ever lifted her above The empty nothings of a courtly life As Sir Sanpeur, who makes both life and death More grandly solemn, yet 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