Whether the young and gentle maiden, the lovely Guendolen, the most delicate and tender of women, who scarce might walk the earth, lest she should dash her foot against a stone; or breathe the free air of heaven, lest it should blow on her damask cheek too rudely--whether _she_ never repented that she had told him, "for this I myself will gird the sword upon your thigh," when she thought of the bloody strife in which two must engage, but whence one only could come forth alive; when she thought of the mangled corpse; of the black gibbet; of the reversed escutcheon; of the dishonored name; whether she never wept, and trembled, and almost despaired, I know not. If she did not, she was more or less than woman. But her face was pale as ivory, and her eyes wore a faint rose-colored margin, as if she had either wept, or been sleepless, for above one night, when she appeared from her lodging on that awful morning; though her features were as firm and rigid as if they had been carved out of that Parian marble which their complexion most resembled, and her gait and bearing were as steady and as proud as if she were going to a coronation, rather than to the awful trial that should seal her every hope on earth, of happiness or misery. They little know the spirit of the age of chivalry, who imagine that, because in the tilt, the tournament, the joust, the carrousel, all was pomp and splendor, music and minstrelsy, and military glory, largesse of heralds and love of ladies, _los_ on earth and fame immortal after death, there was any such illusion or enchantment in the dreadful spectacle of an appeal to the judgment of God by wager of battle.