

E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Rosanna Yuen, and Project Gutenberg
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Under King Constantine

By Katrina Trask

Third Edition

1893







To My Husband.




_The following tales, which have no legendary warrant, are supposed to
belong to the time, lost in obscurity, immediately subsequent to King
Arthur's death; when, says Malory, in the closing chapter of LA MORT
D'ARTHURE, "Sir Constantine, which was Sir Cadors son of Cornwaile, was
chosen king of England; and hee was a full noble knight, and worshipfully
hee ruled this realme"_




SANPEUR.


The great King Constantine is at the hunt;
The brilliant cavalcade of knights and dames,
On palfreys and on chargers trapped in gold
And silver and red purple, ride in mirth
Along the winding way, by hill and tarn
And violet-sprinkled dell. Impatient hounds
Sniff the keen morning air, and startled birds
Rustle the foliage redolent with spring.

From time to time some courtier reins his steed
Beside the love-enkindling Gwendolaine,
Whose wayward moods do vary as the winds,--
Now wooing with her soft, seductive grace;
Now fascinating with her stately pride;
Anon, bewitching by her recklessness
Of wilful daring in some wild caprice
Which no one could anticipate or stay.
How fair she is to-day! How beautiful!
Her hunting-robe is bluer than the sky,--
Matching one phase of her great, changeful eyes,--
Clasped with twin falcons of unburnished gold,
The colour of her brown hair in the sun.
The white plumes, drooping from her hunting-cap,
Leave her alluring lips in tempting sight,
But hide the growing shadow in her eyes.
For she marks none of all the court to-day