While Sanpeur
Was far upon a distant quest, all perilous,
She thought with secret longing of the hour
When once again together they should ride.
He has returned triumphant, having won
Fresh honours.

Now at last, the hunt has come,
The day is golden, and her beauty fair,--
And Sir Sanpeur is riding with Ettonne.
A sudden conflict wages in her heart
As she talks lightly to each courtier gay,
Jealous impatience that the Gwendolaine
Whom all men flatter, should be thwarted, fights
A tender yearning to defy all pride
And call him to her for one spoken word.
The world seems better when he talks with her,
No one has ever lifted her above
The empty nothings of a courtly life
As Sir Sanpeur, who makes both life and death
More grandly solemn, yet more simply clear.
In a steep curving of the road, he turns
To meet her smile, which deepens as he comes.
Sanpeur, bronzed by the eastern sun, is tall,
Straight as a javelin, in each noble line
His knighthood is revealed. Slighter than Torm,
Whose strength is in his size, but full as strong,
Sanpeur's unrivalled strength is in his sinew
His scarlet garb, deep furred with miniver,
Is broidered with the cross which leaves untold