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.