In converse light
They rode together. When the hunt was done,
The King, all courteous, said, "My gracious dame,
Well have you learned of nature her great laws;
The sun, that warms with its intensity
The earth to fruitage, is the same that throws
Stray sportive gleams to beautify alone;
And you, who meet my purposes of state
With a responsive thought and sympathy,
As no dame of the court,—and scarcely knight,—
Has ever done, are first in making me
Forget their weight. Gramercy for your grace!
It has revived me as a summer shower
Revives the parched and under-trodden grass;
It is but seldom I have time to seek
Refreshment, save of labour changed."
"My King,"—
She passed from gay to grave,—"my own heart aches
With life's vexed questions, and its stern demands,
Full often even in my sheltered state;
And you, my liege, must be well-nigh o'ercome
With the vast load of duties you fulfil
So nobly, to the glory of the realm.
Would I could serve you, as you well deserve;
But I am only woman, so I smile
In lieu of fighting for you, as I would
Unto the death, if I were but a knight."
And this same dame who spoke so earnestly
To Constantine, said when she next had speech
With Sir Sanpeur, "Life is a merry play
To me, naught else, I seldom think beyond
The fashion of the robe I wear!"
Sanpeur,
Alone of all the men who came within
Her circle, varied not at smiles or frowns,
And when he would not humour passing mood,
And when she felt within her wayward heart
The silent protest of his calm reserve,—
Although a longing she had never known
Awoke in her,—her pride, in arms, cried truce
To striving spirit, and she laughed the more.
And oftentimes the stirring of new life,
Without its recognition, made her quick
To war against the wall that Sir Sanpeur
Confronted to some phases of her charm;
Made her assume a wilful shallowness,
To hide the soul she was afraid to face.
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."