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.