University of Virginia Library

UTHER PENDRAGON

When Uther ruled all England, fair Igraine
In lone Tintagil, fortress of the rock
That fronts the Western sea with sheer, grey face,
But robes its rugged shoulders with the moor,
Dwelt like a flower close-creviced in a crag,
Secure, and shielded by her husband's love
From all the stormy quarrels of the time.
For though wise Merlin (grown so wintry old
That none alive had seen his autumn days)
Was Uther's counsellor, to bring the realm
To love of common welfare, human things
Are crookéd in their growth, and oft he grieved
That Christian chivalry not yet availed
To raise the humble and subdue the proud;
And well as he discerned the approaching dawn
Of better governance, his own strange doom,
Foreknown, yet not to be avoided, hovered
Above his glad prevision, like a hawk
Whose shadow o'er a field has hushed all song.
Wherefore, because he read the heavens, and marked
How fair Igraine, by destiny of stars,
Was linked to England's welfare and the house
Of great Pendragon, he devised a feast
Of tournament, and sent twelve heralds forth,
To bid the valorous knights and virtuous dames,
Whom the King sought to honour, to the jousts
At Camelot castle; and among these, chief,
The Duke Tintagil and Igraine, his wife.
Thus Merlin strove to speed slow-footed fate.
So, at the restful season of the year,
When first reluctant Nature slips her girdle,
Disrobing slowly for her winter sleep,
The Duke, with noble knights, one sunny morn,
Escorted his fair dame across the moor
Whence rill brown rivers

The streams in the west are often stained by the peat.

to the Devon combes;
And ever, as they rode, appeared great hills,
Rounded and smooth, mysteriously grey
In distant haze, and dim, fantastic rocks,
Like ruined steeples; but no roof they saw
Till Evening set her planet, like a brooch
Of topaz, on the bosom of the sky:
Then in a leafy valley they perceived
A greenly crofted Abbey, where they found
Good welcome of the monks; and there they lodged.
But after matins, on the morrow sung,
They took their journey over acorns, mast,
And little branches strewn by some late storm,
Along the forest tracks, and crossed, beyond,
A country of fair meads, with pleasant waters
And orchards red with apples, night by night
Halting at little hostels, till they reached
The Fosse Way, paven like a street, that spanned
The river Ivel

The river Yeo was formerly called the Ivel (Yeovil being apparently the same as Yvel), as may be seen in the “Map of the county of Somerset, by Eman: Bowen” (about 1760), and in Drayton's “Polyolbion,” the third song.

: Eastward turning thence,
They heard the warder, high on Camelot's tower

That some Celtic chieftain of tribes held the district about Glastonbury against Teutonic tribes encroaching from the other side of the Mendips seems fairly historical (see vol. xxxvi of the Somersetshire Archæological and Natural History Society), and if we suppose Arthur to have been this chieftain and to have been buried at Glastonbury, it is reasonable to conclude that the great natural stronghold of Cadbury Castle, only some thirteen miles from Glastonbury, as the crow flies, was his Camelot (but see Sir Edward Strachey's account in the Globe Edition of the Morte d' Arthur, pp. xvi–xviii).

,
Blow his announcing horn, and soon beheld
The mounded castle, massive as the pile
That Gundolph built beside the Pool of Thames,
Square on a great square hill, with ramparts girt
Four-deep, and fretted with the briny gales
That blow from Severn, by the Knoll of Brent.
The gates were flung wide open in the walls,
As they approached; the King himself came forth,
With mantled knights, and ladies richly robed,
With servitors and heralds; and he gave
The greatest welcome, with the kindest words
That ever monarch spoke; with gallant mien
He handed the fair lady from her horse
And led her to the palace; in the hall
Delivering her to damsels nobly born,
Who brought her to her bower, a chamber broad,
With casements opening southward on a lawn
Set round with lilies, rosemary, and balm,
Where marble-pillared in mid-pleasance stood
An ancient sundial, with the legend graven,
“No other than the sunny hours I count”

“Horas non numero nisi serenas” is the Monkish motto translated.

:
Fit emblem of the fair Igraine herself,
Who, issuing forth in raiment gold and green,
Looped at the shoulder with a crystal clasp,
Found that the place of honour at the feast
Had been assigned her on the King's right hand.
Fast fled the joyous hours; for thither came
Her three fair daughters, and great mirth they made
One with another: first the fair Morgause,
Wife of King Lot of Orkney; next, Elaine,
Espoused to Nentres, King of Garlot; last,
Morgan, the wife of Uriens, King of Gore,
Who, for her sorceries, was named le Fay.
Fast fled the joyous hours, while minstrels sang
Of love and chivalry; fast fled the days
That followed after, while the halls were thronged
With carollers and dancers

Carols included singing and dancing; but the dancing has long since been omitted and forgotten.

, while the noise
Of music and of laughter filled the groves
And terraces, and pleachéd alleys flamed
With gay attire of gallant cavaliers,
Of comely dames and damsels. Every morn
The heralds cried, “Come forth, Sir Knights, and strive
To win your ladies' favour”; every eve
Were deeds of arms recounted, and the praise
This way and that awarded; chief to him
Who splintered most opposing spears and rode
With graceful management his eager horse,
Or bore his youth as if of sterner growth,
Or else was old and bravely bore his years.
But ever on the Duke the King bestowed
The highest honour and the first degree,
Hoping to draw him to a close accord,
Who long had stood suspect of envious mind
And hatred of all law except his own.
So merriment held rule for many a day,
And who was more contented than Igraine?
Pleased with unwonted mirth, and yet more pleased
With verdant scene and happy, sylvan sound:
The quiet meadows, with their browsing kine,
The watery vale and swarded hills, o'erswept
From morn till eve by shadows of white clouds;
Whisper of lime and poplar, or the lisp
Of rivulet, beneath the willow boughs
Telling her pebbles; melodies of joy,
Calm as far bells of blessedness, unlike
The sullen imprecation of the sea
Flung back beneath Tintagil.
Long days lapsed,
And nights moon-frosted waned; a buffeting wind,
Rising at midnight, strewed the orchard grass
With ruddy apples; ambered with cold rain
The leaves of poplars; whirled the blossoms down
From woodbine and the clambering clematis.
Then careful knight and cautious dame took horse
To reach the distant castle, abbey, grange,
Or busy town, ere winter tore the track,
Flooded the ford, or broke the crumbling bridge;
And Uther in his lonely chamber mused
On loneliness; his widowhood, his days
Declining, without comfort, with no son
To wield the sceptre after him: sad thoughts,—
Yet, like a dismal sky with lightning pierced,
Not void of brilliance; still, across the wrack
Of gathering gloom, flashed ever and anon
The face of fair Igraine.
She, loth to part
From such unwonted festal, yet desired
To please her lord, who fretted for his home;
But always Uther found some new device
To flatter patience; now a long pursuit
Of herons in the marshes, with the hawks,
The famous Camelot falcons; now to chafe
A horse undisciplined; and now to shoot
With bow and arrow at a hazel-wand:
For Uther ill dissembled that he loved,
And fair Igraine unwillingly perceived
The simple signs that warned her womanhood;
For though not falsely modest nor too proud
For honest admiration, she was fain
To keep good faith with her good lord; to whom
She opened thus her heart: “When kings dream dreams
Of love, my husband, it is time for wives
And virtuous women to keep watch and ward
Against false dealing. Do you deem me fair?
Then take me hence, and secretly, by night;
For though these bowers seem sure abodes of peace,
Yet peace dwells never in the hearts of men,
And palaces are full of secret doors,
Dungeons, and sudden deaths. You scorn my fears:
I tell you we are captives; that we sleep,
We wake, we move, we speak but under guard;
That Uther has no mind to let me leave;
While ever his hot fancy for my face
Breeds hatred of your presence. Let us go,
Before his cloudy brooding break in deed.”
Then the Duke kissed his dame and praised her wit,
And still more praised her wisdom; not averse
From proving that he little cared for kings.
Then so it chanced that Merlin thither came,
And when he saw the fair Igraine distraught,
He told her marvellous tales of former days,
When wild men roamed the land and dwelt like beasts
In dens and caverns, sallying forth to slay,
Or take wild women captive; till slow Time,
That ripens both the bane and balm of Earth,
By cold of stern necessity, by heat
Of penetrating vigour, formed the fruit
Of custom, barbarous at first, with rites
In zodiac rings of quarried stone performed,
Where on the altar, touched by dawning day,
The virgin, crowned with mystic mistletoe,
Bled to the sun propitiating life,
'Mid hymns and harpings of the bearded priests:
And thence he turned his tale to wondrous Rome,
Who lit her torches at Hellenic fires
And shook them o'er the world; her flame of war
On all the nations fell; but with it fell
The light of justice, polity and art:
So forceful was her impulse that it reached
This utmost Island, and from hill to hill
And sea to sea her legions held the land,
From Dover Down to Skiddaw's helméd horns,
From Severn Channel to the mouth of Trent;
And here and there, to dominate a vale,
To watch a river, or to guard a town,
Her chiefs built towers of square-massed masonry:
Then Christian chivalry began to rule
The hearts of men; Rome drew her borders back,
And wandering knights possessed the lonely towers,
Who built about them chambers, chapels, halls,
The stone-wrought harmony of goodly homes,
And ringed them round with ramparts and with moats.
“So was our Camelot built,” the wizard cried:
Wherewith he took the lady by the hand
And led her through the courts, until they reached
The castle keep, where quivered in the breeze
The standard of Pendragon, like a tongue
Of crimson flame; and, thither mounting, saw
All Camelot, as if painted on a chart,
Framed in fair woods and meads; and far beyond
To seaward, like a phantom of the sea,
As greenly grey as an enchanted rock,
Avelion's

The ancient name of Glastonbury.

grassy obelisk, the Tor

Glastonbury Tor, conspicuous from all sides of the district. There is a local tradition that it was a sanctuary for pilgrims.

,
Crowned with Saint Michael's Tower

Glastonbury Tor is surmounted by a tower, part of a church dedicated to St. Michael, and probably the site of a much older one.

. He touched the scene
With the quick magic of a memoried mind:
The bygone battle raged upon the hill,
The siege about the walls; the vale was filled
With armies long since dead; the mead was hidden
With the past pageant of allianced kings;
And ever through that moving tapestry
Of England's fate he wove his crafty words,
Picturing the birth of one not yet conceived,
A mighty monarch to whose throne should crowd
The knighthood of the world. Then Merlin paused,
Regardful of his listener; she was rapt
Far from his presence; till, with solemn voice,
He prophesied, “That monarch shall be born
Of Uther's house and yours”; startled she turned,
With questioning eyes; then, lightly laughing, said,
“My daughters all are wedded or betrothed”;
And Merlin, gazing long upon her face,
Saw there the unlearnt look of innocence.
“The ways of God are secret,” he replied,
“The world is like this castle, where men live
From birth to death, believing that they know
Its issues and its entries; yet the walls
Are pierced with passages and winding stairs
They never tread.”
She trembled at his words,
Building new terror on her founded fear;
And now the twilight hour began to fall,
That wooes to speech the lover's stammering lips
And coaxes children to confess their faults;
Gathering his bright-apparelled clouds, the sun
Touched with his fire the red and yellow leaves
Along the woods, kindling a myriad lamps,
That the faint airs made tremble. Waning day,
When love's tide flows and labour's ocean ebbs,
According well with Merlin's gentle mien
Of agéd wisdom, loosed Igraine's sad heart
From thrall of silence: all her dread she told
And much besought his aid; her tears enticed
His willing pity, for he knew the cause
Was not of fancy; yet he wavered long
Between his wit and wish; the nation's need
Was urgent for a child, to Uther born;
The woman rescue from dishonour asked.
But they who have most wisdom have most doubt
Of wisdom, save the fools, who have yet more;
He could discern the future, not the means
By which it comes to fruitage, and he knew
That none can plant it, but it sows itself
And climbs through darkness, with a sinuous growth;
And therefore, having in his heart great grace
Toward women in distress, and half amused
To watch where devious destiny might lead,
He granted her desire and showed a way
So simple, to elude the King's design,
That she was fain to laugh amid her tears.
Then who so gay as she? Or who so glad
As those who felt the permeance of her joy,
That radiance of the spirit, whose rare beam
Can fructify the mirth of men, that lies
Shrouded like millet in a mummy's hand?
Seeing her steadfast in her mood of smiles,
Uther set purple sails upon his ship
Of passion, fancying the breeze was fair,
The voyage nearly done; but mortal dreams
Are ofttimes shattered by the dreams of God.
A moonless night of roaming wind, that stirred
The figured arras and made watch-dogs bark,
Ceding to tardy dawn, with slow consent,
Dominion of wan waters and blurred hills,
Wailed to the slumbering King, with sobs of rain,
“Up, up! Your love has fled! Igraine has fled!
Igraine has fled! Up, up! Your love has fled!”
Who, starting from his couch, as if he heard
A call to arms, before his waking thought
Had dulled the insistent echo in his ears,
Sent to the Duke a message; empty words
Of horse or hound or hawk; his anxious heart
One answer hoped, which all his questions asked.
Meanwhile, like lovers from harsh parents fled,
The Duke and his fair dame had ridden long leagues
In guidance of a forester, purveyed
By Merlin's care; following an ancient road
That wound among the hills, until they reached
The Abbey of the Ford upon the Axe,
And thence retraced their journey, day by day,
Across the Tamar to the Cornish coast:
Nor ever was a mariner more glad
Of harbour than the lady of her home,—
Her home, though stern, yet touched with fairy light,
A faint reflection from the opal sea.
The greyhound that came fawning at her feet,
The first to welcome her; the Seneschal,
With grizzled head and beard that wagged for joy;
The kerchiefed maidens, curtseying in a row;
Her favourite falcon, and the capering Fool,
Rewarded for brave jesting, but beloved
For staunch fidelity: how fair they seemed,
How well-nigh sacred! So to pious eyes
Change is the foil that makes dull custom shine
With surer guidance and with brighter hope:
Even the ominous moan of ocean made
No mournful music in her heart; the surge
Of billows constant on the ledgéd rocks
Betokened to her thought the law benign
Of life obedient to an ordered course.
But who shall paint the fury and dismay
Of Uther, when he found his bird of love
Had fled his bowery cage? Offended pride
And fear of ridicule and thwarted lust
Bred fever in his veins; sleep left his lids,
His nostrils loathed the savour of all meats,
He cursed the night and morning, and he lay
Stricken, as one diseased; for grieving care
Defies the skill of leech-craft; like a worm,
Housed in the grey mid-chamber of the fruit,
It gnaws the vital knot, till all be loosed.
So fared the King, by whispering women doomed
To shed his life with falling of the leaf;
And so, unhelped of anguish of the brain,
He might have perished in an autumn sleep,
When wood and garth were swooning in chill mist;
But Merlin knew the sickness and the cause;
Though vanished from the knowledge of men's eyes,
Sought vainly, far and near, and oft reviled
As niggard of his wisdom or a churl
Of Christian charity, he had not passed
The walls of Camelot, but in magic guise,
The semblance of a kitchen knave, had mixed
With serving-maids and scullions; rustic folk
Who to and fro their occupation plied,
With petty merchandise; and ancient crones,
Reputed skilled in herbs remedial, culled
With moonlight incantation.
Merlin heard
Their tossing talk and smiled, as smile he may
Who tracks the rill of knowledge to the lake
Of patient understanding and there dwells.
But soon as he perceived the favouring hour,
In proper semblance to the King he came,
Who, lying on a couch, with languid eyes
Gazed at vague distance. Standing there awhile,
Silent, the King regarding not, he spoke,
Unheedful of the courtier mode (himself
Monarch, 'tis said, of vaster realms unseen):
“Not thus, my lord, in former days, you bore
The contradiction of untoward chance;
Not thus to brook an insult you were wont.
Where is the courage that so oft in war
Was proven? Where the wisdom that so oft
Directed war? You were not apt to cower
Beneath a slight, and cry the moon to help you;
Spear, sword, and shield were used to be the charm
To chase away infirmity. Your guest
Has cast a scorn upon you; will you lie
Abashed and let him laugh? Your comrades chafe,
Like fiery horses champing on the curb;
Your men-at-arms bite lips and look askance;
The very wenches in your kitchen pelt
A clout with crusts and call it rascal Duke.
Arouse, my lord! Arise, and get you armed!
Leap to your saddle, set your spear in rest,
Lay siege about Tintagil! Honour smiles
Beside the Cornish sea; in Camelot, mewed
In moist remorse of summer's thoughtless revel,
Your own heart mocks you. Better cause of war
Was never fancied than a guest's repulse
Of hospitality. Revenge alone
Can suck the poison from the wound of pride.”
The King was comforted; he clutched the cord
So deftly lowered to the sullen pit
Of ineffectual rage wherein he pined;
He spoke of means and methods for the war,
The number of his knights, their rank and power,
And how to summon them and where to meet,
With many such appointments; Merlin gave
For every care sage counsel; from his wit
Nothing was hidden; from his craft no bolts
Could bar a secret. When, at last dismissed
From converse, he had left the King resolved
To levy retribution for his pain,
He laughed aloud, assured that England's welfare
Was planted firmly, like a sapling tree
To sprout, to branch, to blossom, and to seed.
So, in a while, before Tintagil, high
Embattled between main and moor, encamped
The royal host, and like a crescent lay
Across the torrent in the chine that cleaves
The marsh-land from the coast; the Southern horn
Upon a windy parapet of cliff,
The Northern on that inlet of the tide
To which the gorge descends; and toward the West,
In blind alliance with the landward watch,
The void, inveterate sea fierce leaguer held
Along the unshelving rock; all ways were closed.
Howbeit the Duke, of Uther's malice warned,
Had stuffed his granaries full and scorned attack,
As eagle in an eyrie may despise
The fox that creeps below. But winter clothed
Hill, plain, and hollow with the slumber-gown
Of feathery snow, and still the royal spears
Were serried round the castle, like a hedge
Impossible to leap. Then certain knights
Came to the Duke and said, “We do not starve
For food, but yet for fighting we are starved;
To eat, to drink, to sleep are not our duty,
Nor yet our pleasure; pray, my lord, enlarge
The limit of our arms, and by surprise
Or plain encounter pierce this idle siege
Or mark it with our name.”
“'Tis nobly said,”
The Duke replied, “and shall be nobly done.”
Therewith he called his captains of array,
And long debate they held of martial craft;
Till from contention, honest in desire,
A common purpose flashed: to issue forth
From privy postern, silent, without sound,
Across the muffling snow, while no moon shone,
And falling on the host at streak of dawn
Distress them all they might. But one foul knave
Is found in every castle, one false friend
In every council; though in after days
When Merlin loomed gigantic in the midst
Of long tradition, like the spectral shape
By hunter seen, huge shadow of himself,
On mid-Thuringian mountain, men averred
'Twas he who warned the King: by this or that,
Or else by mocking chance, the Duke was foiled;
For when his knights had stolen with creeping steps
Within a bow-shot of the camp, and paused,
To watch the sky for signal of the sun,
Soon as the first diffusion of faint light
Touched the grey tents, a trumpet, suddenly blown
Beside the King's pavilion, sounded clear,
As when a brave, loud thrush in budding woods
Gives challenge to his rivals, who reply
With notes as jealous; like whose jealous notes,
The call to arms imperatively rang
Repeated from the limits of the siege.
Then straight a thousand knights from ambush leaped,
With brandished swords, and falling on the men
Who thought to make amazement, but themselves
Amazement found, they smote them with such might
That down the hill they reeled; but when the slope
Reversely rising gave them vantage ground,
The Duke himself a hundred warriors led,
The trusty war-dogs of a hundred fields,
To stem the main attack; meanwhile the rest,
By rallying voice and brave example cheered,
Regained their courage, and the conflict closed,
With battle-cries, with clash of blade on blade,
And groans of wounded men. Then writhed and swayed
The mingled hosts, like serpents intertwined
In deadly struggle, and the trampled snow
Was stained with blood, beneath a blood-red sun,
That glowed as if in wrath, 'mid burdened clouds.
Few would have lived to see that sun go down,
Except the King had marked where bravely fought
The Duke Tintagil, in the foremost press
Leading his knights, and how at last he fell,
Smitten by stroke at hazard, and his friends,
Sir Brastias and Sir Jordan, who in war
Were ever by his side, nor yet in peace
Were distant from his counsels, like staunch hounds
Guarding their master's corse from vultures, stood
Making a flame about him with their swords;
For then was Uther's anger overpast,
And sorrowful for sorrow dealt, he bade
His trumpeters and heralds sound the notes
That hunters used to wind upon their horns
Exultingly, in Selwood

This ancient forest was of great extent, all round Warminster. It is now chiefly represented by Longleat Park.

or the glades
Of Neroche

Ilminster was the centre of this forest.

forest, when the stag had bowed
His antlered head and looked his last, with eyes
Not understanding, on the happy woods.
Across the downs that signal of the chase
Sounded, as strangely as a reveller's laugh
Amid a solemn, sacrificial rite,
And Death, arrested, listened; foe on foe
Gazing astonished, with uplifted sword,
In act to strike forbore, and drooped the brand
Reluctant to the earth; the strife was stayed;
The wounded raised themselves and some that seemed
Unwounded fell: then, for a space, unbroken
Were silence of the winter and the hush
Of multitudes expectant; all was still,
Except the sea, that, like an outcast, driven
Beyond the city gates, who moans and beats
The bars forbidding, beat the rocks and moaned.
But soon a whisper, like a shudder, ran
From host to host and each from each withdrew;
For now the body of the Duke was borne
Amid his trailéd banners up the hill,
Watched by the saddened eyes of friend and foe;
And when the gates of great Tintagil closed
On their slain lord, desire of combat failed
In fiercest hearts, for pity of that sight:
Then were the wounded men to leech-craft helped,
And each array, to castle or to camp,
On either hand retired; the dead alone
Possessed the field of battle, when the sun
Sullenly sank behind his rampéd clouds.
At early morn King Uther homeward rode;
The path was perilous with snow and ice,
The foothold false; yet little heed he took,
But loosed the bridle on his horse's neck
And let him choose; who, bending low his head,
Snuffed at the snow, as he would danger scent,
And safely picked his road. The clouds were blown
Far to the South, in twisted columns, white
As bergs impending over Arctic seas;
The sun with hard, cold brilliance lit the land;
And Uther, staring on the blanchéd fields,
Saw ever floating in a scarlet mist
A fair, sad face, disfigured by slow tears,
Accusing him; and in his heart he thought
To cast the blame on Merlin, when he reached
The joyless chambers of his widowed state,
But found him not; and so the time passed on
Till hazels hung their catkins in the copse
And daffodils with yellow streaked the mead.
For Merlin on the terrace of a cliff
Long since gnawn down by waves, and overgrown
With salt-wort and wind-grasses and sea-reeds,
Beside Tintagil dwelt, where some recluse
Had built of planks from storm-tormented ships
A little hut, with heath and heather roofed;
For well he knew that fair Igraine was wont
To wander there, conversing with her woe;
And thither, as he sate upon the bench
Beside the door and listened to the murmur,
The murmur like a multitude of voices,
Of slowly-moving billows far below,
One sunny morn she came; and stretching arms
Of supplication, seeing him, she cried,
“O Merlin, tell me what my misery means!”
Who greeted her, in reverence of her tears,
With simple consolation of grave words:
“Our little life is like a fleck of foam
Across the waves by wild winds wastefully driven;
But yet those waters are no wandering waste,
Except to foolish eyes that nought perceive
Save that half-moon of weltering surface. Rain,
Bright giver of the green of woods and meadows,
Bright giver of the gold of wheaten harvest,
Bright giver of the hues of flower and fruit,—
Sweet rain is offspring of the bitter sea
And emblem of the promise born of sorrow.”
By natural comfort soothed, her heart grew calm,
As passionate Earth grows calm at Evening's touch;
And day by day thereafter, save when storm
Lashed on the coast, or void dismay of mist
Confounded sea with sky and masked the land,
The fair-haired woman and her ancient friend,
In grassy hollow or in sandy cove
O'erstrewn with shell-encrusted rocks, discoursed
Till twilight bade them look upon the stars.
But Merlin linked his lesson to the need
Of England, that in wedlock should be born
A son to Uther, lest the realm should rive
As rives a rock from fierce frost suddenly loosed;
Till by his artful, overmastering might
A vision was engendered in her mind
Of one in regal robes, a goodly youth,
Crowned with a golden crown, with dragons chased,
Girt with the jewelled scabbard of a sword,
A mighty sword, which in his hand he held,
And thus he cried: “Fair mother, you have made
This little land the greatest upon Earth.”
When Merlin saw that she conceived that dream,
To Camelot, to the gloomy King, he sped,
Who wandered, like a ghost, in empty halls,
Loathing the sunshine and the mated birds,
And thus he spoke: “My lord, when you shall wed
The fair Igraine, I claim my just reward.”
“How shall I wed her?” cried the King, in wrath;
“Your only skill has been to wrap her round
With blackness of sore sorrow; how shall love
Pierce to a heart so armoured with hard woe?”
“Right well she loved her lord,” the sage replied,
“Yet on the Gospels will I make my vow
That she will fail not of your full desire,
If you will grant me mine.” Then Uther said,
“I know that only by your aid my hope
Can be accomplished; wherefore, when you bring
The lady of Tintagil for my bride,
Without enchantment, of her own free choice,
Save what pertains to honour and the throne
You shall receive whatever wage you will.”
But Merlin smiled: “The world is little worth
To one who follows wisdom, at the cost
Of all that men call pleasure; if I crave
Reward for knowledge, by such patience won,
I crave it for your welfare, not my own.”
Then he foretold the deeds and marvellous days
Of Uther's destined son; his long pursuit
Of justice and of truth; the Holy Quest
That he should institute; and like far hills,
Radiant in sunset as a promised land,
The future caught a splendour from his words.
So all was done as he devised; six knights,
Well exercised in courtly compliment,
And bearing costly gifts (for well he knew
The hearts of women and their small, deep thoughts),
Were charged by him with nuptial embassage,
And, while the wind-flower wavered in the copse,
And the black sloe was wreathed with blossoms white,
Took journey to Tintagil. So it chanced,
One mid-day, that they rested near a wood,
Upon a hill-side; overhead, a lark
Poured the pure passion of his perfect song,
Incomprehensible to men—to angels
A speech familiar of the voice divine—
While Earth, impregnate with her flowers and herbs,
Frail blossoms and the glory of great trees,
Lay laughing, listening, stretching out her arms
To draw her minstrel out of heaven; afraid
Lest floating sunward he be lost for ever,
Merged in immortal harmony: but soon
Back to her happy breast he swiftly fell.
Then took a knight his lute and softly sang:
Then said a knight, “How happy is the world
To happy hearts”; to him another cried,
“Hearts are not happy save with happy mates”;
To him another, “Happy mates are few”;
Laughing, they got to horse, and when they came
To lone Tintagil, fortress of the rock,
Where scarce the nesting raven wins a ledge,
Found all for their contentment well ordained;
But not the mistress of the feast they found,
Till, summoned to present the royal suit
Next day at noon, they bent the reverent knee,
As if already to their Queen they bowed.
She stood upon the daïs in the hall,
Surrounded by her maidens, robed in black,
And o'er the blackness of the robes, her face
Pale as a vision of the Virgin shone;
And thus she made her answer: “Noble sirs,
I am but little skilled in courtly words;
I cannot speak but only as I feel.
My home is desolate; the grave and I
Are well acquainted; and to spend my days
Beside the mighty, melancholy sea,
Remote, remembering, well consorts with sorrow.
Yet Merlin vowed that I should bear a son
Famous in peace and fortunate in war,
A giver of just laws, destined to leave
An honoured name, memorial on the Earth
Of one in high endeavour not ashamed:
What woman would be boastful not to wed,
Assured of such a son? I seem to hear him
Cry for my bosom, and my motherhood
Cries for his sucking lips. O noble sirs,
If such an answer will content the King,—
I fear 'tis little; but 'tis all I can.”
Then took the knights their courteous leave and bore
That message to the King, who pondered long
Its dubious meaning; for he scorned to wed
With one who loved him not; and so the year
Wore on to Pentecost.
Now Uther kept
A custom on that feast-day, after mass,
To look for some adventure or some sport
Savouring of honest mirth; and as he sat
With all his lords about him, in the hall
At Camelot, waiting, as his custom was,
An old man entered, in a mantle green
And ermine-edged, leading a little hound,
And in his other hand he bore an anchor,
Which down he cast and thereto with a cord
Tethered the whimpering creature. Then red sparks
Came forth upon the anchor, flashing, fading,
As oft they flash and fade upon the bricks
Behind the housewife's hearth, on winter nights,
When fires burn molten; and they formed themselves
Into the legend “Pride.” Meanwhile the hound
Was straining at the cord and ever whined
To come to Uther; and the King was moved
And bade the old man loose it; but he said,
“Not so, my liege, the cord itself is proud
And cannot be unknotted, save by you.”
Then Uther rose and set the brachet free,
Who fawned caressingly about his feet,
(And afterwards he gave it to the Queen,
Who loved it dearly); so the man departed
And bore the anchor with him. Uther mused:
But presently he laughed and cried, “'Twas Merlin,
Although my bodily eyes discerned him not,
Like those we never love, until they die.”
Then said the knights, “But what did Merlin mean?”
And Uther laughed again; “The parable
Was not for you,” he said, “but me alone.”
Then secretly that night he took his horse
And rode with trusted knights, but only two,
To lone Tintagil, stronghold of the rock
Whose stony casket held so bright a gem:
And whether fair Igraine were glad or sorry
Nor he nor she nor any soul might know;
But, for these little days of little leisure,
'Twere overlong to tell the long debate
Between those twain, until they were agreed,
Or sing the splendour of their marriage day,
When banners under-canopied the cope
Of heaven with flapping flame, and clashing bells
Made gladness vibrate from a hundred towers.
But when the feast was ended, Merlin came
To Uther privily, and thus he spoke:
“My lord, the longing of your heart fulfilled
Gives me clear title to the promised boon,
Which now I claim. Your false step-daughter, Morgan,
Intends to seize the sceptre for her son,
Soon as your days are ended; and she vows
Destruction to your child, in season due
Now to be born, Pendragon's princely heir;
Which well she may accomplish, when I die;
Wherefore I pray that when the babe is born
He be delivered to me, by secret hands,
In some appointed place; that I may bear him
To good Sir Ector's lady, to be nourished
With her own child, and, when he comes to years,
To be instructed in the Christian creed
And knightly manner: there shall he be safe
From Morgan's malice, till I see my time
To make his birthright known and ratified
By all the people's choice.”
By such like words,
Foreseeing days of turbulence and trouble,
When Uther's might had vanished in the grave,
He won the King's consent, and all was done
As he devised; at Christmas, holiest night
Of all the year, the new-born babe was wrapped
In cloth of gold, and Merlin carried him
To the fair bosom of Sir Ector's dame,
Where soon he lay a-laughing; and the wizard
Muttered beneath his beard, “The human whelp
Is no more human than the fox's cub;
So he be warm and suckled, all is well;”
But the good dame o'erheard him and replied,
“Nay, nay, not so; for if the milk be sour
The child will grow up sour; but mine is sweet.”
And Merlin said, “I would that I were he;
My mother's milk was sour and made me wise.”
But whether fair Igraine fell pining sick,
Bereft of her sweet babe, without complaint
Suffering, submissive to her husband's will,
Or whether in her heart she heard the voice
Of her dead lord, whom first she loved, now lonely
And vagrant, in a land of shadows lost,—
Whate'er the cause unchronicled, she felt
Her body drawing downward to its rest;
Wherefore she caused the child to be baptized
And named him Arthur; but no other way
Might for herself be found but she must die;
And grievous lamentation filled the land.
But how the fair prince flourished and was known
By his achievement of the magic sword,
And how wise Merlin was entombed alive,
With all the desperate love of Guenevere
And its cold close, let modest Verse relate,
Attempting lofty themes, not without aid
Nor yet impossible, if Fancy help,
Chartering our eyes, to picture castles, halls,
Great concourse of gay ladies, hosts of war,
And all the to and fro of large affairs;
And to imagine in a little space
Long sequences, a nation's small beginning,
Its happy burgeoning, and sad decay.

MERLIN

CHARACTERS

• Merlin ..... A magician
• King Lot .... King of Orkney, and father of Gawain by Morgause, half-sister to Arthur.
• Gawain ..... Son of King Lot, and nephew to Arthur.
• Mordred .... Son of Morgan le Fay and nephew to Arthur.
• Arthur ..... Son of the late Queen Igraine by her second husband, Uther Pendragon, King of England; but reputed son of Sir Ector.
• Sir Ector .... Father of Kay.
• Sir Pellinore .. Captain of Morgan's forces.
• Kay ....... Son of Ector.
• The Archbishop of Canterbury.
• Morgan Le Fay .. An enchantress, mother of Mordred and half-sister to Arthur.
• Guenevere .... Daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cameliard.
• Nivian ..... A Saracen dancing-girl.

ACT I

Scene.—Outside the east end of St. Paul's Church in London, before dawn. The church lit up, and chanting heard within. Near the wall of the church a block of marble, with a jewelled sword, to which a scroll is attached, imbedded in it up to the hilt.
Time.—Christmas Day.
Merlin enters, as day begins to break.
Merlin.
Hail, mystic morn!
Whereon the King was born,
To whom these churchmen chant their holy psalms.
Hail, mystic morn!
And ere thy day be done,
Oh, crown my labour! Crown Pendragon's son!
Let all the listening land
Ring with the name of Arthur, and the world
Ring with the fame of England's fair renown!

Nivian enters as the sun rises.
Nivian.

Caxton prints the name Nymue and Nynyue; in the Globe edition it appears as Nimue; in the French Romance it is Viviana. There are several versions of the story, but I have no authority for mine. Saracen knights are often mentioned by Malory (see Bk. vii, ch. 13), and therefore there is no dramatic unlikelihood in supposing the presence of Saracen girls.

Merlin, my master!

Merlin.
Who are you that call?

Nivian.
Your maiden, Nivian; she who weaves the dance,
Enticing from their caves the squeaking gnomes,
That you may rob them of their hoarded gold.

Merlin.
Why come you hither?

Nivian.
Is King Uther dead?

Merlin.
Yes, he is dead.

Nivian.
And have the lords and knights
Assembled here, another king to choose?

Merlin.
Yes, when the Mass is ended.

Nivian.
(imploring).
Then redeem
The promise oft to my impatience pledged,
To grant me freedom from your magic thrall
And freedom to my sisters of the dance,
Whenever by your craft the rightful heir
Should mount the throne of England.

Merlin.
No, not yet!
I need more treasure; for the King died childless,
So all men fancy; and his false step-daughter,
Morgan le Fay, a necromantic clerk,
Whose skill in magic has no match but mine,
Intends to seize the sceptre for her son.
How will she breathe out malice, when 'tis proven
That Uther left a true-begotten heir!
What war will then be waged! What gold be wanted!
I cannot let you go.

Nivian.
(rebellious).
I'll dance no more;
No more be puppet of your tyrant art,
No longer pine upon your pleasureless isle!
The sunshine calls me hence, across the sea!

Merlin
(menacing).
Back to the forest, back, rebellious child!
And see that all is ordered, when I come,
For strong enchantment of the gnomes. Begone!
Or else take heed I double not your toil.

[She shrinks away.
Nivian
(aside).
Ah, what a doom! Bound by a sorcerer's chain,
To wither in this kingdom fierce and frore!
How do they beckon me, my Eastern skies!
My Eastern skies and groves of golden fruit!

[She goes out.
It is now broad daylight. Nobles, Knights, and Men-at-Arms enter from the church; then Lot, with Gawain, attended by Knights; Morgan le Fay, with Mordred, attended; Ector and Pellinore; followed by Monks in procession, with the Archbishop of Canterbury, chanting.
[The Archbishop, with the Monks, takes his place on one side of the magic sword; Merlin, with Ector, Lot, Gawain, and Knights on the other. Morgan le Fay, Mordred, and their Knights stand apart.
Merlin.
My lords and gentlemen-at-arms, too long
The realm has stood in jeopardy, confused,
Since good King Uther died, with lapse of law,
With violence and hurt of humble folk,
Since many men imagined in their pride
To seize the sceptre when occasion served;
And therefore, as our ancient custom bids,
That this unpeaceful and unprosperous time
May cease, my lord of Canterbury summoned
Nobles and Commons, on this sacred day
And in this sacred place, a King to choose.

Arch.
Long have I prayed, with penance, fast, and vigil,
That he who at this holy tide vouchsafed
To lead the Persian monarchs by a star,
Would deign to show some miracle or sign,
Setting his seal upon the man appointed
To rule this kingdom after Uther's death.
When, yester eve, I knelt before the altar,
Pleading for heavenly guidance, I perceived
The peace unspeakable of answered prayer
Fall softly on my soul as summer rain;
Refreshed with comfort long deferred, I rose,
And, homeward wending, I beheld this sword
Flash, like a proclamation of God's grace,
Its happy message to a land perplexed:
The hilt, inlaid with precious stones, declares
The name Excalibur; and thus the scroll
Presents the promise of our doubts resolved:
“Who from this anvil draws the brand
Is rightwise King of all the land.” [Murmurs in the assembly.

Beseech you let your memories stretch their gaze
Across the traversed spaces of the past,
To view again the spousals of the King
With fair Igraine. With pageantry she moves,
Proceeding beneath banners; two bright boys,
Holding her train, attend her stately steps,
Sons of the daughters whom she bore the Duke
Tintagil, her first lord; the same to-day,
Gawain and Mordred, grown to stalwart youth,
Here make their several claims to England's crown;
And if it be your will that they submit
To this ordeal, shall now the sword assay.

Lot.
None stands so near the throne as this my son
Gawain, the eldest grandson of Igraine.
Yet if you will that we accept this token
Of heavenly favour, he shall pluck the brand
Forth of the scabbard stone; for well I wot
God's purpose set it there, to prove the right.

Knights.
Let him assay Excalibur!

Morgan.
Ye fools!
A simple priest is easily ensnared,
But hardy men, expert in wiles of war,
In statecraft, and the councils of the wise,
With what strange folly are they smitten, to look
On common magic, wrought by Merlin's craft,
And fancy they behold a work of God?

Arch.
Too harshly does the lady Morgan charge
Our venerable Merlin, Uther's friend
And counsellor, the ministering man
Of all the nation's need, with foul intent
This great assembly to deceive. No fiend
Infests the marble anvil; it was tried
By holy water, holy adjuration,
And symbols of the Sangreal; it was found
Without reproach of darkness; like a star,
Lit for God's glory and the people's hope.

Knights.
Let Gawain assay Excalibur!

Gawain
(coming forward).
I will!

Lot.
Try it, my son, God trusting.

Gawain.
Hand and heart
I trust; the power to will, the strength to do.

Knights.
Gawain or Orkney! Gawain, assay, assay!

[He wrenches at the sword violently, in vain.
Gawain.
It knows not Gawain; 'tis a sword for churls,
Fit to be worn by foresters and scullions;
A goodly knife to carve a sheep for supper
Or chop up wood withal; a base-wrought blade!

Mordred.
Nay, 'tis a prize that shall befall to wit,
Not to broad shoulders or a brawny thigh;
He who can match his wisdom with the sword,
Shall win it; for there's wisdom in the sword.

[He advances towards it.
Knights.
Mordred, assay, assay!

Morgan
(arresting him).
My son, forbear!
That weapon was not made for you to wield;
Yon haughty wizard smiles beneath his beard
To see your crude impatience and young haste
Oppose his veteran purpose. Stay! You need
No weapon of a keener edge, to cleave
Your passage to the purple, than my skill.

Mordred.
Your skill will not be less, if I attempt;
If I refrain, another may succeed;
That should we both repent.

Morgan.
But if you fail,
No more you are a fruit-tree bearing blossom,
But one by frost deflowered.

Mordred.
If I fail,
Our invocation still may be to war.

Knights.
Mordred, assay, assay!

[He tries to pull out the sword, but in vain.
Mordred.
It will not stir.

Knights.
Venture your fortune twice!

[He tries again, vainly.
Mordred.
It will not stir.
'Tis vain to strive against a sorcerer's craft.

Morgan.
Why did you scorn my counsel? Lo, the shadow
Upon the dial of fate is backward turned
Many degrees, and Merlin scorns us both!

Arch.
Who can have reasonable hope to move
This oracle of destiny to speak,
Since these have failed, the grandsons of Igraine?
Yet if a man be here, of hardy heart,
And having intimation in himself
Of sovereign quality, let no false shame
Prevent his courage; for the nation waits
With outstretched arms, expectant of the sign. [No one comes forward.

Since no one here is present whom the voice
Of secret admonition, heard in souls
Pleasing to God, impels, let trusty knights
Be set about the stone, that none approach;
And while the jousts proceed, let heralds cry
Announcement of the marvel, that no means
Be left untried to find the man we seek.

Knights.
Agreed, agreed!

Merlin.
Sir Pellinore, approved
In many a battle for King Uther fought,
And you, Sir Ector, Uther's faithful friend,
Pray take this charge; such worthy twain suffice.

Arch.
(to the Monks).
Let us depart, to cast before the throne
Of which all earthly thrones are images
Petitions more importunate: no food
Shall pass our lips until our souls are filled
With consummation of this great event.

[The two Knights take station by the sword. Trumpets sound without, and four Heralds enter, as the Archbishop and Monks pass into the church.
Heralds.
Gentle knights, the lists await ye!
Prove your prowess, win the prize!
Hear, oh hear, what we relate ye!
Tilt before your ladies' eyes!

[Trumpets sound as the assembly goes out.
Ector.
Sir Pellinore, I fear that if we two
Were left to choose a monarch, we should fight.

Pell.
With all my heart, if splintering spears could raise
A son to dead Pendragon.

Ector.
Yet you lead
An army for Queen Morgan.

Pell.
That is true;
But yet I love her not.

Ector.
They say she deals
In many dark enchantments.

Pell.
(looking round).
Hush! Beware!

Ector.
Yet Merlin shall outwit her.

Pell.
Be it so,
If he can raise a son to dead Pendragon.

Ector.
I cherish hope.

Pell.
You found on shifting sand;
You have heard rumours of an heir concealed;
I never give them credence; as in war,
I never trust the gossip of the host.

Ector.
Yet hope I cherish.

Pell.
Have you surer ground?

[They pace up and down, conversing. Arthur and Kay enter, as if going to the tourney.
Arthur.
Would we were knights!

Kay.
And when we are, we'll break
Our first spears on each other.

Arthur.
So we will!
I see it all: the lists, the ladies' robes,
The King high-seated, and the armour flashing;
Soon as we enter, will the trumpets sound,
The heralds cry the onset; and we two,
Encountering in the midst, so well acquit us,
That first they'll shout “Sir Kay,” and then “Sir Arthur.”

Kay.
No, they will shout “Sir Arthur and Sir Kay”;
For you have gathered, from some former strain
Before our father's blood, a royal mien
And management that are not bred in me. [Arthur lingers.

Why, Arthur, will you loiter? We shall lose
The opening of the lists, the great array.

Arthur.
I've left my sword behind.

Kay.
What matters that?
You shall have mine.

Arthur.
Dear Kay, you're always gentle.
But I will fetch my own and overtake you. [He turns to go back and sees Excalibur.

See, yonder is a sword! How strange it looks!
An ancient one, perchance; but yet 'twill serve.

[He goes quickly towards it.
Pell.
How now, bold boy? Go home and grow a beard!

[Arthur takes no notice.
Ector.
Be ruled, my son.

Arthur.
By your desire, I would,
My father; but no stranger knight shall school me.

[He evades them, pulls out the sword, and brings it to Kay.
Pell.
A marvellous sight!

Ector.
I marvel not.

Arthur.
(to Kay).
How keen
And true the blade!

Kay.
What jewels gem the hilt!

Arthur.
Here are some words enscrolled.

[They read the scroll.
Pell.
(to Ector).
Is that your son?

Ector.
He has been so esteemed; but I will answer
To all estates that hither are convened,
If you will bear these tidings to King Lot.

Pell.
And to the lady Morgan; so I will,
Gladly and with despatch; no mightier message
Did ever interrupt a gallant game.

[He goes out.
Ector.
(coming down).
The crown is won!
All hail, King Arthur, hail! (To Kay)

Kneel, kneel, my son.

[They kneel before Arthur.
Arthur.
Nay, father, brother, rise!

Ector.
Not so, my lord; you are not of my blood;
For well I deem you come of royal line.

Arthur.
Then why conceal my lineage?

Ector.
Merlin knows;
For he it was that brought you to my house,
A new-born infant; yet I crave your pardon
That rightful knowledge was so long denied.

Arthur.
Pardon you have. [Arthur raises them.

But, oh, unhappy fate! [He regards the sword sorrowfully.

O dolorous blade! By you is severance wrought
Between three hearts' delight! [He casts it from him.

Go, carve the helms
Of kings and princes; in the foremost fray
Or midmost of the medley rive your road
In faméd battlefields; a thousand realms
Shear of their sovereignty; nor let your edge
Be baulked of office, till you slay the worm
That cankers the world's justice: but no more,
Bite as you may, no more will you divide
So cruelly, so close, as now you do!

[He covers his face with his hands. Ector takes up the sword. The assembly re-enters; then the Archbishop with the Monks.
[The Book of the Four Evangelists is opened before Ector and Pellinore. Arthur, roused from his sorrow, finds himself standing alone in the centre of the assembly. Ector and Pellinore lay their right hands on the book.
Arch.
Now on the Four Evangelists shall you,
Who had in knightly charge to keep the sword,
Take solemn oath, not swerving from the truth,
Of how you failed in that your promised care.

Pell.
Witness my oath that yonder stripling ran,
Avoiding us, and like a boy at play,
As lightly as a lady plucks a brooch
Out of her mantle, he drew forth the sword.

Ector.
I swear the like.

Arch.
(to Ector).
Have you no more to say?
He is your son.

Ector.
Alas, no son of mine!

Morgan.
A bastard boy, belike!

[Murmurs.
Merlin.
Most noble sirs,
And all assembled here this happy day,
I pray your patience. Uther did not die
Childless, as fame reports. [Murmurs.

Nine marriage moons
Brought his fair Queen to birth-bed and to death:
But knowing well the peril of her babe
From men's ambition, and yet more from women's,
She caused him to be wrapped in cloth of gold
And privily brought to me.

Morgan.
A juggler's trick!
A still-born infant, or perchance a doll!

Merlin.
I bore him to Sir Ector—

Ector.
And my wife
Nourished and nurtured him with Kay, our son;
And as we loved him, so he throve and grew;
And as his mother named him, he was christened.

Merlin.
His name is Arthur, and he stands before you,
The champion of the sword, the son of Uther:
All hail, King Arthur!

Knights.
Hail, King Arthur, hail!

[Acclaim and flourish of trumpets. Ector presents the sword to Arthur, who receives it reluctantly.
Lot.
Now let us push away our pride, and cherish
The pride of England only. Let the sign
Of this achievement and the royal birth
Attested by these honourable knights
Compel our homage.

Morgan.
Are you mad or jesting?
Will you commend a bastard to our choice?
Or else a thing begotten and born of devils?

Arch.
Peace, peace, proud woman!

Morgan.
'Twere a wanton peace;
And proud I am—too proud for such a peace:
To palter and to parley with a lie
Is not my nature; for this wizard's lie
Imposes not on me: his spells are vain
As wandering wind, his incantations vain
As children's prattle; all his arrows fall
Shattered against my shield, as well he knows.
Now let him do his worst, and I'll do mine.
Defiance! Let him write it on his brow
And in his heart. Defiance! Let the sound
Knell in his ears; because I'll turn the word
To deadly deed, and set the passing-bell
Ringing in every hamlet in the land,
Ere to this bastard boy I bend the knee. (To her Knights)

What say you, sirs? More honourable work
Awaits you than to crown a sorcerer's imp.

Pell.
Our duty is with you, and if you cry
Defiance, all your host will cry the same.

Morgan's Knights.
Defiance! Defiance!

Other Knights.
Allegiance to King Arthur!

[The rival factions threaten each other with drawn swords, Arthur's party including Lot and his Knights. The Archbishop and the Monks come down between them.
Arch.
Morgan le Fay, Queen of the land of Gore,
I warn you, in the name of Him I serve,
That if you shed this people's blood, and bring
The sword, the famine, and the pestilence
Upon this people, you shall answer for it
In the great day of judgment.

Morgan.
Be it so;
And you, proud priest, shall answer for your tricks,
Your rogueries, your counterfeits, your lies!
I'd rather answer for a sea of blood
Than for one villainous lie: some blood is cleansing;
But what can wash the filthy stain of lying? (To her Knights)

So, friends, the parley's ended; let the assault
Be now delivered, and our battle-cry
Be “Mordred and defiance!” So lead on.

[They go out clamorously.
[Arthur kneels before the Archbishop, with the sword laid along his outstretched hands. The Archbishop raises his hand in the attitude of blessing. Arthur rises and brandishes the sword on high.

ACT II

Scene.—A hall in Camelot Castle. On one side a throne; on another, a crucifix.
Time.—Eastertide, the following year.
Arthur enters and kneels a moment before the crucifix.
Arthur.
My realm is like a ship to leeward driven,
Reeling to iron rocks. O flaming homes,
O cry of children fatherless and famished,
O ravage, ruin, inundating blood,
How you accuse me! Merlin enters.

Merlin! Bring you tidings?

Merlin.
Such tidings as shall heal your wounded heart
Without a scar. The leopardess has yielded,
And captive, with her whelp, awaits her doom.

Arthur.
Morgan and Mordred captive! God be praised!
No shield but his, no shield but his avails,
And only in his strong right hand, the spear!

Merlin.
With them is Pellinore, and all his host
Is scattered in the forest. None the less,
On the past peril presses fast the new.

Arthur.
'Twas certain that the heathen Saxon horde
Would choose our season of perplexity
To hurl on us their tempest.

Merlin.
Not by them
The tempest will be hurled.

Arthur.
What mean you, then?

Merlin.
Your father owed his kingdom and his queen
To me; to me you owe your living breath
And your inheritance; to me you owe
Your maintenance in war: though not alone
The temporal strength of arms has menaced you,
But darts that fly in darkness have assailed
Invisibly your crowned, anointed person;
And who but I with unseen watchers ringed you,
To ward you from the malice of that witch,
Your sister? Who but I can thwart enchantments
So vocal and so vehement as hers
To startle the profound of demon deeps?

Arthur.
You are a marvellous man; I am not wont
To cross your will; yet vengeance is not mine,
But God's, to deal.

Merlin.
Such grace in meaner men
Wins admiration, but in kings disdain.
If you had laid your crown beside your couch,
And some soft-padding villain stretched his arm
To steal it, would you deem yourself unjust
If you had seized a sword and struck him dead?
I tell you that your sister is that thief;
Before she set your crown on Mordred's brow,
Strike, strike, I say!

Arthur.
In God I put my trust;
He will not disappoint me of my hope.

[Trumpets sound without.
Merlin.
Your council is convened, that all may hear
From your own lips this triumph.

Arthur.
Bid them enter.

[He pauses in prayer before the crucifix, and then slowly ascends the throne.
Merlin
(aside).
These columns for young crowns, these proud young necks,
Will brook no bending; but if choicest spells
And exquisite enchantments can prevent
The destiny that dogs heroic souls,
Who think to shape the world, but whom the world
Crushes—But yet I know that fate is fate.

[Trumpets sound. Attendants enter and take their place on either side of Arthur. Then Ector enters, with Nobles, Knights, and others.
Arthur.
My lords and gentlemen-at-arms, no more
Abhorred rebellion, like a hissing snake,
Shall rear its head in England; now shall peace
Heal all our wounds and soothe their aching scars
With necessary balm; for what good skill
Our captains must be thanked, for what brave deeds
Our knights be praised! But now my heart allows
No duty save to tell you of this joy;
Oh, listen, sirs; for men can only hear
Once in their lives such tidings: that great host
That harassed us so long is now dispersed,
A rabble in the woods; my sister Morgan
Is captive, with her son and Pellinore—

Knights.
God save King Arthur!

[Great acclaim.
Merlin.
Bring the captives in.

[Morgan, Mordred, and Pellinore are brought in guarded.
Arthur.
Morgan, in whom my mother's blood doth beat;
Mordred, in rebel hardihood yet green;
Sir Pellinore, too faithful in false cause—
What plea can you present, to mitigate
The just enforcement of a traitor's doom?

Morgan.
My brother and my king, I urge no plea
Except entreaty for my child; no prayer
Save what a mother's heart can bleed; no words
Except this eloquence of bended knees,
To do you homage, king and brother!

[She kneels.
Arthur.
Rise!
This attitude is due to God alone. [She rises.

I will not make the track that kings must tread
More slippery by splashing it with blood
Deliberately.

[Murmurs.
Merlin.
She dared her punishment;
Why, then, not deal it? Else you have no pledge
Against disaster; which this woman's hate
Intends to you and yours, and will perform
If you remit the forfeit.

Morgan.
Brave enchanter!
Why bid you not some spy to murder me,
And so have finished? Ah, you know you cannot!
Why pour you not some poison in my cup
And make an end? You cannot! But you seek
To strike me through another: brave enchanter!
Have I not waged fair battle, open war?
Why should I suffer, then, a doom unjust?
What righteous or unrighteous judge is moved
To sentence for a future crime? What father
Chastises for behaviour not yet proven?
What is your charge?

Merlin.
[He points to the throne.

Knights.
Death to the sorceress! Death to the sorceress!

[Threatening cries.
Arthur.
[He addresses the captives.

Merlin
(with a gesture of despair).
May God preserve the realm!

[Trumpets sound and all go out, except Morgan and Mordred.
Mordred.
Shall yonder bastard tread us to the dust?
Where is your craft to destroy him?

Morgan.
Patience, son!

Mordred.
I am betrayed. What patience can I have,
With this usurper's heel upon my head?

Morgan.
Listen, my Mordred: I can see a cloud,
Now but the breadth of a hand, but soon to hood
The whole fair heaven of Arthur.

Mordred.
Gathering whence?

Morgan.
Out of his marriage-bed; I know the woman
Most fit to be his ruin—Guenevere,
The daughter of Leodegrance: next Mayday
I mean that he shall meet her in the forest,
When every breeze is full of love's infection.

Mordred.
More long delay! I want to reign to-morrow;
See! I've a poisoned dagger.

Morgan.
Put it up;
For with a bodkin you might pierce the sun
As easily as Arthur; sevenfold spells
Surround him, like a sevenfold spells
Surround him, like a sevenfold shirt of mail.

Mordred.
Yes, all is useless; Merlin is our master.

Morgan.
Be not impatient; fear not; I shall find
The riddle's answer; for a mother's love
Is never baffled.

[She embraces him.
Mordred.
I will go and tilt.

Morgan.
Keep in gay company, and what men say
Oppose not; and be generous of your purse.
Mountains are made of matter small as these.

Mordred.
I want no slow addition of small things
To make my mountain, mother—but an earthquake!

[He goes out.
Morgan.
The riddle's answer? Merlin ever stands,
Like dragon sentinel, before the door
Of Arthur's welfare; ever sleepless stands,
And unapproachable; till he be tombed,
My uttermost is vain, and Mordred's crown
Recedes and still recedes. Princes of Hell,
Have you no dart can penetrate these folds
On folds of sorcery that Merlin winds
About himself and Arthur? Give it me!
See, I am waiting for it! Give it me!
Though it should wither my hand, yet give it, give it!

Nivian enters hurriedly.
Nivian.
O lady, save me!

Morgan.
Who are you that crave
Succour? And wherefore do you crave it?

Nivian.
Hark!
Hark! Did he call? [She listens.

No, no; a respite: still,
Whenever he calls, I must obey.

Morgan
(approaching her).
Poor child! [She shrinks away.

Be not afraid; but tell me who dares hold
So fair a damsel in this magic bond?

Nivian.
'Tis Merlin.

Morgan.
Merlin!

Nivian.
Hush! We weave the dance,
I and my sisters, to entice the gnomes
Out of their cavern, while he steals their gold.
But we are in his thrall, and none can free us,
Save you alone; for all the world declares
That you are Merlin's rival. [She starts as if she saw a phantom, and points.

See, see, see!
He spies on us with demons: one goes there! [She moves as if following its movements, laughing wildly.

How softly he treads! Like a cat's are his claws! [She stands as if watching it disappear.

Gone!
Yet he leaves not his watch; for he loves not nor sleeps! O lady,
Is there no rescue for us wretched slaves?

Morgan.
Whence issue forth these elves whom you cajole?

Nivian.
From the great rock that stands beside the lake;
Out of the cavernous archway none can enter,
But Merlin only.

Morgan.
Child, I pity you;
I think I can deliver you.

Nivian.
Your deed
Will gain you welcome to the bowers of bliss.

Morgan.
Hush, hush! Be earthly; tie your heart to Earth,
Your will and all your senses, for the sake
Of one immediate purpose. I can teach
A road to liberty; but not by charms;
For magic is of magic well aware,
And, like the hostile captains of two camps,
Contending wizards guess each other's craft
And so dispose their own.

Nivian.
Oh, tell me, tell me!
For sometimes when I coax him, like a child,
With little semblances, as when I nursed
My doll among the orchards of my home,
He vows compliance, for my pretty pranks
To grant me freedom: but he breaks his word.

Morgan.
And so he ever will, unless you snare
His wisdom by your innocence.

Nivian.
Oh, how?

Morgan.
Win but his magic wand and all is yours.
Then could you make the cavern portals clang
Together, close, eternally obdurate.

Nivian.
And if my master Merlin were within—

Morgan.
Smite on the threshold with his rod and speak
As I shall teach you, and the rocks will fast
Behind him shut their adamantine doors.

Nivian.
Will he torment no more?

Morgan.
Nor you, nor me.

Nivian.
You set a task impossible! I cannot;
Save you devise a spell to help me.

Morgan.
Spells
Will not avail; the enchantment is yourself,
The domination of the woman's will.

Nivian.
But though I win, I dare not use the wand;
Oh, will not you—

Morgan.
They say it is a branch
Cut from the Holy Thorn

The famous Glastonbury thorn was the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, which took root and flourished when he thrust it into the ground on landing at “Weary-all Hill,” which is part of the Isle of Avelion (now called Avalon).

, and none but maidens
Can touch it without peril.

Nivian
(listening).
Hark, he calls!

[She trembles.
Morgan.
Courage, poor child!

Nivian.
He calls me! [She clasps Morgan's hands and gazes on her.

Give me strength. [She disengages suddenly, listening.

I come, I come!

Morgan.
Courage!

Nivian
(going).
I come!

Morgan.
Good speed!

[Nivian goes out.

ACT III

Scene.—An open space in a forest near Camelot, with May-trees in blossom. On one side, a huge rock, showing a dark cleft, the entrace to a cavern. Beyond, a lake.
Time.—Mayday following: afternoon.
Knights and Ladies enter, dressed in green, and singing gaily.
[They disperse and disappear.
Arthur enters and listens to the song until it dies away in the distance. Birds sing loudly; two butterflies chase each other.
Arthur.
The whole world wakes to love: not all alone
Can I this seedling nation bring to blossom;
Maiden unseen, unknown—my bride to be—
From you, from you the sunshine must descend,
That buds may burst and glory fill the land.
Our chivalry, our people wait your smile;
Your presence is expected, as the Earth
Expects the Spring, or shepherds watch the heavens
For some predicted sign of baneless joy.
Therefore I love you; for the noblest love
A man can know is love whose aspiration
Makes with the aspiration of his soul
An undivided passion. Unknown maiden,
Bear me a nation of strong men and women—
A nation not unmindful of the stars,
Not of a downcast visage, on base things
Fastening lascivious eyes—and I will make you
A name for ever heard by listening ages.

Guenevere enters, her face partly veiled; she is in great agitation, and looks back in terror; suddenly she sees Arthur.
Guen.
O gentle sir, my father—oh, my father!
He is beset by robbers; they will slay him.

Arthur.
Nay, nay, they shall not. [He draws his sword.

Tell me quickly where.

Guen.
(pointing).
Where gushes up the water in the pool.
O sir, be speedy!

Arthur.
Fear not; speedy and sure.

[He blows his horn and hastens into the forest. Several Knights enter.
1st Knight.
The signal of the King.

2nd Knight.
Which way, which way?

Guen.
There by the oak-tree, to the pool! Haste, haste!
[They hurry out.
The King, they said. I wish my father safe;
Yet in my heart of hearts I wish the King
A thousand times more safe. [The clashing of swords is heard.

They fight! They fight!

[She leans against a tree, faint. The May-song is again heard in the distance. Arthur returns, sheathing his sword.
Arthur.
Be comforted, fair damsel; we have saved
Your father's life; though faint from loss of blood,
He is not wounded deeply: they have borne him
Into the hermitage hard by.

Guen.
Fair sir,
I know not how to thank you.

Arthur.
I will tell you:
My ears enjoy the beauty of your voice;
Why should a churlish wimple cheat my eyes?
My eyes are jealous; will you not unveil?

Guen.
Sir, you have saved my father; so, I will.

[She removes her veil.
Arthur.
Now have I found my lady and my love!
What is your name, sweet vision?

Guen.
Guenevere,
The daughter of the King Leodegrance.

Arthur.
If ever lovely fashion of a face
Did, like the petals of a flower, proclaim
Sweetness within, that face is Guenevere's.

Merlin suddenly appears.
Merlin.
Such true announcement to the flowers belong,
But not to women.

Guen.
Who is this fierce old man?

Merlin.
Merlin I am, and I perceive in you
The spirit of vanity, inapt to learn,
And obstinately fierce against restraint.

Arthur.
Much you exceed your privilege of age
And long-recorded wisdom.

Merlin.
Nay, be ruled
By wisdom and old age. Woo not this damsel;
Many there are as fair in your dominions,
Importing not, like her, a threefold ruin,
Touching your throne, your kingdom, and your honour.

Arthur.
My honour! By the mass, I'll have you beaten
For such an insult.

Guen.
Nay, sir, heed him not.
But will you not escort me to my father?

Arthur.
I will. But hark you, Merlin; you may bind me
In state-craft as you will, but not in love,
For well you know that love will not be bound.

[Arthur and Guenevere go out.
Merlin.
In that one woman lie the realm's undoing
And his own death; yet he must choose that woman!
But wisdom has the means; I'll use such magic
To make her yellow, wrinkled, foully featured,
He will not value her a capon's worth. [He goes towards the forest and calls.

Nivian!
[He turns towards the cavern.
First must I pillage that elfin hive,
Where they hoard up the honey of gold; though why I know not;
Only the mint can give the metal value;
Then you can buy your vices or your virtues,
As you will. [He turns towards the forest, chuckling, and calls.

Nivian! [Nivian enters.

Let the dance begin.

Nivian waves her arms, beckoning, and a troop of Saracen Maidens enters, singers and dancers.
The Gnomes run out of the cavern, making inarticulate noises, and join the Dancers.
[The Maidens draw off into the forest, the Gnomes following them, with

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81

strange noises. Nivian dances fantastically to Merlin, who is seated on the root of an oak. Presently one of the Gnomes returns, and he and Nivian dance to each other, he in an uncouth and grotesque manner, she enticingly and yet mockingly, never allowing him to approach her closely, but evading him always, sometimes passing behind the trees. The Gnome becomes excited and performs some absurd antics. Merlin laughs and applauds, until Nivian dances off into the forest, followed eagerly by the Gnome.
Merlin
(rising).
Herodias' daughter danced a life away:
Methinks that child could dance away with Death,
And make him quite unmindful of his office!

[Nivian returns.
Nivian.
Have I not pleased you, master?

Merlin.
You have thawed
The fountain of remembrance, frozen long,
The fountain with its rainbow of past youth,
The light of laughter from abundant tears
Reflected; yes, I thank you, child; your gift
Was very precious; watching your swift feet
I thought one moment I was young: sweet folly,
Cordial folly! Yes, I thank you, child.

[Nivian stands before him in an attitude of supplication.
Nivian.
If I have given you pleasure, is your heart
Not softened toward me? Is it hard to give
The humble dancing-girl one little boon?

Merlin.
Nay, nay; I know your wiles; you think to coax me
Into acceptance of your prayer, to go
Back to your crescent moon across the sea:
I say you cannot! Arthur still has need
Of gold for statecraft, gold for martial menace
Of many foes, both secret and declared,
For many purposes, too long to tell.
Are you not proud to take a part in building
This palace of a nation, this great house
Of mighty enterprise?

Nivian.
You do me wrong;
I am most proud to help so great a prince,
And with much patience will perform my task,—
Craving but one encouragement, so small,
That when confessed—it is so fond a fancy
That you will grant it with a careless nod.

Merlin.
Nay, then, say on.

Nivian.
Have you not seen a child
Who, having woven himself a wreath of flowers,
Crowns himself king? No less a child am I,
Who want to play at queenship and pretend
To be the governor of realms unknown
And folk unseen, as myriad as the gnats
That flicker o'er the lake, and my command
Obeying instantly. I want to dream
That I can bend and turn the wills of men
To other ends than they can understand;
That I possess the secrets of the world—
Dominion of the treasures of the Earth
And of the sea; the influence of stars;
The craft by which a soul persuades a soul;
All powers invisible: myself secure,
Bidding attendant bliss, defying fate.

Merlin.
If in your picture you have painted me
As mover of these forces, you enlarge me
Out of proportion; in defying fate
Especially, for none can fate defy.
Yet mock me as you will; you made me laugh,
And far more precious is the gift of laughter
To poor old age than all the gold dug up
By Solomon: so ask me what you will.

Nivian.
I fear that you will chide me: but to hold
The sceptre of your might, the rod that rules
Kingdoms unknown to kings; the key that opens
Vast dungeons unsubstantial; yet secure
As sepulchres; the seal of many dooms—
This is my fond desire.

Merlin.
Whoever wields
His sceptre rightly, making subject all
Within himself contentious, rules a realm;
There is no other dominance; the rest
Take thence their pattern. If you lust to wield
The appearance of my power, 'tis here! [He holds out the wand and Nivian takes it.

Imagine
Now what you will; authority enormous,
The sway of an archangel, or arch-devil. [He chuckles to himself.

See what a common stick it is, how vain
For good or evil in your guileless hand! [Nivian dances and gradually recedes into the forest.

Sun-hearted child of the East, compelled to aid
The master-mason, with reluctant skill,
To build an empire, soon, from bonds released,
Across the foam, glad swallow, you shall flit
Back to your orange-groves and terraced vines! [He turns towards the cavern. Morgan and Nivian are seen watching him. The day begins to decline.

The air grows chill; 'tis time I went to work. [He pauses at the entrance to the cavern.

If Nivian knew the charm, she might immure me
In this old elfin burrow; her impatience
Might make her mischievous. The air grows chill.

[He enters the cavern; the wind moans; a stormy moon begins to rise. Morgan is seen encouraging Nivian, who approaches the cavern with the wand in her hand and invokes the Spirit of Liberty.
[She strikes the rock with the wand; the sides of the cavern fall in with a crash, closing up the cleft. She throws down the wand and clings in terror to Morgan. The Gnomes rush in alarmed, and making uncouth noises. They examine the closed entrance and then disperse, climbing up and over the rock, and so disappear. The wind dies away.
Nivian.
Oh, do not leave me! Will he not come forth?

Morgan.
Never, my child; this rock is Merlin's tomb.

Nivian.
Can I be free?

Morgan.
As free as I am, child.

Nivian.
How shall I thank you? Free to go whither I will!
Free, free, free! Dear word, I will repeat you
A million times! There is no sweeter word,
Nor any little word contains so much.
Over the mountains and the ocean, free,
Free to go home; and, reaching home, still free! [She goes towards the forest.

To me, to me, my sisters, hasten to me!
No more, no more be grinders at the mill
Of tyrannous enchantment; come, come, come!
I have a word to teach you: free, free, free!

[She disappears into the forest. The moon shines full on Morgan.
Morgan.
Stronger than spear or spell, the hands of women
Rend the elaborate nets that wise men weave.
So be it; I thank you, Princes of Hell, I thank you!

LAUNCELOT DU LAKE

CHARACTERS

• Sir Launcelot du Lake Captain of King Arthur's forces.
• King Arthur ..... King of England.
• Sir Gawain ...... Nephew to Arthur.
• Sir Gaheris ..... Brother to Gawain
• Sir Agravain .... Brother to Gawain.
• Sir Gareth ..... Brother to Gawain.
• Sir Mordred ..... Son of Morgan le Fay and nephew to Arthur.
• Sir Lamorak ..... A Knight of the Round Table.
• Sir Dagonet ..... The King's Fool.
• Sir Kay ....... The King's Seneschal.
• Guenevere ...... Queen to Arthur.
• Morgan le Fay .... Half-sister to Arthur; an enchantress.
• Linet ........ Wife to Gaheris.
• Liones ........ Wife to Gareth and sister to Linet.
• Elaine ....... A Lady of the Queen's Bedchamber.

ACT I

Scene.—The Great Hall at Camelot. Several entrances.
Time.—Whitsunday; early morning.
Arthur and Guenevere are discovered enthroned, attended by Gawain, Gaheris, Agravain, Gareth, Launcelot, Mordred, Morgan, Linet, Liones, Elaine, with Ladies of the Court, amid a great assembly of Nobles and Knights of the realm, and a company of Priests and Monks. A flourish of trumpets is sounded by Heralds. Arthur rises.
Arthur.
My lords and gentlemen-at-arms, the world
Has never yet beheld a realm so blest
As England; full of freedom, full of faith
In great things yet undone. From shore to shore,
Against all evil custom ride our knights;
Peace is within our borders; and beyond,
We dominate the sea; which while we hold,
We hold the overlordship of the world.

Knights.
God save King Arthur!

Arthur.
Yet I warn you all
That men and realms from prosperous fortune plunge
Ofttimes to deep disgraces. It is noised
That men grow haters of an arduous life
And indolent in duty; following vain
And devious desires, that nowhere lead,
Or lead to death; false lamps of fiendly fraud,
That dance in swamps, to drag down wandering souls.
For all her sons whose feet are lured astray
And tangled in the shaking-sloughs of sin
England laments, enfeebled by their loss;
And therefore lest these foolish make a rod
To hurt themselves, and so the kingdom fall
From our fair father Christ, I here ordain,
To bring men back to feats of valiancy,
To deeds of great endeavour and sweet faith,
For instant quest, the Sancgreal

See “Legends of the Holy Grail,” by Alfred Nutt. There is a tradition at Glastonbury that Joseph of Arimathea cast the cup or dish (whichever it was) into the well now called the Chalice Well, a name surviving in the adjacent street called Chilkwell Street.

; mystic cup
That bears dread vintage of the blood of God.

[Lightning and thunder. A strong beam of light shines through one of the windows, and in it the Grail is seen hovering. All fall on their knees, and the Monks raise the Grail Hymn, in which all join.
[The Grail disappears. All rise.
Arthur.
So God has sealed approval of our hope;
And by that portent I adjure your aid
To bring it to fulfilment. Now draw near,
Ye whose unstinted lavishment of toil
Founded and built and now adorns the State,
And ye, the younger lovers of our land,
Draw near to me and make your solemn vow
This perilous adventure to pursue
To whatsoever issue God permit. [Gawain advances to Arthur and kneels.

Sir Gawain, will you swear upon the Cross
To follow without fail the Holy Quest,
Achieving what you may, as mortal man
In spiritual combat?

Gawain.
So I swear;
All that I can I will.

Arthur.
God asks no more. [Gawain kisses the cross-hilt of Arthur's sword and rises. Gaheris advances and kneels.

Sir Gaheris, will you likewise keep this oath,
To follow without fail the Holy Quest,
Achieving what you may, as mortal man
In spiritual combat?

Gaheris.
So I swear,
And so God help me.

Arthur.
As you pray, he will. [Gaheris kisses the sword and rises. Launcelot kneels.

Sir Launcelot, will you take an equal vow,
To follow without fail the Holy Quest,
Achieving what you may, as mortal man
In spiritual combat?

Launce.
So I swear,
For God and for the King.

Arthur.
Nay, God and England.

[Launcelot kisses the sword and rises. Morgan and Mordred come down whispering. During their colloquy Agravain, Gareth, and other Knights take the oath.
Mordred.
Have you not said, if Launcelot seek the Grail
He will forget the Queen, his paramour,
And all your plot be marred?

Morgan.
My son, have patience.

Mordred.
See how your fears bear fruit! No novice nun
Is more devout than Launcelot, more intent
On holy works.

Morgan.
Nay, Mordred, hear me speak—

Mordred.
Have I not toiled long years to do your bidding
And make myself a following in the State?
To what advantage? Still my uncle reigns;
While I, to whom you promised England's crown,
Am still no greater than a roving knight,
And liable to Launcelot's haughty looks
And cousin Gawain's hectoring arrogance.

Morgan.
Because they know that you suspect the Queen.

Mordred.
Oh, why not slay them, and have done?

Morgan.
What use?
You cannot slay an army. Listen, my son;
These lovers must be caught, like flies in amber,
That all the world may gaze upon their guilt;
Then Launcelot will be banished, and his knights,
With half of Arthur's knights, will follow him.

Mordred.
And I can seize the crown: I know the scheme;
'Tis tardy in fulfilment, and I tire
Of these long wheelings of the falcon, Fate,
That neither strikes the prey nor heeds the lure.
If Launcelot seek the Grail—

Morgan.
He shall not seek it;
I shall affect the Queen with such affright
Lest he should perish in the Holy Quest,
That she will never let him quit her side.

[Flourish of trumpets.
Arthur.
Ye that so willingly have sworn to seek
The Sancgreal, now I plainly counsel you,
The holy vessel cannot be achieved
By one blood-guilty or of unclean heart
And unassoiled. But if such grace be given
That any knight achieve it, he shall win
Contentment everlasting, and shall set
Our England in the firmament of fame.

[Flourish. All go out, preceded by the Monks, singing the Grail Hymn, except Arthur, Guenevere, Morgan, and Elaine.
Arthur.
Madam, farewell; my council is convened,
And I must go to pilot our affairs
O'er seas of cross opinion.

Guen.
Pray, my lord,
Will you not sup? Sir Dagonet has promised—

Arthur.
Sir Dagonet, my Fool? Commend me to him;
I made him knight; his keen courageous wit
Cleaves sharper than a sword, and yet more kind.
I love him well.

Guen.
Will you not sup, my lord?

Arthur.
Nay, madam; for though God deserts me not,
Nor ever will, because he would not quench
The light himself has lit in a dark world,
With miracles and signs and interventions,
Yet, as it seems, the kingdom hangs in poise
Between abundance of light vanity
And scanty measure of grave purposes;
Wherefore all honest men, and most of all
The King himself, who should be honest most,
Must pour their labour and their supplication
Into the scale that counter-weighs the dross.

Guen.
You have but now returned, and been away
Too long from Camelot; and your face is weary;
Will you not spare one hour to pass with me?

Arthur.
Fair wife, I cannot. It was plain proposed,
As I rode hither—to my heart it came—
That I should spend to-night in prayer and fasting.
Go you to sport and play, as women should;
But not for pastime do I hold my place.
Kneel, ere you sleep, and then remember me.

[He kisses her hand and goes out abruptly.
Guen.
(gazing after him).
Invincible! Inflexible! Ah, why,
Why have you always cursed me with moroseness?
Why were you born without the spirit of joy?

Morgan.
Be not distressed, dear sister, if your husband
Find pleasure in religion, and repose
In monkish exercise. He leaves you free
To order your enjoyment as you will.

Guen.
I never could be starved of happiness;
I loathe the hermit's melancholy mode;
The chapel fills me with more wild rebellion
Than ever captive in his dungeon felt.
But tell me, sister, of your marvellous craft,
Which of the past and future is most sure,
What of the Sancgreal?

Morgan.
It will surely vanish.

Guen.
Will none achieve it?

Morgan.
None.

Guen.
Not even Launcelot?

Morgan.
Not even he.

Guen.
But will he bring back nothing
Of worship or of worth?

Morgan.
The holy life
Brings nothing back; it only saves itself.
He will return no more.

Guen.
(faintly).
Return no more?

Elaine
(aside).
Better to die than live and love the Queen!

Guen.
(recovering).
Nay, it has passed. But this has hurt me shrewdly;
He is the flower of knighthood; who so strong
And pitiful? So courteous and courageous?
Or who can vie with him in qualities
Whose rare commingling makes the gentle man?
Why told you not the King?

Morgan.
What recks the King
Of aught save England?

Guen.
England, his true wife;
Among whose honourable women waits
Poor Guenevere, unblessing and unblest
By baby fingers clutching at her heart.
But I am wandering on from woe to woe.
Surely the King is not so deep distraught
With dreams of a perfection that can thrive
Never on earth, nor yet perchance in heaven,
That he perceives not that the realm itself
Would rock to its foundation, losing Launcelot?
Haste, haste, dear sister Morgan; haste, Elaine;
Command him to my presence, lest men say
The Queen consented to the useless death
Of Christendom's greatest knight.

Morgan.
We will, dear sister;
And if you can dissuade him from this task,
Which beckons with a lamp of far more bale
Than those delights that so perturb the King,
The thanks of all the future will be yours.
Come then, Elaine, to seek him; we, together.

[They go out.
Guen.
Ah me, I would 'twere all to do again!
How well I call to mind the first sweet signs!
The long commercing glances of those eyes,
That threw broad bridges for the path of love
Across the wide abyss that lay between
Our separate lives; as when at tourney-feasts
He sat beside the King,—a king himself—
Though crownless, yet a monarch among men
Of domination; or at grave debates,
When I was stifled in my robes and faint
With dull prolixity of aged tongues;
Or when at tournaments he won the prize,
Which falls to him as apples fall to earth,
And kneeling at my feet received the crown.
Then, on a day, there came a touch of hands,
Which, like the touch of summer to the seed,
Bade our hearts blossom; blossom turned to fruit;
Love trod us in his wine-press, and we flow
In one red stream that shall be grapes no more.
But hark! I hear his footstep. Now the words
Seem dead that lately shook such eager wings.
I must not tell him Morgan's prophecy;
That would not move him, save against my will.
He fears not death's rebuke, but only mine. Launcelot enters.

Farewell has fallen on your face, like twilight.
Who hunt for shadows, them will shadows hunt.
When set you forth?

Launce.
I ride to-morrow morn.

Guen.
Of what avail is earthly hardihood
In spiritual combat? Can you win
The Sancgreal, tilting, at a tournament?
Or even on bloodiest battlefield, where men
Crash down to death in thousands? Can you clutch,
Because your hand is mailed, the ghostly Cup,
That comes and goes like wind, and disappears
Untouched, intangible?

Launce.
To strive to win
Is not ignoble, though men deem the prize
Beyond their reach.

Guen.
(bitterly).
But when the prize is won
It is contemned; as subject to be won,
Instead of regally remote from touch.

Launce.
Your love has made me master of great deeds
And lord of mighty men; but I should fall
As low as now I climb so dizzily high,
If shame should ever touch you, for my sake.
I trust not Morgan; though so often kind
To you and me, yet ever with ill thoughts
Lurking behind her eyes.

Guen.
You do her wrong.

Launce.
Greatly I dread that you confide in her
Beyond our needed caution; for her son
Plays half the spy and half the flatterer;
And Agravain has whisperings for his ear,
And eyes me over-much; while Gawain—staunch,
Strong, stupid Gawain—stumbles on and on,
Thinking to tread down treason with a bluster.
And therefore, Guenevere, my counsel is
That I ride hence to-morrow morn; 'tis best
That we should hold asunder for a while.

Guen.
Nay, but we need not meet.

Launce.
My Queen, you know
As well as I, that though we chose to meet
No more, save ceremoniously, our eyes
Across the public distance would converse
With covert looks; and that would others mark.
Save at your side, I do not worship life;
Therefore I go, not for my own content,
But lest some slanderous tongue should hurt your name.
Bid me not tarry, then, but send me forth,
To plunge once more in Chivalry's deep sea,
To win white pearls and lay them at your feet.

Guen.
I am not Guenevere the Queen that speak,
Bidding you dare destruction for my glory,
But Guenevere the woman; I entreat you,
By all our love that was, or is, or may be,
Abide at Camelot.

Launce.
I must keep my vow;
For they who keep their honour keep their love,
And love absolves them not from solemn oaths.

Guen.
But I absolve you; I, the Queen, command you
To quit this enterprise.

Launce.
Are you so soon
A queen again, who were but now a woman?

Guen.
Persuasion or commandment, which you will,
Or both commingled, so you leave me not!
How often have you sworn, with vows as grave
As those you lately took, that you would grant
My will, no matter what? And all your deeds,
That ring reported in the world's dull ears,
Compelling its acclaim, were done for me;
But yet they were not done by my desire;
The deaths you dared were dared for love of me,
But never by my urgence. Now I ask
Nothing magnificent; a simple boon;
Not the commission of a dangerous deed,
But only to forego a mad essay;
And you refuse. For the first time I ask
A favour at your hands; and you refuse! [Launcelot is silent.

Ah! what am I to think? Some other love
Perchance compels your service?

Launce.
(reproachfully).
Guenevere,
When have you found me false in word or deed,
Or errant in my thought?

Guen.
Your thoughts I know not.

Launce.
But oft you guess them.

Guen.
As I guess them now.

Launce.
Nay, you do not. My mind has never swerved
From troth to you; my heart has never wavered.

Guen.
Prove, then, your faith to me; renounce the Quest.

Launce.
Ah, plead no more!

Guen.
(after a pause).
In truth, 'tis time I ceased.
I think you must be false, or you would give
Consent to what I ask—a simple thing.
I am not used to humbleness; to beg
For bounty or for boon was ne'er my way—
No, not from Arthur. Sir, you must decide
Between the Quest and Guenevere; the choice
Should not be hard: 'tis known, when men grow weary
Of that they have pursued, some new achievement—
More difficult, maybe—entices them,
Enchains them, for a while; and God forbid
That I should spoil your newest joy, or stand
Between your soul and heaven; but yet, take heed,
And haste not reckless to your latest bliss;
Consider well the past, its warmth of love;
Consider well the future, and its cold
Of fathomless cloud; and choose! [She moves to the door.

Farewell. And choose
Between the Quest and Guenevere. Farewell.

[She goes out.
Elaine enters unobserved.
Launce.
How fierce contend the wind and tide of life!
Love without honour is so full of woe,
And honour without love so little worth.

Elaine.
Why are you sad, who have so high a task—
To win the Holy Cup and bring it home
To comfort my lord Arthur and the realm?

Launce.
Ah, fair Elaine, that quest is not for me.

Elaine.
An evil thing you say. The noblest task
Invokes the noblest knight.

Launce.
The Queen forbids me
To leave the Court.

Elaine.
But how can she forbid
The due performance of a solemn oath?

Launce.
Because performance waits upon her pleasure.

Elaine.
I understand you not.

Launce.
If I went forth
Against her will and knowing her unhappy,
My scullion or my groom would have more force
To humble foes or succour friends than I.

Elaine.
You fancy that she loves you—Give me leave
For the last time; I shall not speak again.
You fancy that she loves you. Fear it not!
No, not to her you owe the dreadful debt
Of love too prodigal to be repaid.
True love would rather the belovéd brow
Were wreathed with honourable death, than crowned
At cost of sacred covenant forsworn,
While others take the peril, and perchance
Achieve the worship....Hear me to the end!...
O Launcelot, here is parting of the ways:
There passes Guenevere and there the Christ!
Since when did you forsake the fellowship
Of those who keep with fortitude fair pace,
And down the pathway, whither duty points,
Follow the vanishing glory, valour's prize?
Are you still Launcelot? Are you still the knight
That, scorning no man, yet was never scorned?
Or are you Tristram, in a woman's toils
Entangled, while his sword and armour rust
And men for captains cry, and cry in vain?
Or are you Gawain—

Launce.
Nay, you do me wrong!
His faults are sanguine; not cold lessons learnt
From worldly study; yet you do me wrong.

Elaine.
Gawain I wrong, for he will keep his vow.

Launce.
Your speech is bitter.

Elaine.
Bitter is the truth.
O Launcelot, I beseech you to resolve
This Quest anew; you may not now retreat;
For God has put this kingdom in your power,
And after you leans every following face,
Watching your pluméd helm, that, far advanced,
Beacons them on. If you forswear your oath,
If Launcelot be not strong, shall feebler men
Surpass your feebleness, and keep firm faith
Where you have failed? Oh, do not this great evil!
Leave not the realm to Mordred, or to men
Whose only wisdom is in learning yours,
Whose only eminence is envying yours.
One error of a noble mind begets
More woe than all the crimes of common folk.

Launce.
Bold are your words, but brave is your rebuke.

Elaine.
Oh, deem my counsel from a holier source
Of more authority than my poor lips.

Launce.
You bring me messages from that high mount
Whereon your spirit sojourns.

Elaine.
Yes, I bring them;
They are not mine! Oh, hear them, Launcelot, hear them,
And in your heart renew your solemn vow. [Launcelot turns away, hesitating.

Are you a coward?

Launce.
(startled).
Coward! You are right;
The victories of your soul are greater far
Than all my coarse encounters. Yes, I will—
I will depart; God grant me what I will!

Elaine.
Praise be to God! The unhoped-for boon is mine.
Now shall I bind my scarf upon your arm,
Lest you forget; but God shall bind your heart,
That it be never loosed from him nor England,
Till, pure in faith to both, you win the Grail.

[She binds the scarf on his arm.

ACT II

Scene.—The Queen's Garden by the water at Camelot

The water that made Glastonbury an island in old days must have reached nearly to the foot of the hill at Cadbury.

.
Time.—Forenoon of the same day.
Knights of Mordred's Party and Ladies, all gaily dressed, discovered in various groups. One group begins the Madrigal and others take it up.
During the song, Gaheris and Gareth arrive in a barge, with Liones and Linet. They disembark and come up the steps from the water. Agravain and Mordred enter, conversing.
Agravain.
Fair cousin Mordred, I desire your counsel.
You are a man of policy; the matter
Is secret, yet most open.

Mordred.
Rather say
A man of prudence, cousin Agravain.

Agravain.
Then whither makes your toil for public praise?
Your mother's art and your own diligence
Have won you such adherence in the State
That Launcelot himself scarce rivals you
In common favour.

Mordred.
I am only followed
Because new-fangled fancy ever takes
The world's affection. I am for a feast,
When Arthur orders fasting; I for jousts,
When Arthur calls for masses; I for rest,
But he for endless labour. Men complain
That Arthur makes them sleep in coats of mail,
Ordaining toil on toil and war renewed:
Then straight the horse must be caparisoned,
The sword girt on, and every knight must ride
Through fearsome forests, sail o'er hideous seas,
Wade through black torrents, suffer thirst and hunger,
Lie cold, submit to sickness and to wounds,
Chasing some phantom, like that ghostly Cup,
Too perilous a quest for mortal might.

Agravain.
You are not disaffected to the throne?

Mordred.
Nay, jealous of its honour.

Agravain.
So am I;
And still more jealous of my brother Gawain's.

Mordred.
He loves Sir Launcelot, and serves the Queen.

Agravain.
He paces round them, like a sleepless dog,
And warns them of the footstep of the foe;
The whispers of the Court, like buzzing flies,
Defile his name; for, though he knows it not,
He plays the pander. He shall play no more.
This very day I hope to manage him;
But if I fail to turn him to my mind—

Mordred.
You will not turn him; though so apt to veer,
He veers not ever, save to winds of chance.

Agravain.
What is your counsel then?

Mordred.
I count them traitors,
Whose King stands blindfold in a glare of shame,
Yet none dare snatch the kerchief from his eyes.

Agravain.
Ay, so do I; but when and how to snatch it?

Mordred.
That can I show you; if you pledge your faith
Not to betray me.

Agravain.
I will pledge my faith
On one condition—that we menace not
Our uncle's majesty, but Launcelot's treason.

Mordred.
That you shall judge. The one sure way is this—
Take men you trust and set a watch on Launcelot,
Until you trap him with the Queen, alone;
Then summon Arthur. That night you will sleep
The saviour of the kingdom!

Agravain.
'Tis a plot
Simple and yet well thought on. [Looking off.

Yonder, see,
My brother comes. My hand upon this deed,
Which closely we'll discuss; I hope, with him.

[He moves away.
Mordred
(aside).
The cat's-paw that I sought! 'Tis well; 'tis well.

Gawain enters.
Agravain.
Good morrow, brother; yet I marvel much
How you endure so bravely.

Gawain.
Wine and tilting!
Those are my simples; if you used them more,
I warrant you would never look so grave.

Agravain.
I look for grave events.

Gawain.
Why, yes; the Quest.
No use for jousting there: and wine, forbidden.

Agravain.
I spoke not of the Grail; but things of State.
I marvel that you suffer this.

Gawain.
What ails you?

Agravain.
What ails me, brother? Our dishonoured blood,
Dishonoured knighthood, and dishonoured throne;
These ail me, brother. Why they hurt not you,
To me is greater marvel than the spell
That mastered Merlin.

Gawain.
Would you teach me riddles?

Agravain.
What the world knows, methinks the King should know.

Gawain.
Speak plainly, sir, or else speak not at all.

Agravain.
That Launcelot and the Queen are paramours.

Gawain.
Why will you move such matters? Which of us
But at the heart-root would be cold, except
For Launcelot's arm? And now you lend your ears
To slanderous tales, invented by his foes
To ruin him. Is this your gratitude?
Shame, shame on such devices!

Agravain.
Shame be theirs
Who force me to devices by their deeds!

Gawain.
I am amazed that you companion so
With yonder pestilent fox. The silly fowl,
The screeching peacocks and the scoffing jays,
That flock to serve him—they shall serve anon
His appetite, ambition; blood and feathers
Shall be their monument. [He shakes his fist at Mordred.

Ah, vermin rogue!
Cub of the black enchantress, what black hate
You bear Sir Launcelot! Brother, if I deemed
Her wizardry had drawn you to the circle
Of their malicious envy, I would slay you!

[Gaheris and Gareth approach, with Liones and Linet.
Gaheris.
Brothers, what treat you in such fierce debate?

Gawain.
Women and devils.

Gaheris.
Are they not all one?

Linet.
Yes, truly, very often; when they marry;
As husbands oft are devils in disguise,
And by example make their wives the same.

Agravain.
Well said, Linet; your husband is well answered;
We bachelors take comfort from that speech.

Linet.
Nay, in one quality I wish you devils.

Agravain.
Pray, what is that?

Linet.
Allegiance to your lord.

Liones.
We meet you, sir, at supper with the Queen,
Whom God preserve.

Linet.
Whom God preserve.

[They curtsey low to Agravain and retire.
Agravain.
What mean they?

Gawain.
They mean right well, and more than they have said.

Gaheris.
More oft they say much more than they have meant;
How find you, Gareth? Does your wife say less?

Gareth.
Yours has the perter tongue; for three long days
She called me kitchen knave

See Malory, Bk. vii.

.

Gaheris.
But that she meant.

Gawain.
'Tis good to hear you jesting! We four boys,
That still have ridden side by side till now,
And put away the strokes that envy aimed
To separate us, let us ride abreast
Always, nor any spur his horse ahead,
Lest he should fall in ambush—

Gaheris.
Nay, you lead,
And I will follow.

Gareth.
Yes, let Gawain lead,
As he has ever done, since hobby days.

Gawain.
You follow Launcelot, if you follow me.

Gaheris.
Your way is ours; again we cry “Agreed.”
How say you, Agravain?

Agravain
(looking off).
Who hurries hither,
As if from contest he had newly come?

Gawain
(aside to Gaheris).
'Tis Lamorak!

Gaheris
(aside to Gawain).
But what can he suspect?

[Lamorak enters, in disorder; he speaks to Mordred and then advances to Gawain, Mordred and other Knights following.
Lamorak.
O false, felonious slayer of good knights!
Revengeful, cowardly villain, I defy you!

Gawain.
I have no skill in language; but in battle
You will not find me backward.

Mordred.
Strength avails
But little here. Sir Lamorak charges you
With foul deliberate murder.

Lamorak
(showing a gold circlet).
Do you mind
How Pelleas won this circlet at the jousts,
And being wounded, bade you carry it
To Ettard, whom he loved? And how you lied,
Saying Sir Pelleas was slain; because
You saw that she was fair, and Pelleas lay
Helpless? And presently, as women will,
She turned her love to you, and gave you back
This circlet?

[Gawain is silent.
Gareth.
Speak! Be not so foul defamed.

Mordred
(aside to the other Knights).
He is not foul defamed, or he would speak.

Lamorak.
As hither at the break of day I rode,
I found upon a forest lawn a knight
Dead; and his charger dead beside him. Straight
Alighting, I unlaced his helm; and lo,
My father's face!

Knights.
Sir Pellinore! Alas!

Lamorak.
The grass was sodden with blood and trampled down
By the hooves of horses. The cowardly crew that smote him
Had carried away their slain. He had fought them alone.
Then over his corse I cried aloud to Our Lady
To show me my father's destroyer; and the sun reached forth
A finger of light, and touched, where it lay on the moss,
This circlet of gold.

Gawain.
I care not to deny it;
Your father found fair dealing at my hands;
I slew him in fair fight, as Gaheris knows.

Mordred
(to the other Knights).
Then why conceal a fight so passing fair?

Lamorak.
When Merlin swore that Arthur should be King
And clove the realm, from sea to sea, with war,
Your father, fighting against mine, was slain
In open battle; ever since that hour,
You have desired my father's death; and thrice
You challenged him to mortal combat; thrice
Were overcome, although he spared your life,
In open lists, before the King and Court;
But you became by clemency more base,
As base men will, and with your ruffian crew
You tracked him down, like wolves, and murdered him.

Gawain.
Ha! Say you so, false slanderer? Keep yourself.

[He draws his sword and Lamorak his.
Gaheris.
Hold, brother! Let the King ordain the battle!
You get no quittance by this sudden affray.

Gawain.
But he shall have his quittance here and now;
Why should my sword be servant to his tongue?

[He dashes Gaheris aside and rushes on Lamorak. They fight. Gawain disarms Lamorak, throws him down, and is about to kill him, when Arthur enters with Guenevere, attended by Morgan and Elaine.
Arthur.
What means this shameful brawl? Like drunken men,
Reeling from riot to some private feud,
Oblivious of occasion, must you bring
Your foul behaviour to the Queen's own garden? [They help Lamorak to his feet.

Is there no better quarrel to be found,
But you must rend each other like wild bulls
That seek for lordship o'er the herd? No cause
But you must stain your knighthood with the blood
Of brothers in religion and in arms?
Is there no great example for your choice,
Set in the field of chivalry and fame
For emulation of all noble knights?
Have you not heard of Launcelot du Lake—
Who never harboured jealousy, revenge,
Nor malice; but is apter to forgive;
Faithful in friendship and not false to foes? Launcelot enters, unobserved, wearing Elaine's token on his arm.

One touch of his great nature in your heart
Would wither up these seeding acts of ill,
Which borne abroad and sown o'er fallow souls,
Blossom a thousand-fold in mimic deeds.

Gawain
(enraged).
Too largely you condemn me! For the scoff
Of envious eyes you set me by the side
Of Launcelot, to compare me; but take heed,
Lest, saving rumour be more false than I,
Sir Launcelot be not falsest of us all!

Guen.
(aside).
What can he mean?

Mordred
(aside to Morgan).
See, Guenevere grows pale!

Morgan
(aside to Mordred).
If Gawain turn accuser, she has cause.

Gawain
(overhearing, aside).
Ah, has my own lewd tongue rejoiced those traitors?

Launce.
(coming forward).
Sir Gawain, I have heard your wrathful words;
But they were misbegotten of your wrath,
Not your heart's lawful issue; and no man
Of treatable disposition should be swift
To chide his friends for chiding. None the less,
Remember that my sword belongs to one
Of more authority than friends. The King
Alone commands it, to maintain his right,
His honour and the honour of his Queen.

Gawain.
By bitterest reproaches I was driven
To foolish utterance; and traitors scheme
Ever, to bring us to an ill accord.
Pardon me, Launcelot.

Launce.
Nay, for we are peers,
Not lord and vassal, and too oft have ridden
And fought and suffered, Gawain, side by side,
To need fresh bonds between us. Let us trust
Each other still.

Gawain.
This is the greatest joy
That ere I had; and now, come life or death,
I shall not hope to know a happier day.

[They embrace.
Arthur.
Now would that all contention so might cease,
And gallant friendship stay all false report;
For private quarrels teach the public foe
The weakness of our walls, where he may scale them;
But when, by fault-forgetting minds renewed,
Re-morticed are the old alliances,
Our battlements appear like brazen scarps,
And enmity confounded draws the siege.
And you, our younger knights, but late endued
With majesty of office, learn the lesson
Presented by God's favour; see your leaders,
Men in a hundred battles tried and proved
Skilled and courageous, men of sternest will,
Unused to bend, meekly as children met,
Who, ruffled o'er a bauble or a toy,
Have been reproved and reconciled, before
The face of all. By such are kingdoms founded,
That move not, saving by the laws they make. (To Guenevere.)

Madam, to you I heartily commend
Our loyal Launcelot; that you cherish him
And by your countenance approve his deeds
Of virtue and of valour to the world.
Sir Gawain and Sir Lamorak, submit
Your cause to closer scrutiny. Attend me.

[All go out, except Guenevere, Launcelot, and Elaine; Morgan and Mordred last, in close conversation.
Guen.
(pointing to the token on Launcelot's arm).
You did not use to wear a lady's token.

Launce.
Madam, she loves you well who gave me this.

Elaine.
Let there be no concealment. I confess
The gift was mine.

Guen.
Surely I hear amiss;
Or some delusion clouds the damsel's wit.

Elaine.
No, no; the gift was mine.

Guen.
Fie, shameless, fie!
Will you report your folly to my face?
Methought your blameless eyes would scarce endure
The gaze of gallants; that your blameless hands
Would hardly dare to tag a gallant's cloak

“To point a paltock” is the real phrase (see Malory, Bk. v, ch. 10), that is, to put in the laces that fastened a knight's paletot.

!
Methought the very ground on which you trod
Was over-earthy for your blameless feet—

Launce.
Nay, madam, you mistake a gentle nature.
I never promised her or fair or false;
But when she set before me good and ill,
And brandished in my face the trenchant truth
That to forego a solemn vow is shame,
I offered for requital, though too small
For so great courage and great constancy,
To wear her token in the Holy Quest.

Guen.
True to your vow, you still are false to me.

Elaine.
Nay, true to duty, still is true to all.

Guen.
(furious).
Since you have learnt your duty from Elaine,
Go, do your duty, and abide no more
Here in my Court.

Launce.
Alas!

Guen.
I knew some woman
Had come between us; though this heaven-sick mauther
I had not thought on. Go, then, get you shriven;
Wear shirt of sackcloth and eschew delight;
Fast and do penance; kneel from dark to dawn
In clammy chapels and by mouldering tombs,
Where dead men groan; let visions helm your head
In place of armour; never battle-cry
Nor shout of onset pass your lips again;
But pay obedience to the sullen bell
That summons you to orison; chaunt psalms,
Sing hymns; and warm you in the sun;
Until at last you creep into your chamber,
Lie down, and die, forgetting and forgot.
Behold your duty! Do it; and begone,
Nor ever in my Court set foot again.

Launce.
Madam—

Guen.
No more!

Launce.
(groaning).
Alas!

Guen.
Begone!

Launce.
(going).
Alas!

[He goes out.
Elaine.
Madam, indeed you greatly are to blame
To hurt men's souls and drive them to the death
Like hunted deer. Great scathe and sin you do,
And deep dishonour on yourself you bring;
You have your own dear lord, and none so good
And none so great did ever woman have;
It is your part to love him.

Guen.
Silence, girl!
You also I command, or maid or dame,
Whiche'er you be, henceforth avoid my Court.
Seek Launcelot, counsel Launcelot, govern Launcelot,
You came not here to govern Guenevere.

[She goes out.
Elaine.
Oh, it was cruel thus to make him groan.
Ah, why will desperate love be so forlorn
Of the one face for which his eyes are starved
That visages of others great and good
Invite him to his happiness in vain?
Oh, it was cruel thus to make him groan.

[She weeps. Morgan and Lamorak enter, conversing.
Lamorak.
The King ordains a battle to be fought
Between this knave and me, to-morrow morn.
But none can master Gawain; none can match him,
Save Launcelot only, since my father fell.
I seek your magic to abate his strength.
Dwindle his force to mine and I will give you
The service of my life, and what beside
Is in my power to give, or you desire.

Morgan.
I am no common conjurer, to haggle
About a price.

Lamorak.
But yet you love not Gawain,
Or else the tale runs false.

Morgan.
Believe it not.

Lamorak.
Why should you spare a murderous knave, who slays
Perfidiously, by ambush and a band
Of wretches like himself; who hates your son
And fain would have him killed—

Morgan
(listening).
Hush! Some one sobs! [She sees Elaine.

Elaine! (Advancing)
My child, what makes you weep?

Elaine.
The world;
The sin and sorrow of it.

Morgan.
General grief
Could never pierce a fount of tears so deep.
The Queen was here but now.

Elaine.
And she rebuked him
Cruelly; forbidding him the Court;
And he has gone for ever.

Morgan.
Whom mean you, child?

Elaine.
Sir Launcelot.

Morgan
(agitated).
Him!

Elaine.
But I will go and pray
That though he lose the Queen, he win the Quest.

[She goes out.
Morgan
(aside).
If Launcelot seek the Grail, his love will fade,
And our long management will miss the mark.

Lamorak
(approaching).
Give me my just revenge!

Morgan
(aside).
Now in a flash
I see the subtle clue to guide my feet—
To use his fury as my instrument. (To Lamorak.)

Sir, I believe that you are evil treated,
And therefore would I help you. Sorcery
Is slow to deal; but here I have a philtre
That might have been compounded for your purpose; [She shows him a phial.

And Gawain sups with Guenevere to-night:
What if you poured the potion in his cup?

Lamorak.
I would not have him slain feloniously,
As he slays others.

Morgan.
Nay, 'tis but a juice
Distilled from herbs; yet of such curious virtue
That withering winter will assail the blood
Of him who drinks it, and his force will wane
From sunset to next sunset, unawares,
Enfeebled secretly, without a sign.

Lamorak.
Give it me, then. I burn for my revenge.

Morgan.
This is the dew to cool your hot distress! [She gives him the phial.

It has no taint, no tincture, and no taste.
Know you the King's old seneschal, Sir Kay?

Lamorak.
Right well; he has a daughter, Kate; a damsel
Fond of brocades, and broideries, and brooches.

Morgan.
Persuade her, then, that she persuade her father
To lead you to the supper-room and show you
Sir Gawain's goblet. There my counsel leaves you,
To deal by wit according to your will.

Lamorak.
How shall I ever pay my debt?

Morgan.
Succeed!
Success will pay both usury and debt.

Lamorak.
The bond is sealed (kisses her hand)
and shall be so fulfilled.

[He goes out.
Morgan.
Now shall the Queen of murder stand accused,
In peril of death; then Launcelot will return
To be her champion, and when Arthur's eyes
Are taught her guilt and Launcelot has been banished,
With all his host, Mordred shall seize the crown!
So now, ye Powers of Darkness—ye with whom
I oft have trafficked, but not bartered yet
Successful sin—now pour your treasures forth;
For I will pay the price, whate'er it be;
Not for myself, but for my only son,
The child I cherished ere his eyes beheld,
Whose wants I ministered before his tongue
Could shape entreaty—suckled on this bosom,
Still mindful of the passion of the milk;
For him, for him, ye Powers Infernal, take
Your will of me; that I may see him crowned
And equal in possession of the realm
With those great monarchs that shall rule this Isle,
Whose destinies, imperial and immense,
Stretch in vague vastness far beyond my vision.

ACT III

Scene.—A room in the Queen's apartments at Camelot; in the midst, a table set with viands, fruits, flagons, and goblets. Two entrances.
Time.—Afternoon of the same day.
Lamorak enters with Kay.
Lamorak.
Truly
You know your daughter well; or else, perchance,
You overheard.

Kay.
Experience needs no spies.

Lamorak.
Why, then, no mischief's done, if you know all
Your daughter does, beforehand.

Kay.
Nay, not so;
She has her mother's eyes; they do the mischief;
Commending evil bargains, like false friends.

Lamorak.
I scarcely know your meaning.

Kay.
Look you, sir—
If e'er you get a daughter, lock her up!

Lamorak.
But never even Merlin learnt that spell;
While he supposed that he had woven a maze
About the woman's unavoiding feet,
She clanged the cavern's everlasting gates
On him; while she herself went laughing free.

Kay.
So runs the tale; but then he gave her power.

Lamorak.
There's the true mischief; men give women power.

Kay.
And yet some men derive their power from women;
As Tristram from the Cornish Queen; as Gawain
From fair Ettard; and, as some say, a greater
Than either, from the greatest—

Lamorak.
Let them say;
Let us be dumb. (Turning to the table)
Does Gawain sup to-day?

Kay.
He sups all days.

Lamorak.
But sups he here to-day?

Kay.
He eats and drinks,—O Lord, O Lord, O Lord!

Lamorak.
So he sups here to-day?

Kay.
See, here's his cup; [He takes it from the table.

All trenched with gems and chased with golden grapes.

Lamorak.
A goblet worthy of the choicest wine!

Kay.
It is, it is; and Gawain knows good wine;
He loves the wine of Beaume

Beaume is said to be the same as Bayonne (see Malory, Bk. xx, ch. 18).

— [A crash within.

What breakage now?
If it should be the Queen's especial platter!
(Going)
Kate, Kate! What mischief now? Kate, Kate!

[He hurries out.
Lamorak.
That broken platter breaks a rascal's pate. [He pours the potion into Gawain's cup.

Mingle, mysterious essence, unsuspect,
And like a warping worm impair his strength,
Until the ghost of Pellinore appeased
Torment my soul no more. [Music within.

The Queen approaches!

[He goes out.
Guenevere enters, preceded by Minstrels playing, and followed by Linet, Liones, and other Ladies; then by Gawain, Gaheris, Agravain, Gareth, Dagonet, and other Knights. They dispose themselves in various groups; on one side a Knight and a Lady begin a game of chess.
Guen.
(petulantly to the Minstrels).
Cease, cease your jingling! [They cease.

You mistake the frets.

Gawain.
Madam, our hearts make dissonance, not they;
For he who tuned us all and taught our wits
Harmonious rivalry, deserts his choir
And leaves us clashing. When Sir Launcelot parts,
Worship and fellowship fall pining sick.
I marvel he took horse so suddenly.

Dagonet.
I used to wonder why the swallows fled
So suddenly; but now I know that winter
Had banished them.

Guen.
Let be, Sir Dagonet!
I will not brook the mention of his name.
I bore of him a great indignity,
And undeserved; for I have held him dear,
As good queens ought to hold their greatest knight.
Yet have I proved him false; not false as some
Who hide rough treachery with smoothéd smiles,
But false and unabashed; nay, boasting false.
Therefore I bid, on pain of my disfavour,
That snows of silence fall upon his name
And blot it from the pleasance of our speech. [To the Minstrels.

Now play again and try to calm our spirits
With some more soothing melody. [They commence the Grail Hymn.
(Angrily)

Be still! [They cease.

Are you so surfeited with merriment
That you discourse of pleasure not provoked,
Of love deserted and of mirth renounced?

Linet.
Beseech you, madam, give Sir Dagonet leave
To sing the ballad that he lately made
Of how King Mark was mocked by Dinadan.

Guen.
Pray you, Sir Dagonet. To mock King Mark
Is sure to please; for pity of his Queen,
The fair Iseult; whose love is not her lord,
Whose lord is not her mate. Then, pray you, sing.

Dagonet.
This is the song I taught the harper Eliot,
That he might sing it to the Cornish King.

Guen.
Well sung, Sir Dagonet!

All
(laughing).
Well sung! Well sung! (Singing)

“Now out, now in, with dindle and din,
He fled from that shield aghast!”

[They laugh and applaud.
Dagonet.
I fain would drink some wine, to wet my tongue,
Which waxes warm with wagging.

[Gawain and several Knights rise and pour out wine. Gawain carries his goblet to Dagonet.
Gawain.
Drink from this.
It is a regal cup, the Queen's own gift;
That was the proudest day of all my life,
When the great jousts were held at Winchester
And Tristram won the prize; but I was judged
The second place, who led the adverse side
Against Sir Tristram. Drink, Sir Dagonet,
And get new fancies for another song.

[Dagonet takes the cup.
Dagonet.
Oh, what a noble mistress is the vine
To amorous minstrels! All the gold and gems
That girdle round the dark and fragrant nymph
That here lies laughing and invites my lips,
Though worth a royal ransom, cannot vie
With her rich value to a minstrel's heart.
Madam, to you, and Queen Iseult the Fair, (To Guenevere)

The faithfullest and fairest ladies born,
I pledge this cup; and ere fair ladies cease
To love and to be faithful, may I die! [He drinks.

Now shall I sing so merrily that fools
Shall gape astonished; as their father fool
Gapes now, astonished at the witty wine.

[He drinks.
Knights
(singing softly).
“Now out, now in, with dindle and din,
He fled from that shield aghast.”

Guen.
Now, pray you, sing again, Sir Dagonet,
And make us laugh, as much we need to laugh.

Dagonet.
But what is this? Methought to be much madder
Within a while, and make you all forget
Your skill in grief. But now methinks I grow
As wise as you. [A spasm of pain seizes him.

It bites me like a serpent!

[He staggers; Gawain supports him; all rise in consternation.
Guen.
(terrified).
What ails him?

Agravain.
He is poisoned.

Guen.
God forbid!

[Dagonet sinks to the ground.
Gawain.
How fare you, sir?

Dagonet.
It bites.

Gawain.
Alas, my friend!

Dagonet.
Gawain, your hand would never hurt me thus;
The treason struck at you—thank God, amiss!

[He groans.
Agravain.
Now is he taken with deep draughts of death.

Dagonet
(to Gawain.)
You always pardoned my poor jests, dear friend;
I pray you grant forgiveness for this last,
And the most foolish one of all, to die.

[He dies.
Guen.
May God assoil his soul!

Gawain
(rising).
Amen!

All.
Amen!

Gawain.
His jest goes near to break my piteous heart.

Agravain.
Alas, a sweeter Fool shall no man see.

Guen.
Pray, ladies, let us hence.

Agravain
(confronting her).
Nay, whither steal you?
You cannot pass so quit.

Guen.
What mean you, sir?

Agravain.
That here, in presence of the dead and living,
I charge you with this deed.

Guen.
This deed? How deeply
Must you be curs'd in honesty or wit
To deem me the destroyer of a friend,
So true, so intimate, so dear! The shame
Redounds to you. Stand back and let me pass.

Agravain.
Nay, madam, you ordained this feast and hither
You bade us come, and thus (pointing to Dagonet's body)
you entertain us.
Yours were the cause and opportunity;
For though your arrow from the quarry swerved,
'Twas shot against my brother's life, because
You bore him malice for the hasty words
He spoke against Sir Launcelot in the garden:
Though you dissembled well, I saw you wince!

Guen.
Now out upon you for a busy knave!
All the world knows Sir Gawain is my friend. [She appeals to Gawain; he turns away in sorrow.

Why keep you silence, sir? Are you infected
With the distemper of your brother's brain?
Or are you comrades in conspiracy,
Bound by unholy oaths to smear my honour? [She turns to the other Knights.

Shame on your chivalry, to hold aloof
And see me so misfortuned and abused!
You would not dare to keep this serving silence,
Were Launcelot here.

Arthur enters, attended.
Arthur.
What means this strange array?

Guen.
My lord, my lord, here am I foul accused.
I did not slay Sir Dagonet, nor wished
To slay Sir Gawain; 'twas no thought of mine.

Arthur.
Sir Dagonet! I would not he were dead,
Not for the hazard of my crown. [He advances to the body.

Alas!
Sweet folly, lie you still? Now whither fare
Your pleasant and unvenomed fancies? Dead,
You mock at mirth, who used to mock at sorrow.
Bear forth his corpse; and rich be his interment. [Attendants bear out the body.

Captain of conquering laughter, fare you well!
Now care's black host, that you so oft defeated,
Swarms back, encouraged to a new assault.
But how befell this heavy fate?

Agravain.
We charge
This murder on the Queen. She bade us hither,
And here was poison in my brother's cup,
Which by a simple chance Sir Dagonet drank
And turned upon himself the intended stroke.

Arthur
(to Gawain).
Do you believe the Queen desired your death?

Gawain.
Ah, would that I had drunk the poisoned wine,
And so escaped this woeful inquisition.

Arthur.
If you so deem, what cause can you allege?

Agravain.
The cause is known to all—except the King.
This forenoon, when your chiding stung my brother
To that mad mood in which men speak the truth,
He flung a flaming dart—a scornful word—
That struck the bosom of the Queen and pierced it,
And there engendered this deforméd deed.

Guen.
Since all by speech or silence have accused me
Of moving murder, common in its kind,
And base in its degree, against the man
Whom I have honoured as my guest and friend,
'Tis meet one voice were heard on my behalf;
And though myself must plead, I seek not pity,
But justice only; save in this—that horror
Has bred a shuddering sickness in my blood.
For Jesu's sake, my lord, when did you know me
Of treasonable practice, cruel use
Of any living thing, or secret ways
To go about my purpose? Have I not
A thousand times besought you to be kind
To faults committed, as you haply deemed,
Against my dignity or natural state?
Am I a woman of a violent mind,
Or apt to visit with such punishment
The veriest traitor? Oh, my lord, consider
How many easier issues might be found
For regal spite, if spite inhabited
A regal heart, than thus to gallop forth,
With such mad insolence of murderous rage,
In sight of all men, from the castle gates.
Some vile invention has been here at work
To hurt my honour; as we well may know,
Such play is used at Courts, where kings and queens
Are ofttimes, like their carven semblances,
Moved up and down the board by rival hands.
Therefore I vow that I am innocent;
The which, if you are patient, time will show.

Agravain.
We claim the rightful custom of the land.
Here was foul murder, and no rank o'errides
Obedience to the law.

Arthur.
How say you, sirs?

Gaheris.
We claim the custom of the land.

Linet.
Oh, fie!
Fie, fie upon you, sir! Had I foreseen
The degradation of this hour, or known
Such baseness harboured in your heart, my hand
Would never have been yours. Your knightly oath
Binds you to succour ladies in distress,
And see, the lady of all ladies stands
Bereft of help—oh, piteous, piteous sight!—
And you take part against her! Cowardly fool!
As you forswear your vow, so I will mine!
Take back your token of a bond abjured! [She throws her wedding ring in Gaheris' face.

Go, find another house-mate—light of love
As you are light of honour; faithless maids
Accord with faithless men.

Arthur.
Peace, peace, fair lady!
Take pattern by your sister, Liones,
And meddle not in what concerns you not.

Linet.
Fie on all cowards!

Gareth.
Sir, I say the same;
I hold the Queen excused; though blackest night
For ever should obscure this blackest deed,
I shall maintain her blameless, and make good
Upon his body, though of nearest kin,
Whoever he may be that dare gainsay me,
That she was not convérsant of this crime.
Let Gawain look in his own heart; and you,
Gaheris, in yours; perchance, malpractice there
Bred this suspicion: knights that slay good knights
May well suppose that queens can poison them.
Go, go your ways! My blood renounces yours;
I'll shed the last of mine for Guenevere!

Liones.
God bless you, sir!

Guen.
Bless him yourself, fair dame;
For my sake, never vex him, while you live,
But still contrive to show him gratitude,
When I am past the power.

Arthur.
Most noble Gareth,
We never shall forget, the Queen and I,
Your fearless faith in justice and in her;
Were there more hearts of trust in heaven and us,
Mischief would flee the kingdom; but your voice
Cannot reverse the voices of these many,
And I must act for England, not myself,
Having a confidence as great as yours—
Nay, greater—that the outcome will be fair
From this besetment. (To Guen.)
Madam, you have heard;
The suffrages of these acquit you not.

Guen.
Must queens be put in peril of their lives,
To die, perchance, the dreadful death by fire,
Because they strove to please the boisterous herd
That turns and rends them?

Arthur.
Madam, God will show
Your innocence; which I may well believe,
Knowing your nature; but I hold the law,
Above all, sacred: for to keep the law
And to make others keep it, I am King;
And if I should absolve you, thus arraigned,
By privilege, or favour of my love,
From the due process and ordeal of justice,
How shall I teach them reverence of my place,
Who see me hold it in contempt, myself?
Wherefore, Sir Gawain, I will grant you leave
To wait, on horseback, ready armed for battle,
In the broad meadows hard by Westminster,
The fifteenth day from hence; and there encounter
With the Queen's champion, whom I shall provide.
If you be overcome, the Queen is quit;
But if he fail of that appointed hour,
Or if you have the mastery, she must suffer
The doom accorded by our ancient law
To those who use such treason on their friends;
For well I know that God will guard the right.

[Guenevere utters a cry and sinks on to a couch.
Gawain.
God guide the fray that she may be discharged
From all suspicion. Fare you well, my lord.

Gareth.
Farewell, my lord; but this I say again,
The Queen is innocent.

Liones
(to Gareth).
God bless you, sir!

[All go out except Guenevere and Arthur.
Arthur.
Madam, what ill-invented sport was here,
Or what strange error have your women made
In mixing syrups or compounding herbs?

Guen.
Alas! What I most fain would know, I know not;
And so be Heaven recorder of my oath.

Arthur.
Nay, then, take heart! For God will guard the right.

Guen.
But know you not that Gawain holds advantage
In combat over every knight but one—
Sir Launcelot du Lake? Whom I forbade
The Court, this very day.

[She moans.
Arthur.
Forbade the Court!

Guen.
And well I know he never will return.

Arthur.
But wherefore did you this?

Guen.
I cannot tell you.

Arthur.
But I demand to know.

Guen.
(in a low voice).
I cannot tell you.

[They gaze at each other, without speaking.

ACT IV

Scene.—The Queen's bedchamber at Westminster; two entrances, a principal door and a side door.
Time.—The night before the Queen's trial by battle.
Guenevereis discovered asleep on a couch; a lamp burns near her. The moon rises during her soliloquy and shines brightly through the casement.
Guen.
(dreaming).
Launcelot! (Rousing)
Ah, Launcelot! [She wakes.

I dreamed
That I was wandering in Bayonne,

Launcelot had great possessions in Bayonne (see Malory, Bk. xx, ch. 18); in fact, one is led to suppose that it was his native country.

uncrowned,
And suddenly, beside a dimpling river,
Found Launcelot lying, weeping bitterly;
But with the comfort of my face his tears
Were quickly staunched, and hand in hand we rambled,
Like children through the land, among the flowers;
And all our language was but “Guenevere”
And “Launcelot”; 'twas enough; it spoke our world.
Would I could paint my dream on cedar panels,
Locked with a golden key in pearléd doors,
That when the wild rebellion shakes my heart,
I might betake me to my secret shrine,
Kneel down before it, open it, and gaze
Until I dreamed again, and was at peace!
For now, awake, I am more lone than she
Who, roused at midnight by a riotous wind,
Thinks of her mariner mate, who, well she knows,
Except the good ship founder, will return.
But I am doomed to die, as I deserve,
Because I banished him who has alone
The power to save me; and my lord the King
Is wedded to his kingdom and the law.

[A voice is heard singing snatches of the Grail Hymn. The sound ceases.
Guen.
Whose voice is that? Elaine's? I would it were!
The child would comfort me, as oft she used.

[The voice is heard again. Guenevere opens the principal door and listens. The sound ceases.
Guen.
(calling).
Who sings so sweetly? Can it be Elaine? Elaine enters timidly.

Child, I am glad to see you. Fear me not.

Elaine.
I pray you grant me pardon for my fault
In coming; for with good intent I come;
Not proud nor prying; but to seek your grace;
And so to do you kindness, if I may,
Knowing your peril.

Guen.
(kissing her).
You are welcome, child;
There is no other soul that I would choose
To comfort me—save one.

Elaine.
I bring good tidings.

Guen.
What tidings can be good? Unless—

Elaine.
Unless
Sir Launcelot should return.

Guen.
(agitated).
What mean you? Speak!

Elaine.
Hither he rides, even now.

Guen.
Oh, say it again!
Say it a thousand times! I hear not truly!

Elaine.
Nay, 'tis quite sure; I came here unobserved,
And seeking for a chamber, found but one
Beside the lady Morgan's; so, by chance,
She and Sir Mordred talked within the window,
And thus she said as plain as bell-men cry—
That knowing by her craft where Launcelot lay,
She had despatched some messengers in haste
To bring him hither; and this very night,
If he take horse without delay, she said,
Before the clock toll twelve, he will be here.

Guen.
If he take horse! He would bestride a stag,
Failing a horse, or mount an eagle's back,
Or harness hounds to drag him to my feet,
Knowing me set in danger. How my blood
Rages, but late congealed in pools of fear!
I understand how sudden joy may kill. [Elaine leads her to the couch and tends her.

Child, am I comely still?

Elaine.
As beautiful
As ever, madam; though your face is white.

Guen.
But not my hair? Say not my hair is white!

Elaine.
Nay, tansy-tinted

“Leland commends Guithera, King Arthur's wife, for a fair flaxen hair” (Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, vol. iii, p. 91: George Bell & Sons, 1893). It is said that Henry II found the bodies of Arthur and Guenevere at Glastonbury, and that Guenevere had yellow hair (see Adam of Domerham's Historia de Rebus Gestis Glastoniensibus: Oxonii, 1727).

, as it ever was.

[Guenevere takes a mirror and looks in it.
Guen.
I have not dared my mirror for three days.
I am not ugly yet....Come, robe me, child. [She rises, Elaine also.

Now will I wear fair raiment once again,
Drink wine of joy, and ravenously feast
On happiness; for I have long been starved.

[Elaine robes her.
Elaine.
If these good tidings bring true happiness,
I too shall feast on joy.

Guen.
(startled).
How now? How now?
Is yours the preacher's mode—in honeyed cups
Mingling their sprigs of rue and rosemary,
To make them wholesome?

Elaine.
Pray you, be not wroth;
I heard the Lady Morgan—

Guen.
Well; say on.

Elaine.
She said the time had come for which she worked;
That Agravain was ready; that the crown
Would soon be fallen. Then they talked of wars,
Rebellions, banishments—I know not what;
I was affrighted; yet I deemed some ill
Must be intended.

Guen.
She is over-wise,
And ever loved to meddle in high matters,
Which I abhor; but yet to me so kind—
So kind to me and Launcelot—that I owe her
More gratitude than I can e'er repay.

Elaine.
Madam, do you remember how she told you
That Launcelot never would return? 'Tis strange
That now she should recall him.

Guen.
That is strange;
And now I mind that Launcelot warned me once
Against her; but I thought 'twas but excuse
For following the Grail and leaving me. [After a pause she looks again in the mirror.

What need to nurse cold care, foregather clouds,
And ponder on perplexities? [A clock strikes.

It smites
Midnight; no message yet; but if he come,
What matter Morgan, Mordred, Agravain,
Or any other creature? In his presence
Treason and slander perish.

[A slight knocking heard at the side door.
What is that?
Elaine.
The wind is rising.

Guen.
(aside).
It was Launcelot's knock. (To Elaine).

Child, you can leave me; whether Launcelot come
Or not, go you and pray for Guenevere. [She kisses Elaine, who goes out by the principal door.

Can it be he? 'Tis not my lord; he keeps
A vigil in the Abbey. [Knocking heard.

There again!
Why do I tremble? [Knocking heard.

Yet again! (She goes to the door and calls).

Who knocks? (With eager delight).

Launcelot! It is he! [She unfastens the door. Launcelot enters; not in armour, but wearing a sword. He fastens the door again.

My love! My love! [They embrace.

O noblest heart, that falters not from faith
And will not fail a woman, though she rage
Like the blind sea that rolls beneath Tintagil.

Launce.
Ah, Guenevere! I sicken when you scourge;
But when you heal me with kind looks renewed,
I count my stripes, for joy.

Guen.
They wish me dead—
A cruel death.

Launce.
But Morgan warned me well,
And I shall deal with Gawain in such wise
That none shall mock at innocence again.

Guen.
O faithful friend of perfect constancy! [In an attitude of supplication.

Beseech you, pardon my unjust rebuke.

Launce.
Nay, what have we to do with such observance?
For infinite compassion dwells with love,
Whose swift forgiveness runs before the deed;
And therefore I shall never sue for pardon,
Though lately causing you such sore displeasure;
Since all I need to know is—do you love me?

Guen.
Ah, ask the winds that wander round these turrets
What I have murmured to them every morn;
Or ask the birds that perch about my garden
What I have bidden them sing, when none is by;
Question the daffodil, that leans her head
To the wind's whisper, what she learnt of me,
When I bent down to fondle her bright tresses;
Or find out from the may-tree what I told her
When I drew down her blossom to my lips.

Launce.
And how much do you love me?

Guen.
Ah, too well!
The wizard moon knows that; each night complaining
To her bleached brilliance, I have cried, “Too well!”

Launce.
And how long will you love me?

Guen.
Only death
Can render you that answer. [They embrace

I can hear
The tumult of our love about your heart,
That never yet for sounded onset beat
So stormily. This is the happiest hour
That we shall ever know; for not again
Will equal accidents of pride and peril,
Of rescue and repentance, bring to birth
A meeting so immeasurably sweet.
[They sit.
We saw our bliss before us, height o'er height,
And height o'er height we mounted; stony ways
Obstructed not, nor dizziest gorge dismayed,
Nor heavy waters crashing, fall on fall;
Only we paused awhile in windless hollows,
To look upon the green expanded Earth,
Which then belonged to us, with all its glory.
But now we stand upon the summit; now
The road descends, and we recede from joy;
For though we keep our faces hither turned,
Our feet move backward to that unseen vale
Where each must tread a solitary path.
May it not be that when two souls have reached
The hour supreme, that eminence of time
That overtops all others, highest peak
Of all surmounted moments, it were well
To part for ever, rather than decline
To less delight and love that mimics love?
May it not be love's wisdom to perceive
The hour to part, as once the hour to meet?

Launce.
Nay, you are overwrought; imprisoned long
In peril, and so suddenly set free:
For surely in remembrance is the proof
Of love's probation; when around his head
The halo of remembrance hovers, then,
And not till then, he holds the right to rule
Two lives as one.

Guen.
(turning to the principal door, startled).
What sound was that?

Launce.
I heard none.

Guen.
(rising).
There, at the door, again! [Launcelot rises and moves towards the door.

Nay, let me listen. [She listens at the door and returns.

I hear the clash of armour in the entry.

Launce.
We are betrayed!

Guen.
Betrayed! Ah, say not so,
Else is our long love ended.

[Launcelot tries the side door and returns.
Launce.
It is barred.
Alas, that my desire to see your face
Should set your life in greater jeopardy! [Knocking heard at the principal door.

I could have dealt with Gawain; but these dogs,
If they denounce you—

Guen.
Arthur will condemn me.
Ah, 'tis my fate—the faggot and the flame!

[Knocking heard.
Launce.
To win a passage through contriving cowards
Should not be hard; and then if you be doomed,
Or suffer evil for my fault of love,
I will return with all my host, to rescue
And bring you to my country of Bayonne.

Agravain
(without).
Open, Sir Launcelot du Lake!

Guen.
That voice!
Too well I know it; Agravain's! He hounds me,
He plies me with pursuit remorselessly,
To push me deathwards. [She listens again at the door.

Many knights are there,
And surely armed; too many to resist.

Launce.
Have you no armour in the chamber?

Guen.
None;
Wherefore I sorely dread the hour is here
That I forecast in folly, when our joy
Must needs depart.

Launce.
Nay, never while we live.

Knights
(without).
Open, Sir Launcelot du Lake!

Guen.
This cry
Will pierce the Abbey walls! If Arthur hear—

Launce.
Now liefer than be lord of Christendom,
I would I had sure armour. Yet take courage;
For even if I die this chambering death—
I who have ever deemed a battlefield
The fittest deathbed—still, my kinsmen, friends,
And all the knights that hold their fiefs of me,
As certainly will snatch you from the doom
As if I live to lead them, and far hence
Will bear you to my land, to serve you there
And do you all the pleasure that they may.

Guen.
If you be slain, I shall not list to live,
But meekly for sake will take my death.

Knights
(without).
Open, Sir Launcelot du Lake!

Launce.
This clamour
Is full of shame and not to be endured;
Better to suffer death than such a siege.

Guen.
Kiss me farewell. [He kisses her.

Once more.

[He kisses her again.
Launce.
In wrong or right
I shall not fail you, saving I be slain.

Guen.
I shall not list to live, if you be slain,
But meekly for your sake will take my death.

[Battering at the door without.
Knights
(without).
Open, Sir Launcelot du Lake, false knight!

Launce.
Set open now the door, and let them enter.
Whatever shall be told of us hereafter,
This never shall be told—that you and I
To any storm of malice bowed our heads.

Guen.
Stay; let me bind my mantle on your arm. [She takes off her mantle and wraps it round his left arm.

For love or death, my token!

Launce.
Deathless love! [Battering without.

Now will I sell my life at such a price
That they shall rue the hour they compassed me.
Pray you stand near the door and set it wide
When I shall give the signal. (They take their places.)

Now, dear heart!

[Guenevere throws open the door. Agravain rushes in, followed by Mordred's Knights.
Agravain.
Yield, yield, foul traitor, brought to bay at last!

Launce.
Hold off, Sir Agravain! No place is this
For such dispute. To-morrow let our cause
Be tried before the King; since no intent
Of treason brought me hither. So go forth,
And let this scandal cease.

Agravain
(threatening).
Fie, fie, foul traitor!

Launce.
You cannot capture me alive, sweet sirs;
And if you take me dead, you get no worship;
For this is caitiff work, for ten in harness
To set on one unarmed.

Agravain.
Nay, cease your language,
Nor strive to put dishonour off on us
That rests on you, to be discovered here.
You cannot strive against us all; cry mercy,
And we will bear you safely to the King.

Launce.
Ha! Is no better grace with you than this,
To do unseemly battle in this room?
Then keep yourselves. (Drawing his sword)
The Queen!

[He attacks Agravain.
Agravain
(engaging).
The King!

Knights.
The King!

[They fight. Arthur, attended by Morgan and Mordred, enters by the side door, just as Launcelot strikes down Agravain and escapes; the other Knights giving way before his furious assault and following him. Guenevere swoons, falling on the couch. Rain and wind are heard at the casement; the moon is clouded.
Morgan.
My lord, are you convinced?

Guen.
(still unconscious).
Ah, Launcelot, Launcelot!

ACT V

Scene I.—

A street near Westminster Abbey.
Time.—Michaelmas; late afternoon; evening gradually closes in during the scene.
Citizens pass to and fro. Liones and Linet enter from opposite sides.
Liones.
Ah, sweet Linet, 'tis good to see your face;
As good as sunshine on a Christmas Day.

Linet.
Dear sister Liones, have you returned
But now to London?

Liones.
Yes, this very morn;
And, as you see me, hasting to your house.
Have you no tidings of our husbands?

Linet.
None;
France is far off, and Bayonne far in France.

Liones.
Oh, what a thing is war, to separate souls
Firm in the treaty of their wedded peace!

Linet.
Nay, wives and husbands need to be apart
Sometimes; 'tis wholesome.

Liones.
Ah, you love not Gaheris
As I love Gareth.

Linet.
Never dare to say so;
Not all distempers show upon the skin.

Liones.
Well, they must do their duty. But now tell me
How it all happened; for I have not heard
Save cross, opposing rumours.

Linet.
First of all,
Sir Lamorak confessed that he had poisoned
The wine that killed Sir Dagonet, whereof
The Queen had stood accused; next, much debate
Was held in Council by the King, wherefrom
The outcome was that Guenevere was sent
To Camelot for her residue of life,
And Launcelot banished from the realm. 'Tis said
That Arthur would have been content to leave
The issue thus, but Mordred drove him on
To purge his honour; wherefore he departed
To ravage Launcelot's lands in far Bayonne,
Appointing Mordred regent of the realm— Kay enters, overhearing.

To keep at bay the heathen Saxon hordes,
Lest they should carry you and me away,
To live upon the banks of Tweed and cook
The chieftain's dinner in a wattled hut.

Kay.
Dame, you say truth; and I will tell you this,
That never was more solemn charge delivered
To any living man than Arthur gave
To Mordred, when he left him in his place
To keep the kingdom: there was no man there
But well-nigh wept to hear those heavy words.

Linet.
Would we had heard them, sir; but women come not
Into men's councils, though 'tis known our wit
Is sharper than their wisdom.

Kay.
But your wit
Is like your needles, better used at home.
But oh! 'twas wonderful to hear the King;
It seemed almost as if an angel spoke,
And all his knights stood hushed. I call to mind
His mien, his majesty, his very words:
“Fair nephew, in my absence over seas,
I make you regent and do so proclaim you;
To keep sure watch and ward from coast to coast,
To punish lawlessness and treacherous deeds,
And, more than all, the fraud of friend on friend,
The most pernicious sin that men commit,
And most abhorred of God. If this you do,
There never was a king, and never will be,
Greater than you. We meet not soon again,
For I depart to-morrow to the ships;
We meet not soon, but yet we surely meet;
If not before, at least where all must bring
Their books of stewardship; but, if on earth,
Till then I give you England; whom I love
As others love their wives or paramours;
Whereby I lose God's favour, since the Christ
Alone is worthy of the heart's desire.
Till then I give you England; oh, defend her!
Guide her in wisdom, and in wisdom love her,
Next to the Christ, and better than yourself.
If war must be, be terrible in war;
If peace may be, ensue it; but take heed,
In either maintenance, that inward war,
The conflict of the spirit, ceases not,
Lest truce be made with evil. So farewell;
Face your high task, and be your great reward
The fearless conscience of fidelity.”

Liones.
You have a marvellous memory.

Kay.
I have;
I am so seasoned with remembering things,
That even those I would forget, I cannot—
To wit, my daughter's follies.

Linet
(aside to Liones).
Let us not
Allow him audience for his daughter's follies,
Else are we here till midnight. (To Kay)

Have you heard
How fares the Queen?

Kay.
I had but now a letter
Delivered, from Elaine, and she reports—
But then, of course, she is a holy woman,
And such are oft mistaken in the things
Pertaining to the world—but she reports
That most religiously the Queen behaves.

Linet.
Poor heart, 'tis most unlike her! For she loved
Laughter; but yet she was no evil woman.

Liones.
Much to her charge was laid of things she knew not.

Kay.
Yet was she faithless to a noble husband.

Linet.
Noble he is; but yet, methinks, no husband:
He lives not in the flesh, but in the spirit:
He loved a false friend better than his wife,
'Tis said he banished Launcelot from the realm
Sorely against his will, and made such sorrow
That well-nigh he was mad.

Kay.
'Tis true, he was;
And well do I remember his lament:
“Alas! Another queen I might have had,
And not so false; but who shall found again
A fellowship of knights, to help the world,
Like this that now is broken.” Then he wept.

Liones.
It makes me weep to hear it.

Kay.
Launcelot wept
Also, and lifted up his voice and cried,
“Alas, to leave this noble Christian land,
Where I great part of all my worship won,
It hurts my heart, as it were stung by spears.”

Liones.
Pray, sir, no more remember.

Linet.
He was loved
By men and women both.

Kay.
And yet he loved
No woman, save the Queen.

Liones.
'Tis sad to see
Such sweet, proud persons so perplexed by Fate. [Cheers are heard without.

But who comes hither?

Kay.
Had you been in London,
You would not need to ask.

Linet.
It is the regent;
Like dogs that bark for joy to see their master,
The people follow him and shout applause,
And all the women, leaning from their windows,
Crying “Sir Mordred,” wave their clouts and kerchiefs.

Kay.
'Tis an ill sight, for I mistrust him sorely;
God keep us all; I would the King were here.

[Mordred enters, with Morgan, Knights, and Ladies, gaily dressed, amid a throng of people, cheering him. The Attendants carry torches. Mordred bows graciously to the people; the Ladies laugh and kiss their hands; all is festal and gay. The Innkeeper comes out of his door and welcomes the party, who enter, and as the door closes behind them, the stage is left in darkness.

Scene II.—

The interior of the Abbey Church of Avelion (Glastonbury), near a richly carved tomb, round which candles are burning. The cloisters can be seen through an open door.
Time.—Christmas.
Guenevere, Elaine, and other Ladies are discovered kneeling round the tomb. The Monks are chanting in the chancel.
Launcelot enters. Elaine and the Ladies rise. The Ladies pass into the cloisters; Elaine lingers, and after the Ladies have passed, approaches Launcelot.
Elaine.
Why have you followed her, to vex her soul
And spoil the peace that she has found at last?

Launce.
What peace can be for her, except of love?

Elaine.
The veil has fallen from her eyes; she sees
The eternal beacon of the love of God.
Rend, rend the veil that likewise shrouds your sight!
See where in heaven she walks and saints attend her!
Irradiantly fair, she points the way,
Beyond the barriers of mortal sense,
Beyond the narrow tourney of the world;
She points the way to where true souls are merged
And made one spirit, sinless in God's sight.

Launce.
Nay, counsel me no more; the time is past
For taking counsel; what is done is done.
Her destiny is mine, or else her lips
Alone shall speak my doom.

Elaine.
(solemnly).
May God direct her,
And give her courage to renounce false joy.

[She follows the Ladies, leaving Guenevere kneeling. Launcelot approaches Guenevere, who, after a moment, also rises to go out, but is arrested on seeing Launcelot.
Guen.
(trembling).
Launcelot! Ah me! I thought not to have seen
Your face again.

Launce.
How should I rest from England,
Hearing that Mordred had usurped the throne,
That you had fled for safety to Avelion,
And Arthur turned, for vengeance on that serpent,
Across the sea again, with all his host?
How should I rest, while you might be defenceless
Or Arthur need my succour?

Guen.
He is dead.

[Launcelot seems stunned, and speaks as if in a dream.
Launce.
What voice of doom knells horror in my ears?

Guen.
(indicating the tomb).
Yonder he lies.

Launce.
Then woe is me for ever!

Guen.
Soon as my lord had disembarked from France
He marched on Mordred, whom he found encamped
Beside the sea, in Lyoness; and there
The spirit of Sir Gawain came by night—

Launce.
Is Gawain dead?

Guen.
He perished of the wound
You gave him before Benwick, in Bayonne.

Launce.
Said you his spirit visited the King?

Guen.
The night before the battle—yes; to warn him
That if he fought upon the morrow morn,
He would be slain and all his knights destroyed.
So then my lord was minded for a truce;
But by misventure and mistrust, they joined
The battle in the morning; host on host,
They rushed and rode, they struck on either side
Grim strokes, the livelong day, until the dusk;
And never was there seen in Christian land
So dolorous a combat. But my lord
Fought ever in the medley; where the press
Was thickest and the peril most extreme
He rode throughout the field and wearied not;
And even the traitor Mordred did such deeds
As he had never done in honour's cause.
So, as the day wore on, the noble knights
Were laid to the cold ground, till none alive
Was left with Mordred, none with Arthur left,
Except Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere,
And they sore wounded; then my lord espied
Where Mordred leaned upon a sword, alone,
Amid a grisly heap of slaughtered men;
And therewith took a spear in both his hands
And ran upon him, crying, “Traitor, die!”
Each on the other ran and each smote each;
Mordred was pierced and fell upon the field,
But Arthur was borne hither, and he died
Here in my arms; and yonder now he lies.

[She conducts him to the tomb, weeping. Chant heard within.
Launce.
Futurity's unslumbering eyes shall weep
For ever for the worth entombéd there
Of perfect chivalry and high estate
Of valour and of virtue. Flower of knighthood!
Yours is the measure by which nations judge
Their princes, happy if they touch the mark;
For men shall cry, when knighthood is no more,
“Would that the days of Arthur might return!
For then was duty plainly understood,
And then was labour dutifully done,
And then was pleasure honestly enjoyed.”

Guen.
Alas, that we ourselves have broke the rule!

Launce.
Alas, that ever I was born to look
On this amazement.

Guen.
By ourselves 'twas wrought!
The noblest on the earth was brought to death,
His fellowship disparted, and the land
Deluged with desolation, by the love
That we together loved.

Launce.
(approaching her).
You say the truth;
But hence the greater cause that we should cling
More nearly to each other. For to them
Who hazard all for love, to them at least
Must love be all in all, when all is lost.
So Love alone, the pilot of our lives
Who steered us into storm, can bring us safe
To harbourage of solace, far remote
From evil voices, to rejoice our days
In close communion of wedlock.

Guen.
(recoiling).
No!
Death rears between us this impassable sign, [Pointing to the tomb.

This dread memorial of our guilt divides us
For ever. I am set in sorest plight
For my soul's health. I must to Amesbury go,
With these my women, there to take the vows
And live the life; my portion must be penance,
Fasting and prayer; and therefore, in God's name,
I pray you to forsake my presence. Turn,
Turn to your realm again, too long forsaken,
To keep it from the woe and waste of war;
Perchance to wed a happy wife and found
A more enduring dynasty than this
That falls with Arthur—

Launce.
Would you that I wed?
Would you I left this land and took a wife?
That shall I never do; I am not wont
To be unfaithful; but the fate you follow
That shall I follow; if you seek perfection,
By abstinence and holy services,
I, by endurance of like discipline,
Shall keep allegiance flawless to the end.

Guen.
I would be loath to hold you to your promise;
Not easily could you forsake the world.

Launce.
Nay, what should hinder me?
Bereft of you,
My force decays, my fount of fame is dry.
For you alone my greatest deeds were done;
I saw your face before me as I rode,
I heard your voice beside me as I smote;
For I take God to witness that in you
Has been my earthly solace and delight.

Guen.
Nay, leave such thoughts.

Launce.
Why bid me leave the thoughts
That were the main creators of my might?
We paltered not with love, for pastime; no,
Nor yet surrendered to a foe despised;
But freely, each to each, we plighted troth,
And freely kept the bond. Then let us flee
O'er the wide waters severing us from woe,
Unbridged by sorrows of the northern land,
To fair Bayonne, that waits for you to rule,
As vineyards wait for sunshine.

Guen.
(recoiling.)
Launcelot, no!
My lips have done with laughter; and with love.
Savours of death would taint our sweet endearments;
A realm in dissolution would infect
Our pleasant passion. Torture me no more!
Urge me no more and torture me no more!
By all the long delight we twain have proved
Together, I beseech you that we meet
Never again on earth.

Launce.
Wild words of wrong!
For we, of all true lovers in the world,
Have need to cherish one another most,
Being of other comfort most bereft.

Guen.
Nay, we must part; there is no help, no help!
For I have loved you so, that my heart serves not
To look upon your face.

She weeps and nearly swoons. Launcelot supports her.
Launce.
For all your faults
Love gives you absolution. By these tears
I claim you for my own.

Chant heard within. Guenevere starts away.
Guen.
Hark, hark, they sing!

The Ladies enter. Guenevere moves towards them, leaving Launcelot stricken and amazed.
Launce.
stretching out his arms to her
Cast me not out of the sunshine of your presence;
There is no darkness that I fear to enter,
Save severance from you.

Guen.
By day and night
My constant prayer shall rise, “God comfort you.”
But as for me, I know that death draws near,
Whereafter, by the grace of God, I hope
To see the face of Christ, whom they behold
That once were much more sinful. As the sound
That men departing on far journeys hear,
Who, climbing from the hamlet of their birth,
Look from the hill to bid farewell, and catch
Faint noises rising from the russet homes
Of childhood, so is worldly joy to me.

She moves towards the door
Launce.
(following).
Ah, Guenevere! Unjust! Return, return! (With a bitter cry)

Ah, Guenevere! You slay me! Guenevere!

Guenevere goes out, the Ladies following.
Launce.
Ah, what avail great labour and great love?
Here Chivalry lies shattered; and there Love
Is cloistered in cold walls and lost for ever.
O variable World! In you no stay
Is found, nor anything on Earth to trust.

[He casts himself down by the tomb.

THE DEATH OF LAUNCELOT

Now pray we all that we may never know
The grief of Launcelot, when he came too late
To rescue Arthur and his host from death
And found the Queen encloistered: when she cried
(Because her soul rebelled against her flesh)
“By all the love that moved between us twain,
I charge you that you see my face no more.”
Then took Sir Launcelot courage and was cheered:
But when he heard his comrade's dolorous tale
Of all the men, whom he had loved and led,
Perished, like wandering sheep in mountain snow,
By his default, his heart was like to burst
For very sorrow; and he cried, “Alas!”
And “Who may trust the world?” Then, kneeling down,
He prayed the Bishop to confess and shrive him;
And after he had sojourned there awhile
And marked the calmness of the life recluse,—
How free from pleasure false and fierce debate
Of things unworthy; how by winding stream,
In flowery meadow, or bird-haunted wood,
The soul converses with herself and God,—
He was full fain to join the brotherhood;
And when Sir Bedivere perceived him set
In that determination, he besought
The Bishop likewise; who, with glad assent,
Administered the sacred vow; and there
They served God, day and night, with prayer and fasting.
Meanwhile Sir Launcelot's host at Dover lay;
But all his kindred sought him through the land,
From end to end; and rumour ran abroad
That he was lodging in that lonely cell.
Wherefore Sir Bors through field and forest rode,
With seven redoubted knights; until they came
To those hoar hills, and there alighting found
Sir Launcelot, clothed in vesture of a priest;
Who greeted them with courtesy more grave
Than once he used at Camelot, in the days
Of England's glory and of Arthur's might.
But when, abiding there for many moons,
They saw the noblest knight of Christendom
The lowliest tasks perform, and vex his flesh
With abstinence and penance so extreme,
They felt no force within them to depart,
But fain to follow his perfection, sought
An equal discipline; forsook delight
Of honour and of love, renounced the world,
And let their horses wander where they would.
Six years they suffered thus, and waxed full lean
And feeble, like old men whose life is past;
Till thrice upon a summer night there came
A vision to Sir Launcelot, warning him
The Queen lay dead at Amesbury; for there
Had she been abbess of the sisterhood
These seven years past: so, long before the dawn,
He roused the fellowship and told his dream,
And how he purposed, ere another eve,
To prove the vision, if 'twere true or false.
Then all agreed to bear him company,
And take their last adventure; how unlike
The knightly fortune that they welcomed once,
When sword on helmet rang and spear on shield,
For damsel's rescue or for traitor's doom!
So all the day they journeyed, wending slow,
By wood and wold, and halting oft to rest,
Like weary palmers; till at eve they reached
The vale of Amesbury, where, bowered in elms,
By slanting sunset lit, the convent stood;
And there a bell was sadly tolling. Soon
They came within the gates, and found the nuns
Expectant, gathered by the cloister door;
And one, a maid of many winters, spoke:
“The Queen is dead; but yesternight she passed;
And well she knew, Sir Launcelot, that you came
To bear her to Avelion's holy Isle
And bury her beside her lord, the King;
This was her message, this the last desire
She charged you to perform; for night and day
And ever to her utmost hour she prayed
To see you with her earthly eyes no more.”
Then was Sir Launcelot to the chamber led,
To see the corse of her whom he had loved;
Whom still he loved, in spite of fate and death.
Alone they left him there. In raiment white,
Clasping a crucifix upon her breast,
She lay; the wind was hushed; the moon was risen;
Full on her placid face the radiance fell;
Her fair long hair, from touch of death immune,
Shone like the gold that borders sacred forms
Illuminate; she seemed a child asleep,
Unheedful of her toys, her tears forgot.
Long time he gazed, yet wept not overmuch,
But oft he sighed; and when the solemn sound
Of chaunting from the Church arose, he kneeled;
And lo! there hovered in the crystal beam
That slanted from the casement to the couch,
A snow-white dove, and in her mouth she bore
A little censer, that the chamber filled
With fragrance and the savour of a joy
More wonderful than any earthly woe.
Therewith Sir Launcelot fell in such a trance
He wist not where he was; until there came
A fair young child, who took him by the hand
And led him to the Church; and there they sang
The service of the matins and the mass.
But well he understood some wonder worked,
And issuing forth from holy rites performed
And benediction given, he spied a bier,
Apparelled in white samite, to the gates
Drawn by eight horses, black, with trappings black;
Yet none might see who led them; round about
A hundred torches burnt, yet none might see
Who were the bearers. All had been ordained,
So Launcelot deemed, for burial of the Queen;
Wherefore he caused her to be carried forth
With due observances and laid thereon;
But they who had her in their charge perceived
That hands invisible their office helped
And unseen fingers ranged the funeral robes.
So when in seemly order all was done,
With one accord the stately horses paced;
And ever Launcelot and his brethren went
Beside them, reading many an orison,
With frankincense upon the corse incensed;
And ever, round about, the torches burnt.
O'er Avon Bridge the dark procession passed
Up the green valley to the barren Plain,
Where, from afar, those Sarsen

The word used in the district. It is derived from Saracen, denoting something foreign to the place.

rocks are seen,
Like giant witches by their doorways crouched—
The dusky piers and lintels of Stonehenge:
Shrine of the Sun and Serpent; Light and Shade
Alternate, till the summer solstice dawns,
And o'er the Hele Stone, to the Altar hurled,
The Sun-god's bright victorious javelin flies.
By domes of turf the dark procession passed,
'Mid spikes of juniper, like minarets
Dwarfed and funereal; tombs of warrior lords,
Christian or Pagan, and of tribes that fell
Fighting for their religion, false or true.
And lo! Sir Launcelot saw the dead arise
Out of their pits, like clouds that wreath and curl
To human semblance; Hengist, with his host,
And those whom Hengist treacherously slew;
Ambrosius, with the men who fought for Christ,
And multitudes of long-forgotten fame:
Noiseless they moved and silently they stood,
Watching the Queen's last progress, to the grave:
No sound was heard, except of horses' hooves,
Beating a measure to the fitful wind
Appointed in that empty place to sigh.
Across the haunted Plain the horses paced,
Over the Bourne and over Berwick Down,
Along the Vale of Wily and the stream,
To Warminster; and there the village folk
Came peering from their lattices and doors,
Or gathered gazing in the narrow street,
And, here and there, a child or woman shrieked
In terror of that strange and ghostly sight.
But on and on the stately horses pressed,
Regardless, and the mourners with them marched,
Miraculously strengthened, like the seer
Who fled from Jezreel to the Mount of God.
Circling the bastion huge and most extreme
Of Wilton uplands toward the setting sun,
They entered Selwood's bracken-bordered glade,
Where now no more the birds' ten thousand throats
Were trilling, but the robin sang alone,
Quavering as clearly as an elfin reed
Breathed on by elfin lips. As glow-worms light
The dewy mosses of an autumn lane,
So gleamed the torches in the great arcades
Of elm and oak, till far across the Frome
The knights obedient followed, like men lost,
Whom guardian fairies with their lanterns lead,
And, traversing the forest to the verge,
Beheld the Tor upon Avelion's Isle,
Between red scrolls of sundown darkly set
And wrapt with many waters. Broad and calm,
Across the mead, the lake enlustred lay,
And near the land a little vessel hoved

See hoving, above.

,
With one white sail; and thither led the track,
And thither paced the horses, wending slow.
But when the mourners to the mere had come,
They found the shallop moored beside the marge,
Where lapped the water in a narrow pool
Against the reeds and rushes. It was draped
With purple to the water's edge, and bore
A couch, bedight with richest cloth of gold,
O'erspread with flowers fresh-gathered; holy herbs,
Signed with the symbols of the death of Christ,
And lilies marked with woe. An ancient man,
So white and wan, he seemed like Merlin's wraith,
Stood by the helm, who uttered not a word,
But beckoned them to enter. Aided still
By arms invisible, they raised the Queen
And laid her on the couch; the torches shone
With flickering shadows on her placid face,
On Launcelot and his fellows, sad and stern,
The wizard helmsman and the waters wide,
As pallid moonlight touched the mere with mist.
As soon as they embarked, a wind arose,
That blew them swiftly to the Holy Isle;
Where straight upon the shore the vessel ran,
Beside a coign of stone, beneath the hill,
That loomed above them, crowned with glimmering light.
Therewith the monks across the meadows came,
A line of trailing darkness

The Abbey of Glastonbury was Benedictine, and therefore the dress of the monks was black.

, dimly seen
Beneath the cloud-wrack of a fleeting moon,
Led by the Bishop of the ivied cell,
Here summoned to a council of wise men,
To bring again lost order to the land;
Who, when he saw Sir Launcelot and his friends,
Embraced them tenderly and spoke grave words
Of ghostly comfort. Then he gave command,
And up the grassy slope, by shadowy shapes
Attended, or by shadows that seemed shapes,
Amid the monks and mourners, and the flame
Of flaring torches, moving as they moved,
The dead was borne, in silence, to the dead.
From dark to dawn, beside King Arthur's tomb,
Where lay the body of the Queen, they kept
A vigil in the Abbey, chaunting psalms
And oft-repeated dirges; but when rose
The solemn light that pales the East, and warns
Unhappy creatures of the doom of day,
Came Arthur's sisters, Elaine and Morgause,
Who held their sovereignty of Arthur's crown,
With twelve fair damsels, clad in garb of grief,
Bearing Arabian spices, ambergris,
And aromatic gums, with cloth of Raines,
The finest woven; whom well the monks received
And courtly greeted, as beseemed their state.
Then spoke Morgause, the elder, fairest dame
Of Lothian and of Orkney: “Reverend sirs,
Hither we come to pay our homage, due
To her who was of women peerless Queen,
And paramount of ladies in the land;
And forasmuch as homage to the dead
Is nought, unless the living love endure,
We ask you to commit her to our care,
To robe her for the tomb, as oft before
We robed her for the pageant or the feast;
For therefore have we journeyed, being warned
By dreams insistent, now too well confirmed.”
Then said Elaine, the Queen of Garlot: “None
Loved queenship less than Guenevere, and none
Loved to be loved so dearly;” but her voice
Wavered and broke, impeded by her tears,
As breaks a rivulet that meets the sea.
So all was done according to their will;
The deep humiliation of dread death
To mitigate by obsequies of love,
With reverent hands, the lustral rites performed,
They wrapped their sister's corse in thirty fold
Of ceréd cloth of Raines, with Orient balms
And resins; while their damsels, to and fro
Oft passing, ministered, like angels bright
That up and down the heavenly causeway throng,
To help the heaviness of human fate;
Nor was there one so hardy but she wept
To see that form, once marvellously fair
Beyond men's dream, so wasted with long woe.
So was the Queen arrayed for sepulture;
Whereafter she was wound in web of lead,
Closed in a marble coffin, richly carved;
But soon as Night, who holds the stars aloof
From Earth's disquietude, had passed, and all
Avelion was assembled in the Church,
The Bishop sang the Mass of Requiem
With great devotion; and Sir Launcelot first
And then his followers offered; that the souls
Of Guenevere, of Arthur, and the knights
Who perished in the battle for their sake
Might never lack, for their eternal rest,
The intercession of perpetual prayer.
But when due honour to the dead was done,
Deep into earth the marble coffin lowered,
Beside the marble coffin of the King,
And all the folk departed, save the man
Whose grief than theirs was greater, as the sea
Is greater than the pools of thunder-rain,
He cast him down o'er that belovéd dust
And wept the tears that are the hot, salt sweat
Of souls in anguish. Long in swoon he lay,
Until the Bishop came and wakened him
With words of wise reproof: “You be to blame
To sorrow thus without restraint or stint;
God is displeased when men are drowned in grief
For loss of earthly love, or sick remorse
For fond offences.”
“Not for lost delight
I sorrow,” Launcelot answered; “but God knows
I sorrow in remembering those fair lives,—
His chivalry, her beauty, and of both
The noblesse unsurpassed, and how my fault
And my outrageous pride have laid them low,
Who among Christian people had no peers,—
Their kindness, my unkindness, like a spear
So stings me to the heart-root, that I die.”
And so it fell that ever from that hour
He sickened more and more, until the folk
Who came, with eyes of wonder to behold
The world's most noble knight, discerned him not,
So dwindled in his stature had he grown,
And like a tree forwintered

“For” is often used by Malory as an intensive prefix, as in “forbled” and “forfoughten.”

, bent and gray;
For ever, fasting, day and night he prayed,
With penance, or lay grovelling on the tomb
Of Guenevere and Arthur; and he slept
But broken slumber, full of phantom fear.
So he endured; until a day, when lawns
Were strewn with leaves and swallows flocked for flight,
Lying upon his bed, with dreary voice
He prayed the Bishop for the Christian rights
Due to a dying man, for well he knew
His careful body into earth must go;
And after he was houselled and aneled,
He called his friends beside him and gave charge
That they should bury him in Joyous Guard

See Malory, Bk. x, ch. 52, and Bk. xxi, ch. 12.

,
His castle hard by Bamborough, that he won
With his own hands, where oft in former days
He had reposed himself, with friends elect,
For cheer and comfort after knightly toil.
And, so it chanced, Sir Ector

Not Ector the father of Kay, but Ector de Maris (see Malory, Bk. vi, ch. 9).

rode that way,
Sir Launcelot's brother, who for seven sad years
Had sought him through all England and all Wales;
And when he saw the light and heard the sound
Of chaunting in the Church, he reined his horse,
Listening; the while upon his armour fell
A beam that dappled casque to habergeon
With gules and azure from a window lit
By many tapers. Long he tarried; fear
Lay heavy at his heart, because they sang
The psalms of lamentation; fear enforced
His impulse to alight and pass within,
Where knelt his former comrades round the corse,
In clerkly vesture clothed. He knew them not,
But trembling stood; until Sir Bors approached
And whispered that Sir Launcelot lay there dead:
Then when his brother's visage he beheld,
He wept and swooned; and waking, wept again,
With loud complaint, more bitter than the wail
Of women, reft of suckling babes; and thus,
When grief could win to words, he made lament:
“Ah, Launcelot, head of chivalry, unmatched
Of any earthly hand! The staunchest friend
That e'er bestrode a horse; the sternest foe
That e'er put spear in rest! In press of knights
The goodliest person, and in bower or hall
The meekest and the gentlest! None so kind
Has ever wielded sword; no man so true,
Of sinful men, has ever loved a woman!
Who now shall lead us to the battle? Who
Array us in the tourney? Knighthood lies
Dead, and our vows are folly.” With that word
He cast away his sword and shield and helm,
Renouncing useless arms; and then was made
Such dole as wretched mariners may make,
Deserted by their sea-mates in a sea
Where no ships pass, on some uncharted isle.
So there they buried him in Joyous Guard,
Sir Launcelot du Lake, the greatest heart,
But yet unhappy, that e'er throbbed on earth;
And oft in after years the Bishop mused
The meaning of his dream, and now rejoiced
And now was sorrowful; not knowing the end,
And doubtful of the vision, whence it came.