University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—In the edge of a wood a cavalcade has dismounted and the horses are tethered among the trees. In the background Merlin sits alone on a high place, looking at the towers of Cameliard, which are seen hazily in the distance. A group of Knights, seated in the foreground under a large oak tree, have just ended their repast and the attendants bring them beakers of wine. In this group may be noted Sir Lionel, Sir Ector De Maris, Sir Bors De Ganys, and Sir Galahault. King Arthur and Sir Launcelot walk apart in private talk.
Ector.
Thou hast not loved, Sir Bors.

Lionel.
But I love, cousin—
As fair a maid as e'er wore taffeta.
By the Round Table, lords, I think no knight
A truer lover! Yet hold I with my brother,
Friendship is nobler.

Ector.
Were thy lady here,
Thou durst not say it.

Lionel.
Why, who tells truth to women?
They love us better for a soft deceit
And feed on lies like sweetmeats.

Ector.
There are friends
Who play the rogue too and are branded false.
But false in love too often is a jest
Or flaunts itself for virtue. Still my faith is
That loyal love is the most goodly fruit
That grows out of men's hearts.

Bors.
But loyal friendship,
A fruit let fall by angels out of heaven,
A thing to die for!

Galahault.
Ay, at need; but love
A thing to live for—this is bitterer.

Lionel.
Call you life bitter?

Galahault.
Is the rind so sweet?
I can conceive a man so weary of life
That he would quaff mandragora to the drains
As revellers drink wine. Do you conceive,
His nearest friend beseeching, such a man
Would forego his carouse? But if his love
Came to him saying “Live, for I bid thee live,”
Though life and love alike were bitterness,
He would pour out the sweet death in the dust.

Bors.
Love seeks a guerdon; friendship is as God,
Who gives and asks no payment.

Galahault.
Tut, ye are boys.
Ye deem of love as children play at arms
And wit not what a slain man is. Heard ye
Never of Arcite and of Palamon
That were good knights of old and as true friends
As e'er faced death together? Yet one day,
Seeing a fair lady in a garden close,
They fell a-wrangling. Faith, they were as twins,
Inseparate from the womb; and yet swift love,
In less space than a man might look and say
“Lo there!” hath sundered them.

Bors.
Look where the King
And Launcelot walk together. Think you that they
Would fall out for a girl?

Galahault.
Strange things ere now
Have happened and the memory of men
Outlived them. Yonder, dreaming in the sun,
Behold the towers of Cameliard! Think you
The King, for love of Launcelot, would yield
The white enlacing arms of Guenevere,
Who waits there for the splendor of his coming
To make her Queen of Britain?

Lionel.
Launcelot would,
If he were Arthur and Arthur Launcelot.
And yet I think that Arthur's love is thin
And substanceless to that which Launcelot
Bears the mysterious Lady of the Hills
Whom none have ever seen.

Galahault.
No fickle lover
Can prove the glory and the might of love.
The King has loved—and more than twice, I think.

Lionel.
Ay, he has been a gay dog in his day.

Bors.
He is the sun. If there be spots in him,
I will not look upon them.

Lionel.
Nay, brother,
God shield I speak ill of the King. No man
This side of dotage loves him more than I.
I spoke of trivial faults. What one of us,
Unless it be yourself or Launcelot,
Hath not the like to answer? Even the tale
The common tongue hath of the Queen of Orkney—
How is it more? They knew not of the bond
That made their sin more than the heat of youth
Might—

Bors.
Hush! it is half treason but to think
What we give words to.

Ector.
Morgause, the Queen of Orkney!
A strange dark woman!

Galahault.
But a beauteous one.

[The Knights rise at the approach of the King.]
Arthur.
We almost touch our journey's end, my lords.
Expected joy is like a maid that nears
With coy delay and timorous advance,
Eluding our stretched hands. So have I thought
To-day would never reach us; yet it dawns.
And ere the sun sets in the western sea,
Your swords shall serve a Queen.

Ector.
Long live the Princess!

Lionel.
But not as princess long! Long live the Queen!
A beaker to the bride!

All.
Long live the Queen!

[Enter a Lady, attended by a Dwarf. She throws herself at the King's feet.]
Lady.
If ever you inclined your ear to sorrow,
Be pitiful and hear me!

Arthur.
Pray you, rise.

Lady.
Nay, I will statue here until you grant
My prayer.

Arthur.
You wrong yourself. What is your grief?

Lady.
Far back within the impenetrable hills
The mighty Turquine dwells—of those fierce tribes
Who yet acknowledge not our Saviour Christ
But worship barbarous and obscure gods,—
A wicked knave!—a cruel, treacherous villain!—
One whose delight is chiefly to work wrong
To all that call on Mary and her Son!
This unbelieving dog in his foul lair
With momentary tortures racks the bones
Of my true lover. Me, as well, he seized
And set his love on me—if that be love
Which such a beast so names—and swore an oath
To bind us each, if I received him not,
And make my living lord the pillow to
His savage purpose. But I, by God's help,
Beguiled him and escaped; and with this weak
But faithful servitor, through lidless nights
And days that burned like fever in my brain,
Lurked in the caverns of the hills and made
The wild goats my companions.—Now, for thine oath's sake
And in the name of all fair ladies wronged,
O King, I cry you, do me right.

Arthur.
Now by
My sword Excalibur, it were great shame
Forever to all knighthood if thy plight
Went unredressed. But I have that in hand
To-day which more imports me than the wrongs
Of all the world. To-day I take a wife.
It were a great dishonor if the feast
Were furnished and the bridegroom came not. Therefore
Set on with us to Cameliard. To-morrow
We will set forth with all our chivalry
To hawk at this foul quarry.

Lady.
Oh, my lord,
Think how each lapsing moment the quick groans
Of my chained lover clamor for release.
Wilt thou be like that recreant who said,
“I have a wife and therefore cannot come,”
When the Lord of Heaven bade him? Nay then, I see
You are even as other men, whom I had thought
To be almost divine. I know I come
Unseasonably. Grief hath, my lord, a license
To overpass the bounds of courtesy.—
Oh, is there none in all this chivalry
To piece his prayers to mine?

Launcelot.
My lord the King,
I claim this quest. Go you to Cameliard
And have no care at heart. I, with three others,
Will seek and slay this Turquine, and set free
His mangled captives.

Lady.
Thou and but three else?

Launcelot.
It is sufficient.

Lady.
Alas, you do not know
The peril of the enterprise!

Arthur.
Fear not.
It is Sir Launcelot of the Lake. He wonts not
To fail of his pledged word.—My Launcelot,
I had wished that you should be on my right hand;
But since it may not be—Our Lady speed you!

Launcelot.
Amen. Fair joy be to your bridal, Arthur!
Farewell!—Now who's with me?

Lionel.
I.

Bors.
I.

Ector.
And I.

Lady.
You are brave men. Come victory or defeat,
I am bound to you forever.

Launcelot.
Nay, we do
No more but our mere duties. Lead us on.
I know the mountain paths of old. Armor
And steeds would cumber us. We'll go afoot,
Armed no more heavily than now we stand.
Farewell, my liege! And farewell, gentlemen!
We'll drink your healths ere long in Camelot.

[Exeunt Launcelot, Bors, Ector, Lionel, the Lady, and the Dwarf.]
Arthur.
Ah, Galahault, with fifty men like that,
I would shape this old world like a putty-ball.—
Set on to Cameliard.

[Enter a Messenger.]
Messenger.
My lord the King!
King Mark of Cornwall has renounced his fealty
And with a mighty army is encamped
Upon your borders. Sir Godmar, the Lord Marshal,
Has ta'en the field against him, but beseeches
You haste to his relief.

Arthur.
Now, by my crown,
I will not go. The heavens conspire to block
My progress to the towers that hold my bride.
But stood the Archangel Michael in the way,
This marriage should not wait. We will go on;
To-morrow morn is time enough for Mark.
Sir Galahault, our Queen shall be your charge
Until these wars are over. Come, set on!

[While the cavalcade is preparing to move the scene closes.]

Scene II.

—A rocky pass in the mountains. Enter Launcelot, Bors, Lionel, Ector, the Lady, and the Dwarf.
Launcelot.
Let me rest here a moment. Nay, go on;
I shall o'ertake you ere you gain the crest.
Cousin, a word with you.
[Exeunt all but Bors and Launcelot.]
What blessed chance
Has led me hither?

Bors.
Cousin, you called me back.

Launcelot.
Why, but to have you with me, Bors. This place
Is like a sudden scene of other days
That starts up in the middle of a dream;

Bors.
Have you been here ere now?

Launcelot.
Ay, and that time
Would stand erect and vivid in my brain
Though all the other puppets of the past
Reeled into smoke. This is the very spot.
I lay here, cousin, even here where this gaunt bramble
Still tugs a meagre life out of the cleft
Where it is rooted,—faint almost to death;
For I had struggled through these cruel hills
Three days without a crust, and my head swam
And my legs wavered under me and would not
Bear me upright. Down these precipitous crags
And o'er these dizzy ledges I could pass
No more than I could leap across yon gulf,
And I lay down and thought of death, as of
A gulf into whose blackness one might leap
And fall forever. A long time lay I so,
Too weak to struggle with impending doom,
And death seemed like to yawn and swallow me.

Bors.
And yet you are not dead. How 'scaped you, then?

Launcelot.
God sent a blessed angel to my aid.
There on the peak beyond the gulf I saw her,
Standing against the sky, with garments blown,
The mistress of the winds! An angel, said I?
God was more kind, he sent a woman to me.

Bors.
The Lady of the Hills!

Launcelot.
Ay, so I call her,
For other name I know not.

Bors.
The unknown lady,
Whom you have made more famous than a queen!
Here saw you her the first time?

Launcelot.
And the last time.
She was attended by a motley Fool,
Who stretched his hand and pointed where I lay.
She saw me and in pity of my case
Sent Master Dagonet—so the Fool was called
But he nowise would tell the lady's name—
To help me down the pass. But she went on
Alone across the summits of the hills
Like some grand free Diana of the North
And passed out of my sight, as daylight fades
Out of the western sky. But I no more
Was faint, and went my way, considering.

Bors.
But could you nowise find out who she was?

Launcelot.
Nowise, for Merlin met me thereupon,
And brought me suddenly to Camelot,
Where I was knighted. I had fain delayed
But boy-like shamed to say wherefore my heart
Hung back toward the hills. And so I passed
Away from her and never saw her more.

Bors.
Even here it was you saw her?

Launcelot.
Ay, even here.

Bors.
Why, then, should you not meet her here again?

Launcelot.
The hope of that is as the morning-star,
The messenger of dawn. And in good sooth
I have a feeling in my heart that soon
My long and lightless service shall have end
And I shall serve her seeing. But our friends
Await us. I shall serve my lady better
With noble actions than with idle dreams.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

—Cameliard. The Palace of Leodegrance. A chamber hung with rich embroideries. At the centre a wide entrance with heavy curtains, which conceal a corridor. At the

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upper right corner a window opening on a balcony which overlooks the sea. Guenevere is seated before this window with a harp.
Guenevere.
[Sings].

[While Guenevere sings, Morgause has entered, unperceived.]
Morgause.
It is a sad song for a bride to sing.

Guenevere.
I did not know that anyone was near.

Morgause.
I did not mean to be an eavesdropper,
But as I entered I was charmed to silence
And could not break in on so sweet a sound
Before the singer ceased.

Guenevere.
I thank you, madam;
I am not in the mood for compliments to-day.

Morgause.
Not to-day of all days in the year,
In which the sun shines on you as a bride?
Fair weather weddings make fair weather lives.

Guenevere.
I care not much for omens.

Morgause.
Come, sweetheart,
There is a time to mask and to unmask,
And on a wedding morn the light of joy
Should frolic on the face as in the heart.
The courtiers will set up a silly tale
That this alliance is against your will.

Guenevere.
But I do nothing, save of my free will;
Let the vain gossips babble as they please.

Morgause.
I have just come from the Great Hall. You'll have
A royal ritual, sweetheart,—such a retinue
Of dames and damosels, barons and knights,
As Cæsar's self could hardly muster in
Imperial Rome.

Guenevere.
Is Peredure without?

Morgause.
Gods, hear this woman! I tell her of her wedding;
She answers me—“Is Peredure without?”
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Now what would Arthur say
To find himself so hindward in your thoughts?

Guenevere.
Peredure is not like my other brothers,
Wolf-eyed, thick-bearded, fond of dealing blows.
There's something of the woman in his nature
That makes his manliness a finer thing.
He has the courage of a gentle heart—

Morgause.
And he writes the prettiest rhymes that ever were
About some marvellous woman that he loves
But whom he dare not woo. Poor boy, when he
Is older, he will find the woman lives not
Too virtuous to be flattered by a conquest.
I left him in the throng about the throne
With such a woful look upon his face,
As if the rhymes of his last virelay
Were all at loggerheads.

Guenevere.
Does he not go
With us to Camelot?

Morgause.
'T is so determined.
I marvel that Sir Launcelot is not here.
A month ago, ere I left Camelot
To seek a friend where I must find a sister,
It was supposed that Launcelot would be
The chief of Arthur's groomsmen. Arthur and he
Are like two almonds in a single shell
That silly maids make matron wishes on.

Guenevere.
I had a strange dream yesternight. Methought
An unknown knight stood by my bed, and as
I lay spell-bound in dim bewilderment,
Cried “I am Launcelot!”—and I awoke.

Morgause.
He came,then, in a dream. I thought he would not
Be so discourteous as to keep away
Entirely.

Guenevere.
Why talk ye all of Launcelot?
His fame spreads westward over Wales like dawn.

Morgause.
He has the reputation of all virtue.

Guenevere.
And does his reputation top himself?

Morgause.
Sometimes a bonfire imitates the dawn.

Guenevere.
Sometimes, too, dawn is taken for a bonfire;—
I care not. Dawn or bonfire, it is nothing
To me.

Morgause.
Nor to me neither, but I chafe
To hear the gabble that they make about him.
Why, child, the world is gone mad at his heels!
They tell of valor that despises odds,
And courtesy that throws prudence to the drains—
Such tales they tell of him! And as for women,
There is not maid nor wife in Camelot
Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet.
And yet they say he takes no fruit of it
But is as spotless as Saint Dorothy—
With such a tittle-tattle of his purity!—
Bah, when the King and he are in one cry!

Guenevere
[rises].
What do you mean?

Morgause.
Oh, nothing—I mean nothing.
Your husband is no worse than other men.
The Lady Lionors has a little boy,
But, though he certainly looks like the King—

Guenevere.
Why do you tell me this?

Morgause.
You must know some time
What you had better learn from friends than foes.
You are leaving now the world of fairy tales,
Where all the men are true of heart and chaste
And all the women chaste and true of heart.
You enter now the world in which we live;
You'll find it peopled in another fashion.
Here comes a very wise philosopher—
Ask him.

[Enter Dagonet.]
Guenevere.

How now, sir? You look soberly.

Dagonet.

I? I am as merry as a skull, and that is always grinning, as you would see if you could but look beneath the skin.

Guenevere.

A grim jest, sirrah.

Dagonet.

Ay, it is ill jesting at a wedding. Aristophanes himself, who first wore motley, would go hang for lack of a laugh. For your good unctuous jest must have a soil of light hearts or it will not grow; and there is a predisposition at weddings to solemnity.

Guenevere.

Nay, now you are out; for a wedding is a joyous matter.

Dagonet.

But no laughing matter, my lady. For various wise philosophers have observed that in moments of most exquisite pleasure the expression

of the face is solemn. What signifies a wedding? Harmony. Now the essence of a jest is contradiction, but that comes after the wedding. So no more jests from me, my lady, till you have done with eating green cheese, which is excellent diet for the moonstruck—but I prefer Stilton.

Morgause.

Tell us, then, good Dagonet, what is the most pregnant occasion of jesting.

Dagonet.

A funeral, for the long faces of the company provoke the merry devil in the brain as inevitably as a Puritan calls out mockery from the reprobate. I have known an accidental rasp on a viol to set all the mourners—except the paid ones— in a titter.

[Sings.]

Guenevere.

Make jests at my funeral, I prithee, Dagonet.

Dagonet.

Death himself is the greatest jester. He is the farce that follows all tragedies. For is it not supremely ridiculous that I myself, about whom to-day the universe revolves, may to-morrow be reduced to the level of Alexander or any common dead body?

Morgause.

Do you make yourself greater than Alexander, Fool?

Dagonet.

Ay, or any other corpse, for I am alive and “a dead lion”—But the worms have eaten that, too. But here come the King and Queen. I was sent to announce them, but these lofty matters have made me forget my duty. Philosophy will undo me yet.

[Enter Leodegrance, Camalduna, Pyrideri, Merlin, Galahault, and Attendants.]
Merlin.
May Britain find its peace in you, my child.
I have given my life to make a State. I found
The Saxons ravaging our fields, our King
The traitor Vortigern, within ourselves
Each petty lord in arms against his neighbor,
And man to man belligerent. But I
Shall leave my country one, victorious,
Organic and at peace. And in the top
Of this great arch of empire you are set
A keystone, that it may not fall, when Arthur
And I take our supporting hands away.
Your destiny is glorious, to be
Mother of kings and mother of a realm.

Guenevere.
And mother of my people, sir, I trust.

Galahault.
The homage duty soon must pay my queen,
Beauty compels beforehand to the woman.

Guenevere.
You use fair words at Camelot, my lord;
Our mountain courtiers have a blunter speech.

Merlin
[to Morgause].
Still where the quarry is the falcons fly.

Morgause.
This riddle has no key. Why do you speak,
If you desire not to be understood?

Merlin.
I wish and I wish not to be divined,
And you divine me and divine me not.
For you are not so subtle as you think
Nor half so simple as you would be thought.

[Returns to the King. Guenevere, Morgause, Galahault, and Dagonet walk apart and after a little go out upon the balcony.]
Leodegrance.
Why interchange you with the Queen of Orkney
These hostile brows?

Merlin.
Though she be Arthur's sister,
Near is too near, unless—

Leodegrance.
I understand you.
Happy the man in whose own household lurks
No secret enemy to undermine
His purpose and his joy. But she will make
No mischief here. My girl feels honor keenly
And will not stoop to listen to intrigue.

Merlin.
I doubt it not. The very waywardness
That rumor speaks of her, shows a great soul,
That feels too prisoned even upon a throne.

Camalduna.
Indeed, she is not like a common girl,
And I could never make her do as others.

Leodegrance.
Wild as the sea-mew, restless of restraint,
She roams the jutting capes of Cameliard,
Like some strange dweller of the mountain winds,
Half kelpie and half woman. The highlander,
Chasing the roe o'er cliff and chasm, has often
Seen her lithe form rise from the treeless crag
Like smoke from a hunter's fire, and crossed himself,
Thinking he saw a creature not of earth.

Merlin.
I know her kind. It is a temperament
That suffers and achieves.

Camalduna.
A little girl,
She frighted the nurses more with her strange thoughts
Than ever they her with bogles. I remember
Her creeping from her bed once in midwinter
To ask if moonbuds only bloomed at night
That dead men, when they leave their graves to walk,
Might have their flowers also like the living.

Pryderi.
As the young limbs enlarge, the bones will ache;
Our oldwives call such ailments “growing pains.”
What our young princess needs is that her thoughts
Be drawn away from looking on herself.
The duties and responsibilities
That push us from our dreams and make us sane
By contact with the solid stuff of life,
These things a woman finds in household cares.
The wife and mother has no time to break
The wings of girlish thoughts with idle beating
Against the bars of Fate. Our princess, too,
Must bear the dignity of greater burdens,
Which for a soul imperious is good fortune.
Therefore, as a physician, who must watch
Both mind and body as they interact,
I have prescribed this marriage as a medicine.

Leodegrance.
This counsel of our wise and learned leech
Inclined us much to urge on Guenevere
A speedy yes to Arthur's suit. At first
She was, indeed, rebellious to our wish
And marriage thoughts were wormwood to her will.
Nathless I was unwilling to assert
My power as King and father to compel
Her course; for still I find the easy yoke
The popular. Yet, short of straight command,
The Queen and Pryderi,—and I myself,—
Have day and night reiterated words,
Soliciting with cogent argument,
Till she consented. She herself now chooses
The man of all men I would have her lord.
For I have not forgotten how King Arthur
With Ban and Bors routed my enemies
And with their triple armies saved my crown.—
Go, call the princess hither. Yet in sooth,
What should an old man say to a young maid?
The Queen shall speak to her. Madam, we shall
Withdraw and leave her to your tutelage.

Guenevere.
You called me, sire.

Leodegrance.
To say farewell, my child,
Before I yield thee to thy bridegroom's arms.
Our Lady Mary keep thee! Come, my lords.

Merlin.
I wish you greatness, lady.

Morgause.
And I goodness.

Pryderi.
I health and length of days.

Galahault.
I happiness.

[Exeunt Leodegrance, Merlin, Pryderi, Morgause, and Galahault.]
Dagonet.

And I a light heart and an easy palfrey that the way may seem short to Camelot.

[Sings.]

[Exit.]
Camalduna.
So far, my daughter, you have walked your way,
Self-willed, imperious, like a wanton child
That will not let her parents hold her hand,
Yet knows them near to save her if she fall.
Now they will not be near, and you may find
That freedom lays a weight upon our souls
That often we would like to shift to others.
I fear that counsel is poured out on you
Like an effectless wind; yet hear my words.
Take you no woman in your confidence,
But seem to do so. Each has her own ends,
And would betray you seventy times over,
And yet, repulsed, her selfishness through pique
May aggravate to active enmity.
Speak freely, but say little. Do not strive
Too far to outshine the ladies of the court
In jewelled ornaments and regal garb;
They'll hate you for it. Be profuse of favors;
They cost you little and will buy you hearts.
Yet do not play the braggart with your bounty—
Scorn lies beneath too much magnificence—
But always give as if the gifts were trifles
To eyes that see to whom the gifts are given.
All women are your natural enemies;
Think your end gained if they refrain from hate,
But seek your friends among the other sex.
Men have no quarrel with your eminence;
Your glory with their glory does not war,
But each may gain some splendor from the other.
Therefore, they may be faithful; but admit them
Only to the antechamber of your thoughts,
That their imagination may have scope
To fashion a dream-Guenevere to serve.
Not what we are but what men deem of us,
Is the true prince. Be faithful to your husband,
Yet not so servient as to jade his fondness.
Let him be often foreign to your life
That he may feel your lack and woo you over.
Be not too common to him. Hold him off
That you may bind him to you. For in him
Your domination lies. See that he has
No friend that is not yours, no counsellor
Whose secret thoughts are not your interests.
Be chaste as snow in heart as well as deed;
One spark of love may light a fire to burn
The edifice of your greatness to an ash.
Nor be contented with the innocent fact
But make your seeming lock the lips of slander.
And yet you may have lovers if you will;
The more the better, so you love not them.
For till we yield we are our lovers' tyrants,
But afterward their slaves. Remember this.

Guenevere.
Pray you, a little space alone, good mother.
[Camalduna kisses Guenevere, and then goes out.]
Why, what a thing is woman! She is brought
Into the world unwelcome. The mother weeps
That she has born a daughter to endure
A woman's fate. The father knits his brows
And mutters “Pish, 't is but a girl!” A boy
The very hounds had bayed for with delight.
Her childhood is a petty tyranny.
Her brothers cross her; she must not resist,—
Her father laughs to see the little men
So masterful already. Even the mother
Looks on her truculent sons with pride and bids
Her yield, not thwart them—“You are but a girl.”
A girl!—and must give way! She must be quiet,
Demure—not have her freedom with the boys.
While they are running on the battlements,
Playing at war or at the chase, she sits
Eating her heart out at embroidery frames
Among old dames that chatter of a world
Where women are put up as merchandise.
—Oh, I have slipped away a thousand times
Into the garden close and scaled the wall
And fled from them to freedom and the hills.
And I have passed the women in the fields,
With stupid faces dulled by long constraint,
Bowing their backs beneath the double burden
Of labor and unkindness—all alike,
Princess and peasant, bondslaves, by their sex!
Ah, the gray crags up whose sheer precipices
I have so often toiled, to throw myself
Panting upon their crests at last and lie
For whole long afternoons upon the hard
Delicious rock in that sweet weariness
That follows effort, with a silent joy
In obstacles that I could overcome.
They never called me girl, those mighty peaks!
They knew no sex,—they took me to their hearts
As if I were a boy. Oh, the wild thrill
That tingled in the veins, when the strong winds
Came howling like a pack of hungry wolves
That make the wintry forests terrible
Beneath the Norland moon! “Shriek on,” I cried,
“Rave, howl, roar, bellow, till you split your throats!
You cannot mar the pinnacled repose
Of these huge mountain-tops. They are not women!”
Why, what an idle rage is this! Am I
The Guenevere those still grand mountains know?
This is a bridal garment that I wear.
I am another Guenevere, a thing—
I know not what. I go to a new life.
I have ordered a new pair of manacles.
Arthur? As well Arthur as another—
I care not. If I must, I must. To live
The old life is no longer tolerable.
[Enter Peredure.]
My brother! You have come to see my gown.
Is it not beautiful? And see, this diadem
To show I—

Peredure.
Guenevere! How is it with you?

Guenevere.
Why, as it should be with a bride. It seems
You ask strange questions, brother. I had thought
I should be greeted with felicitations.
They say, a maid upon her wedding morn
Is timorous, fluttered, casts regretful eyes
—Or so she fancies—on her maidenhood,
And yet is glad withal. Seem I not so,
My brother? Am I—?

Peredure.
All's not well with you.
You seem as one that in a waking dream
Does—what, she knows not—with mechanic limbs.
My sister, dost thou act of thy free will?

Guenevere.
Who acts so? Life and custom close us in
Between such granite walls of circumstance
That, when we choose, it is not as we would
But between courses where each likes us not.
No, Peredure, it is not by constraint,
Save of the iron skies, I meet my lot.
I have not chosen it, but I accept it.

Peredure.
Think well. Once done, this cannot be undone.
You love not Arthur. This is not the face
Of one that hastens to her lover's arms.
Think you that you will ever love him?

Guenevere.
Love?
I have heard of it. Poets sing of it.
It must be a strange thing, this love.

Peredure.
Alas,
If thou shouldst learn what thing it is too late!
Girl, knowest thou what marriage means? Oh, if
When once the fatal ring is on thy finger,
Thou shouldst encounter some one who should kindle
Thy latent heart to flame. To be caressed
When thou art cold—this is a bitter thing.
But to be fondled by an unloved hand,
When all the soul is in another's arms—
That were a horror and a sacrilege.

Guenevere.
I shall not love. But sometime I must wed.
It is the law for women that they marry;
Else they endure a scorned inactive fate,
Unwelcome hangers-on at others' tables.
Besides, a girl's life is a cabined one;
A married woman has a wider scope.
She, too, is chained but with a longer tether;
She moves in the great world, and by that craft
God gives to creatures that have little strength,
May leave her impress on it. As for Arthur,
He is a very princely gentleman,
One whom at least I never shall despise.

Peredure.
Men say he is the crown of chivalry,
The pattern of the virtues of a knight.
But should he cloud the clear sky of thy life,
I ne'er should pardon him.

Guenevere.
My brother!

Peredure.
Dear,
I fear that Arthur ne'er will know as I
The gentleness of this imperious spirit.
I have asked Morgause much—

Guenevere.
I hate that woman.

Peredure.
Oh, say not so, she is so fair! O sister,
I did not think to tell thee of my sorrows
At such a season. When I spoke of love
And pleaded with thee to have fear of it,
I had good reason for my earnestness.
I know myself too well the hopeless woe
Of love debarred, against which Fate is set.
I love Morgause—

Guenevere.
Morgause? The Queen of Orkney?
The wife of Lot?

Peredure.
Ay, Guenevere, even so—
I love her. I would give my hopes of heaven
To press my lips against that flower-like mouth
And call her mine! Ay, I would die to feel
Once on my cheek the swan-soft touch of hers!
But I must make a dungeon of my heart
To hide my love in like a malefactor,—
Or like some hapless prisoner of state
Who ne'er did wrong but must be shut from the sun
For the realm's safety and in some dark cell
Is numbered with the dead. Oh, think of this
And do not build a prison for thyself
From whose barred windows thou may'st sometime see
Love beckoning to thee when thou canst not come!
There is no sorrow like a love denied
Nor any joy like love that has its will.
Oh, keep thy feet unbound to follow Love
When he shall come to lead thee to his rest!
Keep thy hands free to take his proffered gifts,
Thy heart unbound by barriers that prevent
The joy he would, but for our blindness, bring
To make a rapture and a song of life!
Believe—

Guenevere.
You talk of songs and raptures! Go
Back to your poetry, you child of dream!
Life is to be supported, not enjoyed.

Peredure.
Oh, no! it is to be enjoyed. Why else
Should God have made the world so beautiful?
And yet for me the glory of the hills,
The beauty of the sky's dissolving blue,
And all the woven magic of the grass
Have dulled their loveliness, and all their splendor
Cannot arouse again the ancient thrill.
There is a grayness over all the world.
Love is not to be mocked at, Guenevere.
Take heed! Look in thy heart, and be assured
That thou hast read it rightly. If a doubt,
If but the faint foreboding of a scruple
Be there, delay, break off this rash—

Guenevere.
Too late!
[The curtains at the centre are drawn apart, revealing a company of ladies in festal attire, with garlands, etc. A distant sound of chanting.]
See where my bridesmaids wait with wreaths of roses
To lead me to the altar and the prince.

Peredure.
Is it a triumph or a sacrifice?

Guenevere.
God knows! For me, I have chosen to go this course,
And I will keep to it till the event

Exit with bridesmaids.]
Curtain.