“Goes Sanpeur
To the great tournament to-day?” he asked.

“I think not, Torm; it never is his wont
To tilt in tourneys like to-day’s.”

“Think not! 
I want an honest answer.  Do you know?”

“No more than I have told you, my Sir Torm;
It scarce becomes his chivalry to fight
In these new tourneys of such savage guise.”

“His chivalry!  Now God defend!  Methinks
You are too daring.  What of mine, forsooth?”

“I long have told you that I thought your strength
Was worthy finer service.  You well know
I like not tournaments that waste the land
By useless bloodshed; but, my Torm, you are
Your own adviser, so I say no more. 
Bend down and kiss me, Torm, before you go;
Pray be not wroth with Gwendolaine, my lord.”

“Kiss you I will, if you can tell me true
You will not see that coward knight to-day.”

Back drew she from his breast, and said in scorn,
“I know not whom you mean, my lord Sir Torm.”

“Tell me no lies,” said Torm; “I mean Sanpeur.”

“Sanpeur, the fearless knight, a coward!—­he? 
What, think you, would your great King Constantine
Say to your daring slander?  Sir Sanpeur
Is the unquestioned Launcelot at court;
The King rests on him with unfailing trust
In every valiant deed and feat of arms.” 
She drew her beauty to its fullest height,
And swept him with her eyes.  “Fear not for me,
Sir Torm.  Sanpeur, alas! is too engrossed
With duties for his Master, Jesu Christ,
And for his lord, the King, to loiter here
With any woman, howe’er fair she be.”

Torm laughed a quick and scornful laugh, that made
The heart of Gwendolaine beat fast and fierce
Against its sound in spirit of revolt.

“Pray who was coward when Sanpeur refused
In open court to joust with Dinadan?”

“You know, my, lord, the reason that he gave.”

“Ha, ha! some empty boast of holy day,
And prayers, and fasting, and such foolery.”

“And who, my lord,” she said in sudden scorn,
“Unhorsed once, years ago, the brave Sir Torm,
Who never was unhorsed by knight before?”

The hot blood flushed his heavy-bearded face;
His loud voice vibrated with rising wrath.

“So your fine, fearless knight of chivalry
Has won his way to your most wifely heart
By boasting of his prowess!  By my sword! 
That is a knightly virtue in all truth.”

“It did not need, Sir Torm, that he should tell
The story that was waiting for your bride
In every prattling mouth about the court. 
Had it been so, she never would have heard;
It lies with petty souls alone to boast,
Not with the royal soul of Sir Sanpeur.”

“Now, by the blessed Mother of our Lord! 
Methinks you love this valiant knight, Sanpeur.”

“And if I did,” she cried, her soul aglow
With exultation of defense of him,
“It well might be my glory; for there lives
No knight so stainless and so pure as he.”