She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight
Seemed all too gross--who might have been a saint
And companied with angels--thus to pluck
The spotless rose of her own maidenhood
To give it unto me!

Wal. You love her then?

Lewis. Look! if yon solid mountain were all gold,
And each particular tree a band of jewels,
And from its womb the Niebelungen hoard
With elfin wardens called me, 'Leave thy love
And be our Master'--I would turn away--
And know no wealth but her.

Wal. Shall I say this to her?
I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed,
But now, between her friends and persecutors,
My life's a burden.

Lewis. Persecutors! Who?
Alas! I guess it--I had known my mother
Too light for that fair saint,--but who else dare wink
When she is by? My knights?

Wal. To a man, my Lord.

Lewis. Here's chivalry! Well, that's soon brought to bar.
The quarrel's mine; my lance shall clear that stain.