Chapter 2

"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 Tormalot was passed, And she was out upon the lonely moor. Onward she went, too wrenched with pain and wrath To fear, or wonder at her fearlessness.

The knight Sanpeur was on his battlements, Silvered with light from the full summer moon, And heard his seneschal with loud replies Denying entrance, as his orders were; He would be left alone and undisturbed With memory and thought of Gwendolaine. "What sweetness infinite beneath the ebb And flow of moods," he said, half audibly; "What truth beneath her laughter and her mirth! I ask but that her nature be fulfilled, That is enough for me; it matters not If I may only see her from afar. My love was sent to vivify her life, Not to imperil, and to make no claim Of her but her unfolding; to remind Her soul of its immortal heritage, And teach her joy,--she knew but merriment. And this, meseems, it hath done, Christ be praised. Her soul asserts itself through her gay life, And joy pervades her,--she is radiant. How wonderful she looked, last night, at Camelot! She moved in glowing beauty like a star."

And with the vision of her in his heart, In all the splendour of her state and pride, In golden-threaded samite strewn with pearls, He turned, in the quick pacing of his walk, And faced her in her simple russet gown, Her hair unbound, and blowing in the wind, Her cheeks as colourless as white May flowers, Save on the one a deep and crimson stain. "My God!" he cried, and caught her as she fell.

She told the story of her bitter wrong In poignant words of passionate disdain. "And I have come straightway to you, Sanpeur,-- Having more faith in your true love for me Than any woman ever had before In love of man, or chivalry of knight,-- To tell you that I love you more than life. Long have I loved you, well I know it now, Although I knew it not, until this blow Stamped it in blood upon my mind and soul. I rose this morn resolved to be more true To your high thought of womanhood, and wife, To bear with Torm more patiently, and strive To make my life more worthy of your love; And then,--God help me,--my resolve was crushed By Torm's fierce hand, and love for you set free. Yea, now my heart is sure,--beyond all doubt, Beyond all question and all fear of men,-- That I, for ever, love you utterly. Take me, beloved, I am yours, I want, I need, I pant, I tremble for your care. O meet me not so coldly! I shall die If you repulse me; I have come so far And fast, without a fear,--I loved you so,-- To seek the blessed shelter of your arms. My brain is dizzy, and my senses fail; For God's sake tell me you are glad I came To you--and only you--in my despair."

He took her hands, full tenderly, and said,-- His eyes alone embracing her the while,-- "Beloved Gwendolaine, loved far above All women on the earth, loved with a love That words would but conceal, were they essayed, Soul of my soul, and spirit of myself, If I am cold, you know it is in truth A cold that burns more deeply than all fire. Deep-stirred am I that you could trust me so, And you will trust me yet, dear, when I say You must go back to your brave lord, Sir Torm."

"Back to Sir Torm!" she said, in a half dream. "O Blessed Virgin, Mother of the Christ! Save me and keep me from the bitter shame Of such humiliation to my soul."

"No deed done for the right, my Gwendolaine, Can bring humiliation to a soul. Sir Torm has loved you long and loyally--"

"He knows not how to love," she said in scorn.

"He knows his way, and in it loves you well; Your wit and beauty are his chiefest pride; He would refuse you nothing you could ask To gratify your pleasure and desire. He brought you from a narrow, hidden lot, To share with you his honours at the court. You will not let all that be wiped away By one swift deed of anger, which Sir Torm Has bitterly repented and bewailed Full long ere this; of that you are right sure, Because you know his loving heart's rebound."

"To live with him, Sanpeur, would now be death."

"Naught can bring death to immortality But sin,--and life with me, my Gwendolaine, Would be the death of all we hold most high."

"Jesu have mercy! Sanpeur casts me off; He does not love me! I have dreamed it all."

Sanpeur said almost sternly, "Gwendolaine, Unsay that; it is false! You know full well How far I love you above thought of self; If I half loved you, I would fold you close."

"It is unsaid, Sanpeur; but woe is me That I should fall so far from my estate To plead in vain with any man, howe'er He love; where is my pride, my boasted pride?"

"'Tis in my heart, if anywhere, my love."

"I can not go, Sanpeur. Torm forfeited His right to loyalty by cruelty."

"The debt of loyalty is due to self, And we must well fulfil it, Gwendolaine, No matter how another may have failed."

A sudden horror crossed her thought,--"Sanpeur; You do not love me less that I have come?"

"Ah! my beloved woman-child, I know Your many-sided nature far too well To judge you or condemn you by one act, Born of a frenzied moment of despair; When the true Gwendolaine has time to think, Naught I could urge would keep her, though she came."

"But Torm would kill me if I did return"--

"Leave that to me; but if he should, my love, Your soul would then be free,--what ask you more? Now you are weary, very weary, sweet; Go in the castle, let me call my dames To tend and serve you until morning light; And on the morrow you will choose to go With me, I am full sure, and make your peace With Torm, as worthy of your better self."

"With you? O God! Sanpeur, if I return, I go alone as I have come! Think you That I would take you with me to your death?"

"My life is yours,--how use it better, dear, Than winning peace and happiness for you?"

"But it would be keen misery for life"--

"It leadeth unto happiness and peace In the far future, if we fail not now. This life is but the filling of a trust, To prove us worthy of the life beyond, And happiness is never to be sought. If it comes,--well; if not, we shall know why. When we are happy in the sight of God."

Then there was silence on the battlements; No sound was heard but the slow measured clang Of feet that paced the stony path below;-- Gwendolaine pushed aside the wind-blown hair From her wild eyes, and gazed into Sanpeur's. As the slow minutes passed the frenzied mood Faded away from her like fevered dream; With hands clasped in a passion of devout, Complete surrender, falling at his feet She whispered, brokenly, between her sobs;

"Sanpeur, I will go back to Torm,--for you,-- Go back and live my life as best I may, If he forgive me;--and if not, receive The condemnation of my fault as meet. Your love has done what love should ever do,-- Illumined duty's path, and its far goal, Hid for a moment by a dark despair. I thought I loved you perfectly before, But my soul tells me, deep below the pain, I love you more than if you bade me stay."

He took her hands and kissed them tenderly With quiet kisses, long and calm, which held Sure promise of the strength he fain would give; Then, bending o'er her yearningly, he said In tones that stilled her spirit into rest, "God guard you, my beloved, evermore." A new force flowed into her soul from his.

She rose and left him.

He gave orders strict For her best comfort; then walked out alone, To meet and wrestle with his passion, held So long in leash by honour, free at last With overmastering and giant strength. The subtle fragrance of her hands pervades His senses; in his veins he feels the flow Of her warm breath, which entered into them That moment he had caught her as she fell; Her words of love sweep like a surging tide Across the quiet of his self-control. When she was there, his love for her had kept His passion from uprising, though against His pleading heart, so long her pleading seemed. Now she is gone, all calm and thought are lost In the impassioned wish for her, the thirst To drink the sweetness of her deep, rich soul, Without a thought of Torm, or all the world. Sanpeur's well-rounded nature is triune, And flesh and sense as much a part of him As his clear brain and spirit consecrate. Passion for once asserts itself; he starts, And towards the castle strides with rapid steps; "She is my own, Fate sent her here to me; I cannot war against it any more; I will go in and fold her to myself."

He clasps his empty arms upon his breast, In the abandonment of wild desire, And feels, beneath the pressure of his hands, The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost. "Good Lord, deliver me from sin," he cries, And bows his knightly head in silent prayer.

No earnest soul can ask and not receive: Before the warden's deep-toned voice calls out Another watch, Sanpeur has overcome.

He passed his night beneath the silent stars, Below the resting-room of Gwendolaine, Who lay within his castle, loving him, While he kept watch, to guard her from himself.

Just ere the morning light, there was a cry From his most faithful seneschal to rouse The vassals to defend the brave Sanpeur, Loved loyally; and from the battlements He saw Sir Torm, waging a savage fight To win an entrance through his castle gate. With hurried steps he reached the gate, and with The cry,--drowned by the din 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 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 merriment To do her service, and fulfil the best Of Reginault, who bade him use his grace To make her life a round of holidays. But day by day his selfish love had grown From friendly service to a lover's claim, Until he had forgotten Reginault In her fair eyes, and all things else but her, Who granted him no boon, no smallest act Of love or tenderness.

At last the strife Between deep yearning for some touch of love, And brave endeavour for self-mastery, Had driven him to madness and despair. To the lone sea he brought his agony To face it boldly, and his spirit, quick To wear new moods, caught a despondent gloom From the dark omen that oppressed his soul.

"Love is divine," he said, "and it is well To love Leorre, wife though she be, for love Is free to noble natures; but at last, When in her shining eyes I see response, Albeit unconscious, to my longing pain, I cannot rest content with boonless love, Although divine. I fear me, if I stay Within the circle of her tempting charm, I shall, through some wild impulse, wantonly Fling my unsullied knighthood to the winds, As now I flung the plume from out my helm."

He went at even-song time to Leorre, And told her of his struggle by the sea, Of his determined purpose and resolve. "Leorre, I love you with a love unsung By poets, and unknown by other men, Undreamed by women; I must leave you, dear; I cannot see you fair for Reginault, I cannot watch your sweetness not for me. I will go far upon some distant quest Until this frenzy ceases, and the quest Shall be for you, my love, for you alone.

"Dear, sunny head that lights my darkened way With its bright, golden glory, let me seek A crown that well befits it for my quest. Fair waist that curves beneath the heart I love, I shall engirdle you with priceless gems Won by my prowess for your perfect grace. O wondrous neck! great lustrous, flawless pearls, That shall be royal in their worth, to match The white enchantment of your beauty fair, Shall be my quest for you.

"I will not come Back to the court of Constantine, Leorre, Until I bring that which shall honour you, And winning which, I shall have cooled my pain."

She came and knelt beside him, took his hand, Looked deep into his ardent eyes,--her own Like stars that shone into his inmost soul.