There are three gloves on the oaken boards,
And three white hands on their hilted swords: 
“On horse or foot, by day or night,
We stand to do our father right.”

The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee,
And gathered him up the gages three: 
“Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis,
And ye know not how false your father is.

“Put on, put on your armour bright;
And God in heaven help the right!”
“God help the right!” the sons replied;
And straightway on their armour did.

The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes,
Looked fairly up in the open skies: 

“If my father was true in deed and in word,
Fight, O God, with my righteous sword;
If my father was false in deed or in word,
Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!”

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
Sir Robert’s visor is crushed and marred,
And he lies his length on the battle-sward.

Sir Stephen’s was an angry blade—­
I scarce may speak the words he said: 
“Though Heaven itself were false,” cried he,
“True is my father of Fontanlee!

“And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong,
If this lying baron should lay me along,
Strike another blow for our good renown.” 
“Doubt me not,” said the young knight John.

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
In bold Sir Stephen’s best life-blood
His spear’s point is wet to the wood.

The young knight John hath bent his knee,
And speaks his soul right solemnly: 
“Whatever seemeth good to Thee,
The same, O Lord, attend on me.

“What though my brothers lie along,
My father’s faith is firm and strong: 
Perchance thy deeply-hid intent
Doth need some nobler instrument.

“Let faithless hearts give heed to fear,
I will not falter in my prayer: 
If ever guilty treachery
Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,—­

“As such an ‘if’ doth stain my lips,
Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,—­
Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast,
And my soul seek its endless rest.”

Never a whit did young John yield
When the lance ran through his painted shield;
Never a whit debased his crest,
When the lance ran into his tender breast.

“What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John,
That runs so fast from thine armour down?”
“Oh, this is my heart’s blood, I feel,
And it wets me through from the waist to the heel.”