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And hitherto unknown in that far land Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand.

It was a fearful charge, all hope was vain, And she must die the fire's red death of pain, Unless that she could find some gentle knight Who would do battle for a maiden's right, And win: but her accuser never yet In field or tourney had an equal met.

The fatal day is come, the pile is raised, As eager for its victim fierce it blazed. They led her forth: her brow and neck were bare, Save for the silken veil of unbound hair; So beautiful, few were there who could brook To cast on her sweet face a second look.