Chapter II: The Foster Brother

Of all the noble damsels, in all our Brittany,
Gwennola was the sweetest far, a maiden fair to see.

Scarce eighteen summers shed their gold upon her shapely head,
Yet all who loved the fair girl best were numbered with the dead--

Her father and her mother, and eke her sisters dear.
Ah! Mary, pity 'twas to see her shed the bitter tear

At her casement in the castle, where a step-dame now bare sway,
Her dim eyes fixed upon the sea, which glimmered far away.

* * * * * *

For three long years she watched in vain, in dole and misery,
To see her foster brother's sail spring up from over sea;

For three long years she watched in vain, hoping each day would send
The only heart which beat to hers, her lover and her friend.

"Go, get you gone and tend the kine," the cruel step-dame said;
"Leave brooding over long-past years: go, earn your daily bread."

She woke her, ere the darkling dawns, while yet 'twas dead of night,
To sweep the floors and cleanse the house, and set the fires alight;

To fetch the water from the brook, again and yet again,
With heavy toil and panting breath, and young form bent in twain.

* * * * * *

One darkling winter morning, before the dawning light,
With ringing hoofs, across the brook there rode a noble knight:

"Good morrow, gracious maiden, and art thou free to wed?"
And she, so young she was and meek, "I know not, sir," she said.

"I prithee tell me, maiden, if thou art fancy-free?"
"To none, sir, have I plighted yet my maiden troth," said she.

"Then take, fair maid, this ring of gold, and to your step-dame say,
That to-day your troth is plighted to a knight from far away;

"That at Nantes a battle fierce was fought, wherein his squire was slain,
And he himself lies stricken sore upon his bed of pain;

"But when three weeks are overpast, whatever fate betide,
He will come himself full gaily, and claim thee for his bride."

All breathless ran she homeward, when, lo, a wondrous thing!
For on her slender finger blazed her foster brother's ring.