As on his foam-flecked charger, Carn-Aflang,
He rides to-day towards Lady Gwendolaine,
She draws her rein more tightly, arching more
Her palfrey's head, and all unconsciously
Uplifts her own,--for she has waited long.

"Good morrow, my fair Lady Gwendolaine."

"Good morrow, Sir Sanpeur, pray do you mark
My new gerfalcon, from beyond the sea?
Your eyes are just the colour of her wings."

"Now, by my troth, I challenge any knight
To say precisely what that colour is."

"'Tis there the likeness serves so well, Sanpeur."

"My Lady Gwendoline, your speech is, far
Beyond your purpose, gracious, for right well
I mind me that you told me, once, your heart
Often rebelled against the well-defined,
And I should be content to have my eyes
The motley colour of your falcon's plume,
Lest they make you rebel."

"Ah, Sir Sanpeur,
Your memory is far too steadfast!"

"Naught
Can be too steadfast for your grace, fair dame."