To win an entrance through his castle gate.
With hurried steps he reached the gate, and with
The cry,--drowned by the din of clashing arms,--
"Withhold! it is a friend," he threw himself
Before Sir Torm, and took the mortal wound
That had been aimed by his own seneschal.

"Let fighting cease; hurt not Sir Torm!" he cried,
And fell into the arms of grim old Ule,
Who pierced his own soul when he wounded him.

A sudden sound of wailing rent the court;
The dames flocked from the castle in dismay,
And with them came the Lady Gwendolaine,
A pace or two, and then stood motionless;
Her limbs, that brought her quickly to confront
The evil she had wrought, grew powerless;
Her wide, tense gaze was as of one who walks
In sleep unseeing; her dishevelled hair
Veiled the abandon of her dress, her cheeks
Were colourless as marble, but for the stain
Of crimson. Paralysed and dumb she stood,
Too far to reach him, but full near to hear,
As Sanpeur, having lifted hand to hush
The wailing, broke the silence rapidly,
Like one who feels his time for speech is short.

"In Christ's dear name, who alway doth forgive,
I pray you, hear me speak one word, Sir Torm."