University of Virginia Library

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.]