Now at last, the hunt has come,
The day is golden, and her beauty fair,—­
And Sir Sanpeur is riding with Ettonne. 
A sudden conflict wages in her heart
As she talks lightly to each courtier gay,
Jealous impatience that the Gwendolaine
Whom all men flatter, should be thwarted, fights
A tender yearning to defy all pride
And call him to her for one spoken word. 
The world seems better when he talks with her,
No one has ever lifted her above
The empty nothings of a courtly life
As Sir Sanpeur, who makes both life and death
More grandly solemn, yet more simply clear. 
In a steep curving of the road, he turns
To meet her smile, which deepens as he comes. 
Sanpeur, bronzed by the eastern sun, is tall,
Straight as a javelin, in each noble line
His knighthood is revealed.  Slighter than Torm,
Whose strength is in his size, but full as strong,
Sanpeur’s unrivalled strength is in his sinew
His scarlet garb, deep furred with miniver,
Is broidered with the cross which leaves untold
The fame he won in lands of which it tells
Upon his breast he wears the silver dove,
The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost,
Which Gwendolaine once noted with the words,
“What famous honours you have won, my lord!”
And he had answered with all knightly grace,
“My Lady Gwendolaine, I seldom think
Of the high honour, though I greatly prize
This recognition, far beyond my worth;
My thought is ever what it signifieth. 
It is my consecration I belong
To God the Father, and this is the sign
Of His most Holy Spirit, sent to us
By our ascended Saviour, Jesu Christ,
By Whom alone I live from day to day.” 
His quiet words, amid the laughing court,
Had startled her, as if a solemn peal
Of full cathedral music had rung clear
Above the jousting cry of “Halt and Ho!”
Then, as she wondered if he were a man
Like other men, or priest in knightly garb,
He spoke of her rich jewels with delight
And worldly wisdom, telling her the tale
Of many jewelled mysteries she wore
“In the far East, the sapphire stone is held
To be the talisman for Love and Truth,
So is it fitly placed upon your robe;
It is the stone of stones to girdle you”
“A man, indeed,” she thought, “but not like men.”

As on his foam-flecked charger, Carn-Aflang,
He rides to-day towards Lady Gwendolaine,
She draws her rein more tightly, arching more
Her palfrey’s head, and all unconsciously
Uplifts her own,—­for she has waited long.

“Good morrow, my fair Lady Gwendolaine.”

“Good morrow, Sir Sanpeur, pray do you mark
My new gerfalcon, from beyond the sea? 
Your eyes are just the colour of her wings.”

“Now, by my troth, I challenge any knight
To say precisely what that colour is.”

“’Tis there the likeness serves so well, Sanpeur.”

“My Lady Gwendoline, your speech is, far
Beyond your purpose, gracious, for right well
I mind me that you told me, once, your heart
Often rebelled against the well-defined,
And I should be content to have my eyes
The motley colour of your falcon’s plume,
Lest they make you rebel.”