One day, at court, her restless spirits rose
To a defiant mood of recklessness,
And half because she wanted to be true,
And half because she could not act the false
Except to overdo it, her clear laugh
Rang out at witty words her heart disdained;
Some knights, ignoble, hating noble men,
Were loud decrying virtue, Gwendolaine
With laugh-begetting words made quick assent
To the unworthy wit

She scarce had spoken,
Ere Sanpeur raised his penetrating eyes,—­
The only ones, in all that laughing group,
Which were not bright with an approving smile,—­
To meet her own, with silent gravity,
A swift arrest within their shining depths
To one more word unworthy of herself. 
And Gwendolaine, the peerless queen of dames,
Cast down her eyes, for once, before Sanpeur.

Later, he stood beside her, as she passed,
“My Lady Gwendolaine,—­incomparable,—­
’Tis not your wont to be so cowardly.”

“No?  Sanpeur,” answered Gwendolaine, “nor yours,
It seems, to be well mannered; may I ask
Where I have failed in bravery, forsooth?”

“You were a coward to your better self
In your light answer to the empty words
Your nature disavowed.”

“Alack, my lord! 
That is my armour; warriors ever wear
A cuirass of strong steel before their breasts;
A woman carries but a little shield
Of scorn and badinage, to break the force
On her weak woman-heart, of javelins hurled.”

“That is well said, my Lady Gwendolaine,
But it is not the same, by your fair grace;
Our armour is our armour, nothing more;
Your shield of scorn is lasting lance of harm,
For every word a noble woman says,
And every act and influence from her,
Live on forever, to the end of time;
Your true soul is too true to be belied.”

“Who told you, Sir Sanpeur?”

“My heart,” he said. 
She raised her eyes in a triumphant thrill
Of sudden rapture, and of gratitude,
And saw herself enwrapped by a long look
That came from deeper depths than she had known,
And reached a depth in her as yet unstirred. 
She stood enspelled by his long silent gaze
Of subtle power.  His unswerving eyes
Quelled her by steadfast calm, yet kindled her
By lavish love and light.

Although no word
Was said between them, as they moved apart,
She knew he loved her, and he wist she knew.

And with the revelation there was born
A wider knowledge of life’s mystery. 
Sir Torm had never satisfied her soul;
But though in outward seeming she was proud,
High-spirited, and passing courtly dame,
At heart the Lady Gwendolaine was still
A hungry child who craved love’s nourishing,
Unconscious of her hunger; so she had clung,—­
In spite of shocks, repeated time on time,—­
Close to the thought of Torm, remembering all
He was to her in wooing her; rehearsed—­