University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—The Same. Enter Launcelot and Guenevere.
Launcelot.
It is the morning star that hangs so high;
Love, you must leave me.

Guenevere.
Must I so indeed?
How can I leave you?—For I live in you.
You are the only concord in my life;
Without you I am but a jarring note
And all the world mere noise.

Launcelot.
No, leave me not.
What though the world outcast us! We will be
A world unto ourselves. Let Britain sink
Beneath the Atlantic and the solid base
And universal dome of things dissolve
And like the architecture of a cloud
Melt in the blue inane! You are my country,
My world, my faith, my rounded orb of life.

Guenevere.
Without you life would be but breathing death.

Launcelot.
Oh, we will find some island in the seas,
Some place forsaken of the unjust world,
A larger image of this garden here,
Where nature's luxury and Art's decay
Proclaim emancipation—

Guenevere.
There's no such place.
The greedy world would rush in at your heels
And turn your paradise into a mart.
Nay, you were right, and I must leave you, love,
And ere yon pale streaks ripen into rose,
Resume the Queen. But yet one breath beneath
These morning-cool old elms before we part,
One last love-dreaming!—How can I be sure
Thou lovest me? Is life so generous
Of joy?

Launcelot.
Oh, look in my true eyes and say
If thou canst doubt me!

Guenevere.
Nay, I doubt thee not.
If I had doubted, could I thus have stolen
At midnight in a shameless page's suit
And—oh, thou knowest I could not!

Launcelot.
Sweet and true!

Guenevere.
I feel as if I had put off the Queen
With the Queen's robes and had become your page.

Launcelot.
You are my Queen, whatever garb you wear,
And I your knight forever. But, thus clad,
A thousand beauties are revealed, before
Known only to surmise, or by foreknowledge
That every beauty must be yours divined.
Ay, cover 't with thy cloak! The prettiness
O' the action o'er-repays my beggared eyes,
Robbed of the treasure of that loveliness.

Guenevere.
For thy delight, love, I will dress me so
Ten times a day—but never as a mask
Again. Why wouldst thou send Sir Galahault
To bring me here?

Launcelot.
For thy security.
Here we are free from Argus-eyed intrigue.

Guenevere.
I like it not—or rather would not like it,
Were I not too content to let my head
Lie on your shoulder here—so—while Time seems
To pause awhile and dream, beholding us.
It is too much as if we shrank some peril;
And I would shrink from nothing. Prithee, love,
Henceforward let us meet without these shifts.

Launcelot.
O royal-hearted!

Guenevere.
Sweet, you hurt me.

Launcelot.
Nay,
I would not hurt you. I would have my love
A furnace fiery as the orient king's,
But you should walk in it and be unharmed.

Guenevere.
Was ever woman loved as you love me?

Launcelot.
I think there never was; 't is something new
Whereof I am discoverer.

[Exeunt among the trees.]

Scene II.

—The adjacent country. Before the tent of Arthur. Arthur and Godmar.
Godmar.
Sire!

Arthur.
What is it, Godmar?

Godmar.
From the crest
Of yonder hill one can see Camelot.

Arthur.
A forced march would have brought us there to-day;
But to what end? The soldiers are fatigued.

Godmar.
Sire, we have marched but fifteen miles to-day.
We started late and are already camped
While it is hardly afternoon. Besides,
The camp is careless as a hunt.

Arthur.
What then?

Godmar.
You will destroy all discipline.

Arthur.
No, Godmar.
They have earned a little ease; let them enjoy it.
For tension unrelieved relieves itself
And is ne'er taut again. Let them have time
To talk and tell old stories in their tents
And they'll forget their hardships, and each soldier
Will presently begin to find himself
Of moment to the State, no mere machine
Useful and used as bows and catapults,
But personal; and Britain thus will grow
A thing wherein he hath a stake himself,
And he will fight the better and submit
More willing to her rule in that his will
By head and heart alike is reinforced.
Have couriers been sent forward?

[Enter Merlin.]
Godmar.
One at dawn
And one when we encamped.

Arthur.
How camest thou here?

Merlin.
On no enchanted steed; a plain mule brought me.
I set out when your messenger arrived
This morning. I have tidings you must hear
Before your entry.

Arthur.
Well.

Merlin.
The Emperor
Has sent a special envoy to your court,
Whose undivulged commission, though with care
And shrewdly hid, I have smelled out. In brief,
Rome sends to bully you with warlike threats
To pay the tribute.

Arthur.
You are my counsellors;
What are your minds on this?

Godmar.
I am for war.
Here is occasion for new victories
And a world-wider glory. For my part,
I think that peace is when the nation sleeps
And when it wakes, that's war. For men in peace,
Lacking brave emulation and the zeal
Of a great cause, fall to their petty ends
And, letting their high virtues atrophy,
Wallow in lust and avarice, till the heart
And nobler functions rot away and leave
A people like an oyster, all stomach.
Our men are bold with long success, valiant,
Well-disciplined, far better warriors
Than Roman libertines, and mercenaries
That fight with half their hearts. The cause is just;
For while Rome kept her legions in the land,
Defending us from the sea-robbing Jutes
And Saxons and against the mountain hordes
Of barbarous Picts, there was a show of reason
Why she should tax us; now we stand alone
And ask and yield no favors.

Merlin.
Nor would I
Advise your Majesty to yield an inch
To this preposterous impudence. And yet
Delay advantages the crescent power,
And we are growing stronger every year
And Rome declining. If we match her now,
Ere long we'll have the odds. Her boundless wealth
Gives her resources which our general
Too lightly weighs. Nor should we overrate
Our own security. We are one in rule
But not in spirit yet, and local feeling
Still outruns national. The Jutes in Kent
Are yet a daily threat. Therefore, my liege,
My counsel is that we meet words with words,
Gain time to expel the aliens from our shores
And discord from our hearts. Indeed I think
The glory of your reign will more consist
In leaving to the world a living State
Than in your victories. And what most imports you
Is to secure by wise executive
The unity and welfare of the realm.

Arthur.
You have each spoken well, but I incline
To Godmar's thought. You, Merlin, know full well
The unity of Britain is the heart
And purpose of my life; but I conceive
This war will make the country more at one
Than all our statecraft, for old enmities
Will melt away into one common heart
When Britons fight against a common foe.
Besides, you shall yourself be deputy
At Camelot, and our home management
Shall be no loser. For the Jutes in Kent,
We'll make them our allies, confirm their lands
In fealty to ourself and win them over
With promises o' the richer spoils of Rome.
For I intend to sack her opulent towns
And pay my soldiers from their treasuries;
And this sea-people will supply me ships
And sailors cunning in sea-faring war.
And, more than this, I have ancestral claims
To the imperial crown. We'll not return
Until the Pope has crowned me Emperor.

Godmar.
No man on earth save Arthur, King of Britain,
Could wield so glorious an enterprise.

Arthur.
What say you, Merlin?

Merlin.
'T is a noble plan,
Better than mine though something hazardous,
And for a lesser captain foolhardy.
And yet it has a weakness, for I fear
The greatening power and riches of the Jutes.
If Britain ever fall, 't will be by them.

Arthur.
They are too dangerous to be enemies;
They must be friends.

Merlin.
My liege, a word with you
In private.

Godmar.
Sire, permit that I withdraw.

[Exit.]
Arthur.
What bitter news now, Merlin?

Merlin.
Be prepared
For any unexpected blow you will.
I fear your sister has some plot in hand
Which I have not unravelled.

Arthur.
Morgause again!
I have a senseless superstitious dread
That from her comes my ruin;—but that's a dream.
I'll not be goblin-ridden. Come within
The tent and tell me more of your suspicion.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

—Camelot. Night. The Gardens. Through the trees the towers and battlements. Enter Morgause and Ladinas from opposite sides, meeting.
Morgause.
Well?

Ladinas.
I have seen them.

Morgause.
Seen them?

Ladinas.
From the arbor
I watched them as they strolled; yet too far off
To hear their words—and yet their words were sweet.
I could tell that although I heard them not,
They leaned so to each other, like a pair
Of rutting deer that rub their heads together
Before they couple. What they said, no doubt,
Had made a pretty song for the King's ear,
Could it have been re-worded.

Morgause.
Was this all
You saw?

Ladinas.
Be patient. I have not done yet.
I saw them kiss—and Launcelot looked about
With guilty fear, but Guenevere looked not
But hung upon him motionless and dumb,
Reckless of all the world. Much more I saw,
But to be brief—at last, after what words
I know not, they departed, she with head
Erect, poised firmly on her royal throat,
But he with wild eyes and a haggard face.
I followed them. They went in by the wicket
O' the private stairway of the Queen's apartments.

Morgause.
What say you? In broad noon?

Ladinas.
Ay, in broad noon.
At least, she sins with royal carelessness.

Morgause.
Her royal carelessness! Her royal throat!
Is she the only queen, then, in the world?
Doth she bewitch you, too? Where got she drugs
To make men love her? Do you find her fairer?
Beware, La Rouse! You know how I can hate.

Ladinas.
Fairer? There are three fair ladies in the world,
Iseult of Ireland, Guenevere, and thou—
And thou art first among them. I will not
Deny how beautiful she is, my queen—
Thou art the fairer that she is so fair.

Morgause.
Leave courtly phrases till another time.
What did you when her royalty had passed
Into the palace?

Ladinas.
I bethought me then
Of Peredure's apartments and the key.
I had no thought to find an use so soon
For that—love-trinket. I ensconced myself
Behind a pillar in the gallery
That overlooks the window of the Queen,—

Morgause.
And there you saw—?

Ladinas.
Enough! Not all I would,—
There was a tantalizing incompleteness
In what I saw; something, indeed, as when
One thinks one sees more than one really does
When the wind frolics with the petticoats.
And yet I saw enough to make the Queen
A laughter and a byword to the world.

Morgause.
Ha, ha, ha!
So then my virtuous brother will receive
A douse of dirty water for a welcome,
When he returns to-morrow morn. The pomp
Of his victorious arms will only serve
To pageant out his shame.

Ladinas.
I have set down
A formal notice with the Seneschal
That at high noon to-morrow, when the King
Ascends the throne in the Great Hall to hear
The grievances and quarrels of his knights
And render justice, I shall then appear
And in the presence of the court “impeach
Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran Lady
Of the Most Knightly and Christian Fellowship
Of the Round Table, et cetera, of treason
To the most gracious person of the King
And to the safety of the realm, in living
In shameless license with Sir Launcelot;
And also I impeach for the same cause
Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban—”

Morgause.
Spare me the legal rigmarole. By this,
The noise is bruited over the whole palace.

Ladinas.
Be sure of that; Sir Kaye will never keep
So rare a bit of scandal to himself.

Morgause.
Why, then we have won the throw. Oh, Ladinas,
You have done that to-day that shall shake thrones!
Launcelot will not tamely yield himself;
Still less will he sit by and see his leman
Dragged from him to the stake. This work of ours
Casts Britain to the pit for the beasts of war
To glut their bloodthirst on.—What's that to us?
This upstart Queen and that false-hearted prig
Who calls himself her husband and my brother—
She lied, my mother, when she said she bore him!
And, if he be her husband, what proves that
But that he is a perjurer?—If she 'scape,
He may be slain; and if they live, the shame
Will daub them till they die. In any case
I have revenge. I could carouse to-night
Till the elves startled in the glens to hear
The echo of my revelry. Come, kiss me!
Oh, Ladinas, I am drunk with merriment.
Again! again! My blood is flames of fire.

Ladinas.
Your lips burn and your cheeks are hot. Morgause!
My pantheress! My splendid devil!

[Enter Merlin.]
Morgause.
Beware!

Merlin.
You need no mock propriety. I am
Too gray for envy and too well aware
Of what you do for this play of concealment.
And other things I know; be warned in time,—
Let your intents take wing.

Morgause.
You are too late.
Go to Sir Kaye and ask the news of him.
I do not fear you, Merlin.

Merlin.
Fear you God?

Morgause.
God cheated me—you know of what I speak.
I am his enemy as He is mine.

[Exeunt Morgause and Ladinas.]
Dagonet
[springing up from behind a clump of bushes].

Poor God! Oh, Father Merlin, such roguery as I have overheard! But I will tell you anon, for now I must see whither they are going.

[Exit.]
[Enter Kaye, Gawaine, and Peredure.]
Kaye.

It is even as I tell you, gentlemen. Sir Ladinas has accused the Queen of high treason, for amours with Sir Launcelot.

Peredure.

Impossible! He dare not.

Kaye.

The indictment was placed in my hand not above an hour ago. God knows how 't will all end.

Peredure.

By heaven, he is not chary of his life!

Gawaine.

I say 't is an outrage. What an if it were true? They are the royalest pair in Christendom; 't is shameful to seek to dishonor them.

Peredure.
True? Why, you lily-livered boy, you dare
To hint it? By all the saints, if you were not
Your mother's son, that word had been your last.

[A light appears in a window above.]
Gawaine.
I pray you, pardon me; she is your sister.
I had forgot it. But I mean to say
That, were Sir Launcelot guilty twenty times,
He doth as far this Ladinas o'erpeer
As mountains anthills. Fie, a worm, a snail!

Kaye.
'T is most deplorable. Let us bring the news
To Galahault and the others.

[Exeunt Kaye and Gawaine.]
Merlin.
Prince, do you see the light in yonder casement?

Peredure.
It is the chamber of the Queen of Orkney.
What of it?

Merlin.
Would you know who has set on
This foul conspiracy against the Queen,
Make you that light your searchlamp.

Peredure.
What, you mean—?

Merlin.
I mean that if you follow up my clue
To thread the meaning of this labyrinth,
'T will draw you, like a moth, into that flame.
I mean that in that dark unriddled heart
That beats beneath the beauteous breasts of Orkney,
Lies like a cancer the true reason why
Your sister's fame is smirched.

Peredure.
By heaven, 't is false!
As soon the rosy labor of the dawn
Might bring forth darkness. Now, by all hell's fiends
Unless I meet an enemy ere long
Beside old age and boyhood, I shall break
My sword against the senseless stones! What, she?

Merlin.
Alas, I pity you, but truth will not;
It is the truth.

[Exit.]
Peredure.
By the five wounds of Christ,
It is the foulest lie that e'er was told.
—Lamp of my soul, behind yon lattice lies
More mystery, more beauty, more delight
Than grizzled Merlin with his lapse of years
Has ever dreamed of. There's more credit writ
In thy dear smile than all his subtleties.
Ah, opal-hearted! now she doth unclothe
The solemn sweep of her majestic limbs,
The mystery of her awful loveliness;
And draws the curtains of her couch about her
As some earth-goddess of old northern tales
Might draw the heavy drapery of the night.

[Enter Dagonet.]
Dagonet.

My lord!—My lord!—Even her casement throws him into a catalepsy. Now what brew hath the witch borrowed from Circe, that this poor poet should be transformed into an ass? What ho, my lord!

Peredure.

Is it you, Dagonet?

Dagonet.

Like a chair in a dark room; you wish I were out of the way. (Aside).
Oh, that I were anything but what I am, the bearer of ill news! I could wish I were a dog, a mongrelly cur, with somebody kicking me. (Aloud.)
Are you brave, my lord?

Peredure.

Brave?

Dagonet.

I know you are as quick in a quarrel as a Spaniard, and will whip out your rapier on less provocation than any man at the court. But are you brave?

(Sings)

Are you brave, sir?

Peredure.

Sure, the Fool's mad. Good Dagonet, I am not in the humor for these fopperies.

Dagonet.

Said I not that I was in the way? But, cry you mercy now, would you not thank even a joint-stool, if barking your shins against it saved you from a stumble into the kitchen water-butt?

Peredure.

Past doubt, Dagonet. What have I to do with this?

Dagonet.

Prithee, bark your shins against me, then, and save yourself from drowning, for the butt that lies in your path is bottomless.

Peredure.

I am in a mood to be exasperated by trifles. If you have ought to me, say it; if not, pray leave me to myself.

Dagonet.

Indeed I have something to say, but I know not rightly how to go about it. Sir, you are in love—

Peredure.

Zounds!

Dagonet.

And I would not have you made the tool of an unworthy woman.

Peredure.

Why, you piebald rascally slave—

Dagonet.

Be patient with me, sir; and if I do not prove your love a lewd trickster and traitress,

beat me from here to Orkney and back again.

Peredure.

Lewd?—traitress?—Oh, Christ in heaven! You rogue! you varlet! do you dare—?

Dagonet.

Hear me, for I swear I speak no more but the truth! Sir, I have loved you since you were a child on my knee and used to play with my bauble for a toy. Do you think I would tell you so bitter a thing for wantonness?

Peredure.

Nay, it cannot be but you are abused; some villain, some scurvy rancorous villain hath abused you—but 't was I he aimed at with his knavery. Who was it, Dagonet? Tell me and if I do not run him through with my sword as I would a snake—My God, if I do not find some tangible enemy, I shall burst my heart.

Dagonet.

An I thought my eyes were such rascals as you have called them, I would pluck them out. Oh, my lord, tear this false woman out of your heart. She is not worthy that you grieve for her.

Peredure.

What, will you persuade me the world's a madman's dream? have a care, have a care! I grow dangerous.

Dagonet.

Come with me and see for yourself. I would I could not show you what I must.

Peredure.

Lead on;—but if you have played me false, you had better have fallen in a tiger's jaws.

Dagonet.

I have no more to say. If you will not hear, see.

[Exeunt Dagonet and Peredure.]
[Enter Launcelot and Guenevere.]
Guenevere.
I know that we must take up the old life
Again, made harder than it was before
But sweeter too. And yet it is all so new,
So glad! A little longer we will dream.
To-day we will not think of anything
But the dear joy of loving.

Launcelot.
The kind Fates
Have given to us this hour. We will not mar it.
To-morrow's riddles let to-morrow solve.

Guenevere.
I am so glad I am a woman, love.
I have quarrelled with my sex; but now I see
The heart is keener to recoil from wrong
Than to divine the right, for all my life
Was thwarted but I guessed not why. But now
I would not be a man for all the world.

Launcelot.

Nay, I must pity you that you are a woman, for so you miss life's greatest gift—the joy of loving one.

Guenevere.

I would love the woman's way. It is great to be a man, but it is delicious to be a woman.

[Enter Merlin at some distance, with an astrolabe.]
Launcelot.
Look yonder! How like a visioned memory
Old Merlin glides among the trees

Guenevere.
He comes
This way; I will accost him. Merlin, ho,
What have you there?

Merlin.
An instrument to measure
The motions of the stars.

Guenevere.
Then have you been
In converse with them of the weirds of men;
For you are Destiny's familiar.

Merlin.
As
The child is of its mother, who unfolds
What shreds of wisdom it may comprehend.
Yon skies, that look so mild, are threatening;
Some evil passes in the dark but what
Its name or form the stars will not declare
Till it unclose its formidable jaws
And fire-like eat its prey and then itself.

Guenevere.
How wisely they look down from their high heaven,
Meeting our baffled eyes with that clear sight
Which no enigmas barrier! It must be
In them, if anywhere, our eyes may read
The secrets of our dooms.

Merlin.
Would you yourself
Interrogate their silence?

Guenevere.
Nay, for then
With each succeeding day I must renew
The burden of the accumulated ills
Of a whole life. Let all be unforeseen
And then we shall not suffer till our time.

Launcelot.
Speak not so sadly. I seem to have just found out
That human suffering is but a cheap price
We pay for heavenly bliss. Think rather, then,
Of joy—

Guenevere.
The greatest joy is greater still,
When it comes sharp and sudden.—What was that?

Merlin.
Why, I heard nothing.

Guenevere.
Nothing? And you, my lord?

Launcelot.
Nothing. [The light in the window is extinguished.]


Guenevere.
I heard a woman's shriek.—Who comes?

[Enter Galahault.]
Galahault.
Madam, I have sought you everywhere. Have you heard
This tale that flies from lip to lip?

Guenevere.
What tale?

Galahault.
Then you must hear 't from me. Sir Ladinas
Has made a formal accusation, touching
The friendship you have shown for Launcelot,
Which he misconstrues for a lawless love,
Disloyal to the King.

Launcelot.
The dream is done—
So suddenly—

Merlin
(apart).
Alas, then, it is true.

Galahault
(to Launcelot).
Be scanter of your speech, lest Merlin note.
The Queen's good name's at stake.

Guenevere.
Why, gentlemen,
What ails it with you that you stand aghast?
It is the penalty of eminence
That people grow familiar with our names;
So reverence becomes garrulity,
Then flippancy, then foulness,—till the highest
Is made most common, and even the Sacred Name
Debased to vile and lewd profanities.
Come, Launcelot, I shall keep you at my side
Even more than hitherto, that men may know
That what I do is not for them to question.

[Exeunt Guenevere and Launcelot.]
Merlin.

How royally she carries it!—Sir Galahault, you are the greatest and most powerful prince in the kingdom, and you have a shrewd knowledge of men and things. Why will you be an onlooker in life, not a participant?

Galahault.

I have drained my cup, and now I drink the air. There is nothing left for me but the ideas of things. What is all this in search of?

Merlin.
Sir, I grow old and I need younger men
To hold my hands up, like the Hebrew statesman.
You are a man fit for diplomacy
And I would have you for co-laborer
In the affairs of state; but chiefly now
I would have you assist me to undo
This plot against the Queen. Guilty or guiltless,
The credence of her guilt would rend asunder
Our scarce yet welded kingdom.

Galahault.
I will do
All that I may for Launcelot and the Queen.
She has bound me to her with her regal ways;
And he not only conquered my domain
And won me in allegiance to the King,—
His courtesy finished what his sword began,
And won my heart too.

Merlin.
So with me as well
The personal wish chimes with the general good.
For Launcelot, as you know, was in some sort
My foster-son; the Lady of the Lake
Guided his first dream-thinking and myself
Taught his quick-summered youth.—Go, then, about
Among the lords and ladies of the court
And everywhere proclaim her innocence.
Opinion propagates itself; your stout
Maintenance of her honor will convince
Many by its mere confidence and make
A party in her favor. In two hours
Meet me in the laboratory in the tower.

Galahault.
Wisely devised; I'll set about it straight.

[Exit.]
Merlin.
O Runic charactery, engraved in stars
Upon the everlasting vault! wilt thou
Forever mock us with unriddled speech?
Has thought no cleverness to cheat from Time
The knowledge of thy grammar? And ye spirits
Of earth and air that with uncertain voice
Speak into too frail words divinities!
Ye oracles and inspirations vague!
We hear your utterance but we miss the sense.
I am the wisest brain of them that know,
And I'm Time's fool. The Queen, from whom I thought
The perpetuity of the State should grow,
Even she herself is the first sundering
From whence disintegration spreads to all!
Her fate has come upon her and the King's,
And I foresaw not and forewarned them not.
Nay, I myself wrought Arthur to her suit,
Forethinking the realm's welfare. Alas, alas!
I feel the bode of prophecy within me,
And now surely I know that all my craft
Shall be undone and all the King's high dream,
And the Round Table shall pass utterly
Which, like a sacrament, showed forth the round world
In that ideal unto which it moves.
How can this be? Blind Chance, that seems at times
To have malevolent intelligence—
[Enter Peredure, with dress disordered and without his sword.]
The Prince of Cameliard? In this disorder?
What is the matter, sir?

Peredure.
Art thou not Merlin?
I think thou art; but make me sure, for I
Cannot believe my eyes are truth-tellers.

Merlin.
For certain, I am Merlin. But, my lord,
Why start you so and stare? You are not well.

Peredure.
Why, I am glad to hear it. To be well
Is to be one in millions. I am glad
That you are well, sir—very glad, by heaven!

Merlin.
This is too serious for the matter, and
Attention is not in it. What would you say?
What ill has happened? Alas, he hears me not.

Peredure.
I killed him in her bed.

Merlin.
Killed, say you, sir?

Peredure.
I see you have white hairs and a white beard;
But yet I know what you, for all your wrinkles,
Have never dreamed of. There is not a woman
In all the kingdom, ay, in all the world,
But she's a—magpie. Let's be merry, then!
Let us have cantharids and wine!

Merlin.
My lord,
Withdraw with me. There's wine within.

Peredure.
There's blood
Within—wine, do you call it?—Ay, the butt's
Split open now and all the wine's on the floor.
The thirsty planks drink it up gloriously.
In her bed, did you hear?—Just heaven! I tell you
I killed him in her bed.

Merlin.
Whom did you kill?

Peredure.
Not her, not her! Look you, how modestly
She gathers up her kirtle as she walks;
And yet within 's twelve hours she hath been—Faugh!

Merlin.
What look you on?

Peredure.
Not her! She was too fair;
I could not dapple that white skin with blood.—
Give me your hand; I would touch something.—Death?
She is not dead. How can her spirit walk?
—Why, so! Why, so! She is gone again. Oh, Merlin,
The moveless stars in heaven shift and reel
And there is nothing stable in the world.

Merlin.
Come in with me out o' the damp night air;
It is too chill to stand without your mantle.

Peredure.
Off, strange old man! I have a poniard yet.
Off! I will kill the man that hinders me.—
Why, how it glistens in the treacherous moonlight!
Is it alive, that it should look on me
With such a haunted silence?—'T is like the gleam
Of death-fires in the cruel sea at night.—
What does it say with its cold eye?—Why, now—
God!—it comes back—that pallid room—Morgause—
How fearfully a dead man glares by moonlight!—
False, false!—O Christ!—O pitiful Virgin!—false!

[He kills himself. As he falls, Merlin bends over him in the moonlight.]
Curtain.