University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

A Garden in Lyonesse. Beds of the earlier vegetables, such as lettuce, cabbages, young onions, and radishes, mingled with primroses and daffodils, and other early flowers. Some of the beds covered with straw, which Dame Brisen and Dagonet are busy removing, to expose them to the warmth of the sunny spring morning. The garden walks lead back to a doorway in a small castle, where a plum-tree in full blossom is trained against the castle walls. In another part, a shrine, with an image of the Virgin. The garden is encompassed by a wall, parts of which are in view; and through a gate in this wall the ocean is seen in the distance. On the other side of the gate from the castle, a turret with a spiral stair is built against the wall, overtopping it and looking on the sea.
Dame Brisen
(crooning).
Old and bent and a bag of bones!
Kisses for maidens, kicks for crones!
But never so bonny and brisk a bride
In the dark of the moon when the demons ride!

Dagonet.

“Demons” and “the dark of the moon”—Oh, Lord! Let 's think of something cheerful. (Sings.)

The King sat down to a venison pasty,
Burned his mouth because he was hasty—
[Breaks off and looks at Dame Brisen quissically.]

Dame Brisen
(crooning).
Mandrake and martagan!
A goodly brew
For the—

[The rest is lost in a mutter.]
Dagonet.

Ugh! Who would think she was but gathering herbs for a pottage? ... Dame Brisen, the country folk say you are a witch.

Dame Brisen.

Witch enough to bewilder them, Dagonet. Gather you your strawberries, and meddle not with an old woman's whims. Weed the patch as you go.

Dagonet.

That ever I should come to be a puller of weeds!

Dame Brisen.

You are wrong to say so. Would you have a common kern here, to be a partaker of the Queen's secret?

[Dagonet drops his basket, springs lightly up into the turret, glances rapidly over the wall, and up and down the road, and lightly leaps back into the garden.]
Dagonet.

The Queen has no secret,—with a wall

but a rod away, and whoever you please passing behind it.

Dame Brisen.

Well, well.

Dagonet.

Besides, if we keep up the trick to each other, we shall lie with the better grace to the world. We shall have no superfluous habit of the truth to forget. So let it be your lady, the Princess Ylen, even between us, and no word of secrets or the Queen! Old Merlin has a nose like an elephant, and can smell a thought from here to Camelot, before you have spoken it.

Dame Brisen.

Nay, you can tell me naught of Merlin. In the old days—But the sap 's out o' that long ago ...

Dagonet.

When will the child be born?

Dame Brisen.

Under the next moon.

Dagonet.

And when did the Princess' husband die? When a man is to have a posthumous heir, he can't be too careful of the date of his death.

Dame Brisen.

It was nigh on Michaelmas of last year the Prince died.

Dagonet
(counting on his fingers).

Oh, that I had given myself in my youth to the mathematics!

Dame Brisen.

Tangle your brains no more about it. The child will pass for his ... I cannot keep from thinking of the Queen and the Princess in their childhood. You remember them.

Dagonet.

As well as I remember my first top. I spun it and they spun me. ... Oh, the Virgin!

Dame Brisen.

What now?

Dagonet.

I have put all the weeds into the basket with the strawberries. God never meant me to be a clodhopper.

[Runs up again into the turret, where he sits twirling his bauble, and looking out idly over the wall.]
Dame Brisen.

I saw them both born. They are within three months of an age. The kingdoms of their fathers lay side by side; that was before King Arthur had made all the kingdoms into one. There were Druids still in the fastnesses in those days.

Dagonet.

Yonder 's a horseman far down the road. He rides too fast for a clown.

Dame Brisen.

By the mistletoe, but they were a pair of madcap little queenlets! Untamed as young hawks—

Dagonet.

And inseparable as bread and butter.

Dame Brisen.

When the lady Guenevere was not at the court of our good King Pelles, then was the lady Ylen with your mistress at Cameliard. They would have it no other way. And it was ever Guenevere that led in the adventure, and it was ever Ylen that led in the escape.

Enter Ylen. She stands for an instant in the doorway, and then comes slowly down the walks, plucking primroses. She pays no heed to the others, and they do not perceive her.
Dagonet.

Yonder horseman wears the King's livery; perhaps he brings news from the armies.

Dame Brisen.

Nay, but that would gladden the heart of Guenevere. Day long she frets for tidings of the war.

Dagonet.

Not the war so much as the warrior.

Dame Brisen.

Since the King crossed the waters with his knights, you would say the sea rolled between her and her peace.

Dagonet.

He'll never keep up that pace when he gets to the foot of the hill. I'll down to meet him.

[Leaps over the wall and disappears.]
Dame Brisen.

And leave me to finish your work for you, vagabond.

[As she rises and turns, with her basket in one hand and Dagonet's in the other, she meets Ylen.]

Good morrow, my lady.

Ylen.
Good morrow, Brisen. What a day of spring!
The wind comes with a touch so like a kiss
I almost blush and startle; and the knit sense
Opens like a flower in the warm air.
Go call the Queen; this will revive her more
Than all the service of a score of us.

Dame Brisen.
Ay, madam, she stifles, shut indoor.

Ylen.
What chiefly
Lays waste her spirit is the barren longing
To look on Launcelot. But to hear his name,
She will hang upon your words like a great bee.
She swears, when all is done, she will not stay
One hour ere she set out to join him.

Dame Brisen.
Well,
She has not so long to wait as she has waited.

Ylen.
[Exit Dame Brisen. Ylen wanders about the garden idly, singing.]
[Pauses with her face against the gate, looking out over the sea.]

Enter Guenevere, from the castle. A pause.
Guenevere.
My heart is with the sailors on that bark,
Far out to sea, whose sails shine like a star,
Bound for the south—oh, to be free! to stab
This turnkey Policy, break prison, flee,
Untrammelled, fearless, irresponsible—
And let tongues wag that will!

Ylen.
The place is pleasant.
Since needs must we be prisoners, methinks
Our jail no hardship.

Guenevere.
Oh, were Launcelot here,
I could content me, were 't a hermitage,
And think myself the mistress of a world.

Ylen.
And I, whose lord and lover bivouacs
By camp-fires whence no tidings ever come,
With the unreturning armies of the dead,
What bird of all the heaven could lend me wings
Would serve me? So I grow content, perhaps,
With all too little, seeing that what I would
Is more than mortal can.

Guenevere.
Forgive me!
My loss is loud and fretful, and forgets
Your deeper, dumb, irrevocable grief.
You are my savior: you have all been kind,
Gentle and true, Sir Tristram when he lent
This bower to us, and your Brisen, too,
And Dagonet—a good world, after all,
That has such hearts in it! Oh, Ylen, Ylen!
I think there never was so good a woman—

Ylen
(sings).
“We two have wandered on the hills
And braved the winds together.”
Oh, dear my Guenevere, is it so much
That we should just be friends? And what's a friend
That does not feel a joy that friendship needs
The will made deed to lean on?

Guenevere.
Such a friend
Is oftener dreamed than real.

Ylen.
Nor is this
So hard a thing I do. For, sooth, I need
Something to love—nay, were it but a bird.
My lord is not; you grow away from me
In the great world I have no heart to enter;
My father dreams of Graals and mystic visions,
And nears the end. I never had a child.
And I begin to long for yours as if
I were indeed its mother.

Guenevere.
Ah, but ...
You do not know the mystery of it all;
A life within your life—a part of you
And yet not you—a soul—think, Ylen, think—
A soul, a spark struck from divinity,
And caught in you as tow to smoulder in
Until the free air fan it to a flame—
Shut, as the Host is in the tabernacle,
Within you—Oh, it makes a sanctuary
Of every inch of you, a temple where
The soul is priest and may not leave the altar
One instant! The whole earth is hushed and chancelled.
Out of the shadow of the brooding presence
No escape anywhere—ocean, sky, air, filled
With the universal awe. I live in awe.
I am become a wonder to myself,
A place inhabited by secret powers,
A wilderness wherein I wander, lost,
Among dim, alien shapes, forgotten gods,
That work out their uncomprehended aims
And ask no leave of me.

Dagonet
(without).
Ho, there! News!

Guenevere.
What now?

Ylen.
It is the fool.

Enter Dagonet and a Messenger.
Dagonet.

A messenger from the Court, your Majesty.

Guenevere.

What news?

Dagonet.

A caskful at the least. Broach, broach! We are all dry as Saracens. I could drink the stalest small beer of court gossip with a relish. A mad jest would be sack to me. Any old news! We that live in the country—

Guenevere.
Peace, Fool; it is his cue.

Messenger.
First, madam, Merlin
Greets you with health and loyal salutation.
Bidding you have no care of things of state,
Seeing the matters of your regency,
Whereof he is the minister, continue
Smoothly and fair. What else imports you know
With more detail, you may at your good leisure
O'erread in these. [Giving packet.]


Guenevere.
No tidings of the wars?

Messenger.
A post from France brings word the King has met
The Romans at the Loire and vanquished them;
The happy issue of the day being due
Chiefly to Launcelot.

Guenevere.
Ay, what of him?

Messenger.
He was the first knight in the world before,
But now he hath no rival. Madam, a poet
Should tell his deeds, not I, who have no language
To parallel his action. His appearance
Made the ranks break before him; they that stayed,
Like stubborn oaks, were blasted with the shock
Of his great battle-axe, which played like lightning,
Here, there, now at the centre, now the flanks,
Cracking the cloud of war.

Guenevere.
Methinks I see him!—

Ylen.
Madam, be calm ... What of the others?

Messenger.
Alas!
Sir Godmar, the Lord Marshal, that old soldier,
Who hath commanded since King Uther's time,
Is slain. At that the field was almost lost,
And had been, but for Launcelot, whose coming
Made them whose courage failed at Godmar's fall
Take heart again and conquer. Save for this,
No loss of note except Sir Dinadan
Who is made prisoner.

Ylen.
What, Dinadan?
The merry Dinadan? A sorry jest.

Messenger.
The Romans have retreated to the Rhone,
Whither our armies follow. For his prowess
The King has named Sir Launcelot general
In Godmar's place.

Guenevere.
Why, then, he has command
Of all the armies!

Messenger.
Ay, madam, next the King.

Ylen.

You bring good news. But we forget your journey. Dagonet, look you to his entertainment.

Dagonet.

Now it's my turn ... Shall we go in? ... What's the last mad prank on the Severn? Who has made Sir Kaye ridiculous? Or no, God made him that. Which of the maids of honor—now the cat 's away the—

Messenger.
One more commission. Merlin prays the Queen
To read this scroll.

[Bows and exit with Dagonet.]
Guenevere.
Oh! ...
Fate waits upon his will. No enterprise
So hopeless, be it in peace or be it in war,
But his adhesion sureties its success!

Ylen.
Holá! Holá!

Guenevere.
But to be fellows with him
Makes lesser men invincible.

Ylen.
How Tristram
Will chafe that he must rest inglorious here
While such brave deeds are doing!

Guenevere.
Launcelot
Holds him his only peer; but the heavens fight
With Launcelot!

Ylen.
And to Tristram they are dark;
As now when he must stay and serve King Mark.

Guenevere.
The more is Launcelot's glory that alone
He is sufficient. Oh, it is strange
That one, the gentlest heart in all the world,
Should be so mighty and so terrible.

Ylen.
What is more gentle than the delicate air?
And yet its storms uproot the rugged oak.
And what is softer than the yielding wave?
Yet floods and tempests lurk there. What more kindly
Than the warm fire, which, being unleashed, devours
A city or a forest in a night? ...
I pray you, read the scroll that Merlin sent.
I am curious.

Guenevere.
What mystery is this?
A riddle—for the harp.

Ylen.
Nay, read it out.

Guenevere
(reads).

Ylen.
How can he know?

Guenevere.
He knows, he knows.

Ylen.
Nay, perhaps he but spreads a snare for you.

Guenevere.
He has strange power to see men's hidden souls.
His look can make your thoughts startle and shrink
Like naked things.

Ylen.
Let me look at the scroll ...
It's partly pat and partly in the air;
Words, words; or I am dull.

Guenevere.
No, no; he clouds
His meaning in a mystery. That's his way ...
The worst is, to do nothing ... What he knows
He knows. What he will do, he will do. And there's
No help but silence and to wait the event.

[The scene closes.

Scene II.

In the Valley of the Rhone. The Camp. Before the Tent of Launcelot. Lionel and Ector, playing at dice, Bors, and Varro, a prisoner.
Ector.
I'll play no more. The Devil is on your side.

Lionel.
As you will, cousin. ... Will you lay a wager, sir?

Varro.
You mock me. I am a prisoner, disfurnished
Of aught to play with, and, till I am ransomed,
Cut off from my estate.

Lionel.
O sir, your word
Is good enough for me to gamble with.

Bors.
Think not so meanly of us, as that we
Should jest at a brave foeman overthrown.
We would forget you are our prisoner
And have you too forget it.

Lionel.
If you lose,
I'll rest your creditor till you are free.

Varro.
Why then I take your offer heartily;
And, win or lose, I am your debtor still
For courtesy. ... A hundred sesterces!

Lionel.
Deuces.

Varro.
Eleven.

Lionel.
Yours.

Varro.
Again. ... the same.

Lionel.
Quits.

Varro.
Double.

Lionel.
Mine.

Varro.
Three hundred.

Lionel.
Mine again.

Varro.
A thousand sesterces against your chestnut!

Lionel.
That's twice her value. Done.

Varro.
A double six.

Lionel.
The mare is yours.

Ector.
Look! By the Holy Cross,
There 's Dinadan.

Bors.
Where?

Ector.
Yonder, with Launcelot.

Lionel.
What, Dinadan back again? Ho, Dinadan!

Enter Launcelot and Dinadan.
Ector.
How 'scaped you?

Bors.
Welcome to the camp again!

Dinadan.
Oh, comrades!

Varro.
What a fellowship these knights are!

Dinadan.
O Lord, O Lord! I am bruised from head to foot.
First, I am sore with sleeping in the prison—
They have villainous prisons in these Roman towns—
Next, sore with riding the jade that brought me hither—
She had a backbone like the Alps—and last,
Sorest of all with the crack you have given my ribs.

Bors.
Why, welcome, then!

Dinadan.
Oh, Bors, be pitiful!

Launcelot.
Varro, I have found you a true man, and I
Am glad and loth to set you free. But go;
You are the ransom of Sir Dinadan;
I have exchanged you for him. They that brought him
Wait to conduct you back with them. Good bye!

Lionel.
What, free so soon? Come, we must find your mare.

Ector.
I'll go along with you.

Varro.
Sir Launcelot,
If e'er my arm can do you service, saving
My loyalty to Cæsar ... count on me.

Launcelot.
I do believe you. I do know your worth.

Varro.
I thank you all. Farewell. Sir Lionel,
I owe you some five hundred sesterces.
Will you be patient till I send them to you,
Or will you take the mare again in payment?

Lionel.
No, keep the brute, that you may not forget us;
And I'll collect the sesterces in Rome.

Varro.
It will be long before your armies sit
Beneath the walls of Rome. But thanks again.
I shall not soon forget you. By the gods,
Were Rome and Britain not at war, I 'd hold
No honor half so dear as to be one
Of your great fellowship—this same Round Table
You tell me of. By Hercules, you are men.
Farewell!

[Exeunt Varro, Lionel, and Ector.
Bors.
A valiant pagan, with a touch
Of the old Roman virtue in him yet.
I hold him nearer heaven, with his plain honesty,
Than all the Christian Romans I have seen.

Dinadan.
Pagan or Christian, hang 'em all, I say.
I would not treat a pig as they did me.

Bors.
There still are not a few among the Romans
Who, like our Varro, hold to the antique gods,
But they resemble him in nothing else.
The rest are Christians more by politics
Than faith and living; and, for the most part now,
To be a Roman is to be made up
Of falsehood, idleness and incontinence.

Dinadan.
Treachery and lechery stirred about together
Like a bad pudding.

Enter Galahault.
Galahault.
What, Sir Dinadan!

Dinadan.
At your commands, Sir Galahault, I pray you,
Assign me a post of danger in the rear.
I have a great desire to lead an attack
On the commissariat.

Galahault.
Why, so you shall.
For that you 're captain.

Bors.
We'll take leave of you.
We were just going to my tent.

Galahault.
I take it
Sir Dinadan needs rest. I'll not detain you.

Bors.
The generals would confer together. Come.

[Exeunt Bors and Dinadan.]
Galahault.
It nears the hour the King appointed us
To hold our council. Shall we go together?

Launcelot.
The daily torture! ...
To hear his voice! To look into his eyes ...
His honest, outward eyes ... and read the love there
I have betrayed! ... Oh, Galahault, you know,
You know, you know; and you must hear me speak—
Or I must find a desert and rip out
My passion to the winds.

Galahault.
Had I been silent,
Love would have found a way. I did not count.
And yet so little as I counted, Launcelot,
I reckon it as one of my good deeds.

Launcelot.
I will not yield her. No, by heaven, she 's mine,
And by a higher title than the King's.
I cannot yield her; she 's not mine to yield.
Love is not goods or gold to be passed on
From hand to hand; it is like life itself,
One with its owner,—pluck it out to give
Another and by that act it is destroyed
And no one richer for your bankruptcy.
Yet if we do no wrong, what 's there to hide,
And why must we shift out our lives in lies?
When Arthur puts his arm about my neck
And tells me his imperial dreams, how he
Will shape this world, when he has mastered it,
To something worthier man's immortal soul,
Keeping back nothing of his heart from me—
Oh, Galahault, think how I love the man
And how my heart must choke with its deceit!
It were less miserable to confess to him—
But that were tenfold more disloyalty
To Guenevere than loyalty to him.
Disloyalty! Oh, God, were I to break
My promise to a slave, I 'd hold myself
A paltry and dishonored thing; and yet
Whichever way I turn, disloyalty
Yawns like a chasm before me. True is false,
And false is true; and everything that is,
A mocking contradiction of itself.
I am lost in lies, and must lie on—to him! ...
At least I'll serve him in his dream of empire—
There lies his heart. I have fought in this campaign
Triple myself! There is no peace for me
But to achieve impossibilities—
Then, all 's too little.

Galahault.
Would I had the tithe
Of such a passion! So are great deeds done.
To have the power to feel go out of you,
That is the worst. I have a workman's pleasure
In my own skill, 't is true; but all 's for what?
I have no reason to do anything;
Would die, but have no reason for that, neither.
You love the Queen, too—What a reason 's there!

Launcelot.
Would suffer hell to love her, as indeed
I suffer hell—but love her! I am content.
I have chosen. ... We must go. I must endure
To look into the eyes of my best friend
And live a lie to him. ... God, to be in Rome!
To set the Cæsars' crown upon his head!
To make it up to him! ... Well, come.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

The same as Scene I. The spring is more advanced, and the later flowers, lilies especially, have appeared. Some lilies are set in a vase before the shrine of the Virgin. Dagonet is arranging a couch in the garden. Enter Dame Brisen with her arms full of cushions and coverings.
Dame Brisen.

I have been midwife these two and forty years, but never yet saw I woman out of her bed, not to say out of doors, the third day after the child was born. It is against all precedent. But she is that stubborn, you might as well argue with Tintagel.

Dagonet.

Fast asleep. How antique he looks for only two days old!

Dame Brisen.

Ay, this is the third day. He was born on Easter Sunday, of all days in the world. Have you spoken to the fathers at the Abbey concerning his christening? 'T is for to-day.

Dagonet.

Yes, yes. They have gone forth in procession to bless the fields. When they return, at vespers, you 're expected. The abbey will furnish

proxies for the sponsors. This seems to be all done by proxy. I wonder the youngster did not appear by attorney himself.

Dame Brisen.

To take the air in the garden! Is she wiser than all the women since Eve? I wash my hands of the consequences.

Dagonet.

Now, to look at the two of us, who would think that this was a monster of iniquity, not yet washed from his sins, and I one of the saints, clean as a fresh laundered shirt, absolved o' Saturday, communicated o' Sunday, and not having had a chance to commit any sins since?

Dame Brisen.

There, the couch is ready. Mass, I'll not have my fine frock on in time for the christening.

[Going.]
Enter Ylen and Guenevere.
Guenevere
(comes down from the castle with Ylen, and sinks on the couch).
... Oh, why should we bring forth
Children in weakness, not in strength? Why not
Be free and mighty, bearing mighty men,
Yielding our increase as the teeming Earth
That faints not—nay, rather exults and splurges
In her fecundity?

Ylen.
Well, by St. Anne,
Was never woman had less cause than thou
To rail against the curse.

Guenevere.
I am not bedrid;
But yet I am too trammelled for my will,
Which would be in the clouds with yonder hawk
And swoop to its desire.

Dame Brisen.
Madam, what name
Will you have given the child?

Guenevere.
Bring him to me.

Dame Brisen.
He is asleep; I would not wake him, madam,
Until it rings for vespers.

Guenevere.
Let me turn, then,
So I can see him. ... “Wrapped in swaddling clothes.” ...
He shall be christened Galahad.

Dame Brisen.
A fair name.

Ylen.
Why do you choose it?

Guenevere.
I would have him like
His father, even in name. Did you not know
That Launcelot was first named Galahad?

Ylen.
No, sooth.

Guenevere.
Yes, he was christened so; and after
Confirmed and knighted Launcelot of the Lake.

Ylen.
Go, get you ready, Brisen. ... Galahad!

[Exit Dame Brisen.]
Guenevere.
Dagonet, you must post from hence to-night,—
And be you swifter than the hunted fox!
I will not give you letters. Be your memory
My parchment. When you come to Launcelot,
Say I am coming—Were my wish my coach,
I should be there before you. But I fear
I shall not speed it with a courier.
Therefore, I send you first; for every day
That he is ignorant, is a day forgotten.
I would my thoughts were arrows to outspeed
The swallow to him! ... Tell him, he has a son.
—My lips are jealous of the word. Oh, how
Can I let any but myself declare
The wonder to him? ... Fetch me ink and paper.
I will write. You shall bear a letter to him.

Dagonet
(going).

If I had the heels of your will, it would be a quick journey. [Sings.]

[Exit.]
Ylen.
Look where the slow procession of the monks
Crawls through the fields.

Guenevere.
It lies along the downs,
Like a long line of seaweed on the surge.

Ylen.
They are turning homeward.

Guenevere.
Now I look at them,
I almost fancy I can hear their chanting.

Ylen.
That 's a sharp ear.

Guenevere.
Nay, surely I can hear them.

Re-enter Dagonet, with pens, ink, and paper, which he arranges by Guenevere's side on a table.
Monks
(chanting, far off, very faintly).

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper * et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.

Guenevere.
I will not write ... Tell him ... tell him ... Now what
Can he be told by any messenger?
Be letter perfect and there 's something gone
That was the real message. ... I will write.

[Writes.]
Monks
(without, nearer).

... exitus matutini et vespere delectabis.

Visitasti terram, et inebriasti eam * multiplicasti locupletare eam.

Flumen Dei repletum est aquis, parasti cibum illorum * quoniam ita est præparatio ejus.

Rivos ejus inebria, multiplica genimina ejus * in stillicidiis ejus lætabitur germinans.

Benedices coronæ anni benignitatis tuæ * et campi tui replebuntur ubertate.

Pinguescent speciosa deserti * et exultatione colles accingentur.

Induti sunt arietes ovium, et valles abundabunt frumento * clamabunt, etenim hymnum dicent.

Gloria Patri, et Filio * et Spiritui Sancto;

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper * et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.

[With the Gloria the procession of monks begins to come in sight. First, one with a banner bearing the device of a lion; next, one with a banner bearing the device of a dragon; then follow the lay brothers, in the brown habits of the order; then the priests, who wear surplices over their

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cowls; lastly, the abbot, in cope and mitre, preceded by an acolyte carrying a cross. As the first monk, with the banner of the lion, passes, Guenevere, having written her letter and sealed it, turns to Dagonet, who is looking at the monks. Ylen sits with Guenevere on the couch, and the three watch the procession silently, until it has passed.]

Domini est terra, et plenitudo ejus * orbis terrarum, et universi qui habitant in eo.

Quia ipse super maria fundavit eum * et super flumina præparavit eum.

Quis ascendet in montem Domini * aut quis stabit in loco sancto ejus?

Innocens manibus, et mundo corde * qui non accepit in [The procession passes out of sight.]
vano animam suam, nec juravit in dolo proximo suo.

Hic accipiet benedictionem a Domino ...

Guenevere.

Here is the letter. Guard it with thy life.

Dagonet
(Taking letter).

Better yet, with my wits, and with my heels. I will go in and furnish myself for the journey. Fare you well, madam. Fare you well, my liege. Now to see the world.

[Exit.]
Enter Dame Brisen, hurriedly.
Dame Brisen.

It is nigh on the hour. I shall be late. The fathers are already—... [She is about to take up the child in her arms, and suddenly breaks off speaking. The others, startled, look up, and, following

her gaze, perceive Merlin standing in the gate. Guenevere rises, but Ylen remains seated on the couch.]

Monks
(without, in the distance).

Quis est iste Rex gloriæ? * Dominus virtutum ipse est Rex gloriæ.

Enter Merlin.
Ylen.
You are welcome, Merlin. That I do not rise,
My sickness must excuse. Will you go in?
Or shall our Brisen bring us cakes and wine
Here in the garden?

Merlin.
Madam, bravely played.
But you, O Queen, why do you rise and stand
Alert, with quivering nostril? Sit you down,
And have no fear of me.

Guenevere.
I fear you not.

Merlin.
The labor to play out your comedy
Is much ado for nothing. I'll be plain.
(To Ylen.)
You, who are childless, must not seem to be;
(To Guenevere.)
And you, who are not childless, must be thought so.
And so your riddle is reed. Now drop your masks.
Why feign deceit, since I am not deceived?

Guenevere.
Nay, then, you know. (Sinking on couch.)
God knows I love not masks.
It is a bitter thing to lie—to hide
As if you were ashamed of what you lived!
I tell thee, Merlin, I am proud of it,—
Proud of my love, proud of my lover, proud—
Ay, prouder of my child than of my crown!
I would I could go out into the streets
And show him with a boast. I would the world
Might know how much to envy is my joy!
And I must lie—like some poor penny thief
That thinks to 'scape a flogging; I must lie,
Like a base mind that dares not let its thoughts
Out-doors, lest it be seen how vile they are.
It doth unburden me to speak at last
And not degrade myself. You know the truth.
What will you do? I must know what's to be—
The worst!—or best. ... And yet I do not know
What I hold worst or best. ... What will you do?

Merlin.
Nothing.

Guenevere.
Nothing?

Merlin.
Nothing. I judge you not.
I am very old; men call me very wise;
But neither in the codes the Romans brought us,
Nor in the teaching of the Christian monks,
Nor in the stars, nor in the crucible,
No, nor in those dark elder mysteries
The immemorial Druidic years
Down the dim arches of the woods of Time
Have whispered to each other, in the aloof
And native shades of Britain, which are now
A vague tradition of the rustling oak;
Not in all these, nor in all-testing Life
That heeds not our conclusions, have I found
That there is any wisdom beyond this,
To keep oneself from judgment. In myself
Are undiscovered countries; how should I
Map out the wildernesses in another?
In those uncharted regions of your soul,
There are events of which you never dreamed
That yet have drawn your whole life after them.
I have to do only with how your deeds
Affect the State. And it imports the State
That what you have concealed should be concealed.
And therefore have I sought you, that it may
The better be concealed and that we cross not
Each other's purposes.

[The bells of the abbey begin to ring in the distance; and they continue ringing until the end of the scene.]
Dame Brisen.
It rings for vespers.
Shall I not hasten, madam?

Guenevere.
You may go.

Merlin.
Wait. Let me see the child. ... If I mistake not,
We two have stood beneath the sacred oak
Together. You were young and very fair ...

Dame Brisen.
I was that Druid priestess.

Merlin.
And since then
Men say that you have witnessed darker rites.

Dame Brisen.
Men say they know not what.

Merlin.
But you are she,
That Brisen whom I mean.

Dame Brisen.
I am that Brisen.

Merlin.
The sight is on me. I behold this child
Grown to a man; the armor that he bears
Is silvern pale; he stands among the knights
Like a white birch among grim-visaged pines;
He is like a moon-lit pillar in the night;
And angels float unseen above his head,
Bearing the Holy Graal.

Guenevere.
The Holy Graal!

Merlin.
Ay, this is he that shall achieve the Graal;
Whose birth has been foretold in prophecies
Even since King Evelac's time. This is the man
Of whom the seers have spoken, saying: He
Shall be a knight without a peer, stainless,
A virgin, set apart unto the Lord.
His arm shall be like David's, and his sword
Like Michael's when he leads the seraphim.
None shall withstand him; the immaterial Fiend
Dare not affront the flame along his blade.
So he shall pass across the twilight world
Like a white meteor and disappear
None knoweth how nor whither.

Guenevere.
Strange and holy
I know he is. In the still hours I have heard
The footfalls of celestial visitants.
Strange spells have come upon me. And I
Who am not wont to pray, have felt my soul
Become a phraseless prayer and lie, like night,
Bare to the stars. ... God, is it no sacrifice
I lay upon thy dark and shadowy altar?
Never to call him son, never to feel
His little arms about my neck, never
To hear his wakening spirit turn to mine
Its dear unfolding loves ... and now, even now
To leave him! ... I shall watch him from afar;
His glory will be trumpets in my heart;
But the great gulfs of silence are between us.
You dark remorseless creditors that exact
Our debts with usury, is it not enough? ...

Curtain.
[The bells continue to ring a few moments after the curtain falls.]