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.”