“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.