He will approve, or strike them with a curse. 
His humours are the byword of the court,
And, were it not for his good-heartedness,
His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms,
Men would speak lightly of him in disdain;
He is so often in a stormy rage,
Or supplicating humour to atone,—­
Too petty to repent in very truth,
Too light and yielding in repentance, when
His temper’s force is spent, for dignity
Of truest knighthood.  No one feels his faults
So quickly, with such flushing of regret
And shame, as Gwendolaine.  But she is wife,
His honour is her own, and she would hide
From all the world, and even from herself,
His pettiness and narrowness of soul. 
So she forgets, or doth pretend forget,
Where he has failed, save when he passes bounds;
Then her swift scorn—­a piercing force he dreads—­
Flashes upon him like a probing lance,
To silence merriment if it be coarse,
To hush his wrath when it is violent.

Though powerful to check, she ne’er could change
The underflow and current of their life. 
In the first years, gone by, ere she had grown
A woman of the world, she had essayed
To stem the tide of shallow vanity,
To realise her girlhood’s high ideal,
And make her home more reverent, and more fine. 
Sir Torm had overborne her words with jest
And noisy laughter, vowing she would learn
Romance and sweet simplicity were well
For harper minstrel, singing in the hall,
But not for courtiers living in the world. 
Once, when she faced the thought of motherhood,—­
For some brief days of sweet expectancy
Never fulfilled for her,—­she was aware
Of thirst for living water, and a dread
Of the light, shallow life she led, fell on her;
She went to Torm, and spoke, in broken words,
The unformed longing of her dawning soul. 
He lightly laughed, filliped her ear, called her
“My Lady Abbess,” “pretty saint,” and then
Said, later, jesting, before all the court,
“Behold a lady too good for her lord!”
The blood swept up her cheeks to lose itself
In her hair’s gold, then ebbed again to leave
Her paler than before.  She stood in silent,
Momentary hate of Torm, all impotent. 
He saw her pallor and her eyes down-dropt,
Came quickly, flung his arm around her, saying,
“God’s faith, my girl, you do not mind a jest! 
Where are the spirits you are wont to have?”
“My lord, they shall not fail you any more,”
She answered bitterly, and after that
Torm did not see her soul unveiled again. 
Thenceforth she turned her strivings after truth
To winning outward charm the more complete,
And hid her inner self more deeply ’neath
The sparkling surface of her brilliant life.

To-day he wearies her with brutal jest
Upon the hunted boar, and calls her dull
That she laughs not as ever.

While Sanpeur
Was far upon a distant quest, all perilous,
She thought with secret longing of the hour
When once again together they should ride. 
He has returned triumphant, having won
Fresh honours.