And on the morrow, when she woke, her joy
Woke with her, and encompassed her soul.

In strides Sir Torm, equipped for tournament.
The Lady Gwendolaine goes not to-day,
For it will be a savage tournament,
"Unfit for ladies," Torm had said to her,
"Unworthy men," she thought, but did not say.

"Come, Gwendolaine, my beauty, ere I go,
I wait to have you buckle on my sword."

Smiling, she does his bidding.

"Ah! my Torm,
How heavy, and how mighty is your sword;
I revel in the glory of your strength,
And in your prowess. Well I mind me, dear,
When first I saw you, on your charger black,
Riding in knightly state to my old home.
'By our King Arthur's soul,' my father said,
'There is a knight of valour and of strength!'
And then you wooed me to become your bride,
Me, scarce a maiden, naught but wilful child
So prone, alas to mischief and mistake,
Of humble fortune, with but whims for dower
You were so kind, so generous, you flashed
My low estate with splendour. I recall
How my heart laughed with girlish pride and glee
At the surpassing bounty of your gifts."